But they met it again.
They were crossing a hemlock ridge a mile farther on, when they
came to another track which was first a long, deep furrow, some
fifteen inches wide, and in this were the wide-spread prints of
feet as large as those of a fisher.
"Kahk," said Quonab, and Skookum said "Kahk," too, but he did it
by growling and raising his back hair, and doubtless also by
sadly remembering. His discretion seemed as yet embryonic, so
Rolf slipped his sash through the dog's collar, and they followed
the track, for the porcupine now stood in Rolf's mind as a sort
of embroidery outfit.
They had not followed far before another track joined on -- the
track of the fisher-pekan; and soon after they heard in the woods
ahead scratching sounds, as of something climbing, and once or
twice a faint, far, fighting snarl.
Quickly tying the over-valiant Skookum to a tree, they crept
forward, ready for anything, and arrived on the scene of a very
peculiar action.
Action it was, though it was singularly devoid of action. First,
there was a creature, like a huge black marten or a short-legged
black fox, standing at a safe distance, while, partly hidden
under a log, with hind quarters and tail only exposed, was a
large porcupine.
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