From beneath the water Vison saw the feet of his quarry disappear amid a frenzy of bubbles running along the surface. He swirled at the duck anyway, snapping the air, and snorting as he cleared the surface with his neck and forepaws. Now he saw the beating wings carry his intended prey down the river and away.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE DUCKS WINGED UP, up against the dawn. Carving a sharp angle, they banked and rolled into the down-river wind. They vanished. Out of the clouds to the north appeared others, growing larger and larger as they swept down on the Seneca dam. Throwing their wings against the wind, they spread their flight feathers to check their speed. The birds dropped to the water. They skidded across the surface, wagging their tails as they folded their wings to their bodies in flitting jerks. Settled on the buoyant water, they bobbed for plants and water insects.
All night Will Stacks tossed on his bed. The ducks were coming in from the Great Lakes and Canada, and the hunting season opened at seven. At four o’clock he arose and started a fire in his stove. He paced the cold floor of his shack in stocking feet while he waited impatiently for the coffee to boil. Now and then he went to the door and listened, but the shifting wind carried only the roar of the river, drowning out the murmur of the ducks. He closed the door, went back to his fire, and picked up his gun. He broke his barrel and peered down the spotless cylinder. Restless to start the exciting day, the trapper finally donned his mackinaw and strode out onto his hill.
Pouring through holes in the dawn sky came hundreds of ducks. They dropped in swerving arcs and disappeared behind the trees toward the river. Stacks went back for his gun and hurried down the hill to the road. He could not shoot until seven, but he would be on the river at six to see the wild birds come in.
He cut through the woods to his boat. With one foot in the boat, the other on the shore, and both hands on the sides, he gave the craft a push that sent it careening into the river.
There was Sam coming along the water’s edge, gun under his arm, apple-green scarf wound into his rufous coat.
“There must be a thousand ducks down there,” Sam whispered as he met Will who had poled back to the shore.
“Anybody shootin’ yet?” Stacks asked eagerly.
“Nobody around but you and me—and I’ve just been sittin’ there lookin’ at them. None of the Washington hunters are out yet, far as I know. Never did see so many ducks. All colors, all sizes, all shapes, paddling around and around. Some fly a little, some sled along the water, some squawk, some dive to the bottom. There must be a million.”
“What time do you have, Sam?”
“ ’Bout quarter to seven.”
“Are you sure? I’ve got ten to six.”
“Well, now, I might be a little off at that,” he smiled.
“Reckon you are, it’s still a little early, but that will give us time to get out to the islands and get set. Might be able to see a lot before the whistle goes off.”
Sam got into the boat and Will poled silently out toward the ducks.
As they rounded the end of a small island, a crackling of a limb attracted their attention. Sam peered into the underbrush to see what was moving at this time of day. There sat Al, gun across his knees.
“ ’Tain’t seven o’clock yet,” Sam called.
“I’m just linin’ them up,” the fisherman answered as he rose slowly to his feet, better to view the men in the craft before him.
“You got any ducks?” Sam persisted.
“No, I haven’t got any ducks, besides they’re out of range. Can’t hit nothin’ from here. Got any room in the middle there?”
Will pushed the boat toward the island shore.
“Hurry up. It’s almost time,” urged Sam as Al gingerly picked his way through the brush and settled himself on the bottom of the boat. Again they started out, Stacks easing the craft along with long strokes.
The boat drifted down on the island where Vison hunted and beyond which the ducks floated and bobbed. Al shifted his position and knocked his gun against the seat as they beached the boat. A nearby group of black ducks jumped at the sudden sound and spanked the water as they rose into the air. Their departure warned another group, and they flew up, too. Like a signal, the alarm went from one group to the next until the air was filled with beating wings and dripping feet.
Awed by the chorus of singing wings and throaty voices, Sam sat perfectly still as the air churned with ducks. Fascinated, he saw his game soar off into the sky. Al and Will reacted immediately. They reached for their guns, clicked forward the safeties and aimed. Two reports sounded. One duck plummeted to the water.
The sudden flight of the ducks aroused Vison from his post where he was watching for fish in the shallow eddies. He leapt along the edge of the island as the birds careened and sailed off. Then came the jarring blast from the shotguns, and the mink froze in his steps. Recovering from the shock, he headed for the underbrush. As he ran, he saw the duck drop from the sky and splash into the water above him. The bird came whipping down in the current. Around the top of the island came the craft with the three men poling swiftly in pursuit of their quarry.
Vison dived into the river and swam out to the duck. He took the bird in his mouth and, moving diagonally across the current, carried it to a nearby island.
Will and Sam and Al looked on in dismay as they saw the bird carried across the swift channel by the mink. Will lifted his gun.
“Don’t shoot, Will,” Sam cried. “It’ll spoil his fur. I know where he dens. You can trap him later and get a good price for that pelt.”
The trapper lowered his gun. He knew he could not get the mink in this way. Even if he had been able to hit him, the current would have washed him away. But the excitement of the day ran through him and his first impulse was to shoot. He grinned as he placed his shotgun down at his side. As he took the pole to steer them under the trees overhanging the island, it occurred to him what Sam had said.
“Where does he den?” he asked as he reached for a willow limb and pulled the boat under the shelter of a tree.
Sam deliberately concentrated on the knotting of the rope. He was sorry he had spoken. He searched for a new topic of conversation. Vison himself provided it.
“Look at that mink,” Sam said forcibly. “He’s carrying that duck off as if it were all feathers.”
Lifting his heavy burden, Vison disappeared into the hibiscus stems that margined the island. Stacks watched him with interest. These were the things that bound him to the woodlands of the Potomac River. He marveled at the ease with which Vison bore the duck that nearly must have matched his own weight.
The incident passed. The three men settled themselves comfortably in their places and watched the sky for more birds. By noon each had his limit and they poled home, hungry for the meal that was ahead of them.
Hours before the three men departed, Vison had completed his feast and was sleeping in a makeshift den in the rotted interior of a maple. It was late afternoon when he was awakened by the fanning of great wings outside his den. Thrusting his nose out, Vison saw the strong ebony talons of the bald eagle. The eagle was covering the remains of Vison’s duck with spread wings. The great hooked beak and flat head kept the outlaw from claiming his food. He watched the bird warily. The great wings stretched out and up, and the bird pumped itself into the air. The grasses bent and the bushes shook under the force of the currents created by the lifting wings. Duck and eagle careened through the saplings out over the river. Slowly the massive bird gained altitude, and the giant of the sky soared off to his roost on Eagle Island.
Vison leisurely wended his way back to Muddy Branch, island by island. The ducks were now rafting in the broad waters above the dam. Mice and muskrats of the islands made up Vison’s diet. He lingered in those areas where they were available. In occasional meetings with other mink of the Potomac, Vison went unchallenged.
It was almost two weeks later that the outlaw came back to den in his foot-log hideout. The familiar reeds, the memor
ized trail sent a spark through him and he raced the last quarter mile home. Diving into his hidden burrow, he circled the friendly earth, sniffed the air for prowlers that might have used it in his absence, and then leapt out into the night to check his trails and hunting grounds. Satisfied that nothing had changed, he bounded back toward his den to sleep. As he crossed the foot log he found the scent of Glaucomys, the flying squirrel. It was dawn, and the squirrel now was sleeping up in a tree. Vison slipped into his den.
The Potomac River had barely turned away from the sun, before Vison was out of his hideout. He jumped up on the log to see if Glaucomys was there. There was no scent of the little animal. The mink turned away. Later, as he crossed the roots of a beech, he heard the flying squirrel. Above his head, in the smooth limbs of the tree, sat the bright-eyed Glaucomys. He was smaller than a red squirrel, with large black eyes, soft grayish fur, trimmed in brown and white. He was busily eating beechnuts, dropping the husks to the floor of the woods.
Vison stood beneath the beech tree. The timid flying squirrel stuffed a beechnut into his cheeks, looked down at Vison, and darted to a higher limb. He saw the mink climb a nearby oak sapling. Swiftly Glaucomys moved to the treetop, jumped out into the air, and as Vison watched, soared gracefully to the foot of a tulip poplar. Vison leapt down from the sapling and rushed to the poplar. But Glaucomys had climbed to safety high in the tree.
His front feet propped against the trunk and his head stretched out on his supple neck, Vison watched the quick disappearance of the little squirrel. His entire attention was centered on following Glaucomys. He did not hear the approach of the stranger. The stranger was within several yards of him before he sensed his presence. Turning and rearing to his hind feet, Vison prepared himself for the oncoming danger. There before him stood a large male mink, battered and scarred by years of hard living on the Potomac River. The old male sniffed the wind that carried the scent of Vison to his nose.
For a full minute Vison looked the stranger over. By the lift of his head, the powerful span of his chest, Vison realized that this was the leader of the mink that hunted the river during the winter; this was the mink that took precedence over all others in the mating season, the great one who had fought and driven off so many rivals along the Potomac. Vison watched him closely. A wind shifted and for the first time brought the scent of the old stranger. Now he saw him even more clearly than before—the shifting bright eyes and the powerful haunches. Vison reared and prepared to fight, but the stranger turned away from the challenge and walked slowly through the woods to the stream. The outlaw followed cautiously.
The water folded back gently as the stranger dived expertly into the pool. He came up at the far bank, emerged with no sound, and stalked the shore, searching for food. While the stranger hunted, Vison watched him with uncertainty. Not a single movement of the regal mink escaped him. He followed his bounds and leaps several paces behind him along the opposite shore of the stream. When the old stranger turned to look for a fish that had darted past him, Vison stopped and stood on guard. The stranger ignored him, moving nimbly up the creek bed. Slowly, the outlaw realized that the old mink did not intend to fight. He slid cautiously into the water and swam to the other shore. Even as Vison joined him, the stranger did not turn his attention from his hunting. Vison took up the interest of his visitor and together the two searched the pools for fish and the fields for mice. At dawn Vison went down to his hidden den under the foot log. His hair rose on his back as he hissed his way under the twining cucumber vines and walked down the dark tunnel to the dry interior. As he fell asleep, he snorted to himself, disturbed that this powerful mink had chosen his land for hunting.
For the next few days, Vison tolerated the stranger’s presence on his range though with little good-fellowship. Upon leaving his den, he took the precaution to track him down, and in guarded hostility the two went down to the river to fish.
The stranger was unfamiliar with Vison’s range, for this was his first trip to Muddy Branch since Vison had settled here. However, he did as well as the outlaw himself. So familiar was he with the reeds, the grasses, the winds and signs of the Potomac that he knew exactly what to expect. The cattails and low swampland meant muskrats; he found their sites with uncanny intuition. Among the tufted grasses he found meadow voles, and on the forest floor he located white-footed mice. To work out their trails took only a few minutes.
Vison learned much from the old warrior. He had always been a good fisher, but here was a mink who never left the water empty-mouthed. If he sensed Vulpes, the red fox, moving along the crest of the hill, he did not turn from his work. Should the fox come his way, the deep water was his escape. The barking of the stray hounds in the woods did not disturb him, nor the soundless flight of Bubo, for he had achieved a confidence that came with complete knowledge of his abilities and of how to use his environment.
Late in December, the stranger and Vison still moved over the Muddy Branch range. They hunted apart now as frequently as they did together. Vison had resigned himself to this intrusion on his land by the monarch. However, he was never completely off his guard, though he became more relaxed and less cautious.
Meanwhile, on the hill, Will Stacks was getting ready for another season of trapping. Stirring the thick de-scenting brew of bark and wood chips, he recalled the statement of old Sam: “I know where he dens.” The thought went over and over in the trapper’s mind. Did or did not Sam know the hideout of the mink of Muddy Branch? Such knowledge would be of great value; but Sam loved to dream, and to tell strange stories. Will was acquainted with the old man’s ramblings. However, the disturbing thought kept running through his mind that there was always some element of truth in what Sam said. The pot of brew sizzled over the side and Stacks swirled it down with a swift stroke. “Does he or does he not?” Stacks would mumble as he worked. Will’s thoughts ran from Sam to the mink, to the muskrats, and back to the stately mink.
Only three days later, Stacks looked out of his window to see that the first snow of winter was falling on the icebound earth. Circling, spiralling, and rocking in the wind, the big flakes spun down to lie like white paper over his field. As he stared through the pane at the weather, his first hope was that it would snow all day and stop sometime just before dark so that the tracks of the nocturnal animals would be sharp and clean at dawn. It was a wet snow and should it continue, it would hold the steps of the woodland animals perfectly.
He walked over and took a pair of trousers off a peg on the wall and sat down to mend them. He was stitching them carefully, glancing now and then at the snowy windows, when he happened to see old Sam plodding across the field.
Sam’s words came back to him with a ring. He put down his work and hurried to the door. However, the old man was out of range, and the trapper dismissed his inclination to call out.
Sam moved out across the snow and down the hill to the stream. Scuffing along in the powdery weather, he came to the foot log that crossed the creek. With carefully placed steps he crossed the log to the shore where Vison denned. The snow lay in white pillows over the matted vines. The old Negro peered through the tangle to the almost hidden hole where Vison slept. A snowflake fell into the opening. It melted when it struck the tunnel, slightly warmed by the snug den of the sleeping mink. Sam saw the crystal disappear and knew that his friend was there. Somehow, he hoped that he had moved, for if Stacks should ask him again, he would in all probability lead him to this place.
He left the stream and took an old logging road down the hill to the canal. He disappeared for several days, and none of the river people knew where the old man had gone. Some worried for fear he had been taken ill in the cold storms; others who knew him, laughed and said he would reappear again with tales of new adventures.
About five days later, Stacks was out on the hills setting traps for foxes. He had fortunately run upon a favorite post of the foxes. Here he had already taken three beautiful pelts and was resetting his trap when he looked up to see old Sam standing
before him.
“Well, Sam, where have you been this time? Had some folks asking after you.”
Sam smiled and pulled his magenta scarf closer to his throat.
“I’ve been doing myself a little hunting,” he answered. “I’ve got some rabbits and quail here.” He pointed to the bulging pockets of his coat.
“Where’s your gun?” Stacks said in surprise.
“I decided to hunt like a mink. Old Vison doesn’t need a gun, neither does old Sam. Now, if you will come to the house tonight, I’ll make a fine rabbit stew for you.”
Stacks was not too surprised by the answer. That was just Sam, but the invitation to his home took him aback. Never in the memory of Sam’s life among the people of Seneca, had anyone been asked into or even near his house. Readily Stacks accepted.
At five o’clock that night Will walked through the woods to the bare, seven-room house on Red Sand Hill. For a moment he hesitated. The front door was certainly not used, but there seemed to be no footsteps, no worn paths, no boxes and tin cans that indicated that any other was the proper door. He started to the back porch, as a side door opened and Sam stood in its dark frame, calling to him.
The trapper followed the old Negro into the emptiest and cleanest house he had ever seen. None of the rooms was furnished but the kitchen, though each had a strange feeling of having been constantly swept and enjoyed. The kitchen was something unique. It was also tidy and clean. A big iron stove roared and crackled in the middle of the floor and around it were several stools and old chairs painted the most elaborate colors in the world. One was a bright purple-red, another a vivid orange. A third was apple green with fir-green legs and a fourth was brilliant scarlet. A long narrow table ran under the window and had been rubbed and waxed to a rich sand color. The walls, once white plaster, had been warmed down to a mellow gray by wood smoke. Stacks thought of a greenhouse as he looked around the room of his unusual host.
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