But a new
and extreme exasperation arose in the month of March, when the
alternation of thaw and frost had covered the snow with a hard
crust that rendered snowshoes unnecessary and made it easy to run
anywhere and leave no track.
They had gathered up a fisher and some martens before they
reached the beaver pond. They had no beaver traps now, but it
was interesting to call and see how many of the beavers were
left, and what they were doing.
Bubbling springs on the bank of the pond had made open water at
several places, now that the winter frost was weakening. Out of
these the beavers often came, as was plainly seen in the tracks,
so the trappers approached them carefully.
They were scrutinizing one of them from behind a log, Quonab with
ready gun, Rolf holding the unwilling Skookum, when the familiar
broad, flat head appeared. A large beaver swam around the hole,
sniffed and looked, then silently climbed the bank, evidently
making for a certain aspen tree that he had already been cutting.
He was in easy range, and the gunner was about to fire when Rolf
pressed his arm and pointed. Here, wandering through the wood,
came a large lynx.
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