Vison, the Mink (American Woodland Tales)

by Jean Craighead George

  CHAPTER NINE

  WORD CAME UP THE river that the herring had started to run. As Sam had predicted, it was early. Al got the news first from a fisherman who had just come back from Chain Bridge. A few herring had reached the turbulent waters of Little Falls, and early fisherman were catching them.

  Sam got the news from his own sources and crossed Red Sand Hill to check their departure with Stacks.

  Will was in his shed, testing his line for strength and sharpening his three-pronged snagging hooks. He saw Sam coming over the crest of the hill and went to the door to meet him.

  “Is the car running?” Sam called.

  “Yep, filled her up with gas yesterday and drove her to the store and back this morning. She’s all set, sitting down by the locks waiting for us to load.”

  “When do we leave?” the old Negro asked happily.

  “First thing in the morning,” the old trapper answered, filing and blowing on the big hooks, kept from year to year for the herring run.

  “I’ll be there just before dawn,” Sam said.

  As Sam was turning to go, Will raised one eyebrow and called to the old man.

  “Oh, Sam! The name warden was around today. He said that someone is still trapping. Don’t know nothin’ about it, do you?”

  “Trappin’? No, I don’t. I don’t even have a trappin’ license, and besides it’s too late in the year for that. No, I wouldn’t have any knowledge on trappin’.”

  “Well, I’ll see you in the morning!” Stacks called. “It’s gonna be good fishin’ and we ought to be there early to get the best spots.”

  Sam walked home slowly. He was bothered. Opening the door into his big frame house, he went to the kitchen closet and took down his pack from its hook. He checked the camping equipment; cup, pot, frying pan, knife and fork, spoon, salt, sugar, canned milk, flour, and matches wrapped in oilskin. He collected a few other articles from his kitchen, a small axe, some cord, rope, jack-knife, wire, fish hooks, and pipe and tobacco.

  That oughta get me by, he thought.

  It was still several hours before sunlight when the old Negro arose. He dressed warmly, pulled on waterproof boots, and picked up his rod, gunny sack, and pack. It was dark when he opened his door and stepped out into the woods.

  Sam needed no light to find his way across the wooded hill. The trail was as familiar to him as the furniture of his house, and he came to the locks where the car was parked just as the first birds called through the damp forest. He stopped for a moment to listen to their songs. These were the moments in which Sam owned the woods, the streams, and the great rolling river. In the space of a few minutes the sky was light and Sam could see the mist rising from the water. The sun was still behind the hill, but the day had opened to him and all the birds were singing for him. In the bushes along the canal a yellow warbler was singing. The bird stopped, then darted nervously through the low limbs of the river birches and flitted out of sight. Sam looked around to see what had disturbed the bird. Through the mist he could see a figure pacing around Will’s old car. He started forward, then hesitated. Parked beside Will’s car was a second bigger and newer automobile—the game warden’s. Listening closely, he thought he heard the metallic clink of a steel trap.

  The old man sat down quietly to think the situation over. He wanted to go on that herring fish; but Will was right—the game warden was hanging around. What Will didn’t know was that Mr. Herbert’s pig had caught a foot in someone’s trap, and that the farmer had called in the law. Sam mused that they must have a good idea that it was his trap, if the warden was hanging around Will’s car. Everyone knew that he, Will and Al were going to make a trip this morning to Chain Bridge. Sam figured for a few minutes longer. One thing he was sure of—he couldn’t pay the fine. Quietly he arose, slipped down to the edge of the canal in the mist, and crossed the big locks as silently as a fox.

  He walked down to the river and looked over Al’s boat. Al wouldn’t be needing it for a few days, and the fisherman had often let Sam use it. Sam slipped the chain from its mooring stake, bailed out some of the water, and pushed out into the river. He worked his way along the braided channels interlacing the many small islands carved from the shore. Finally he reached the open river.

  Out in the racing river he sang freely as he poled across the swift water toward Grape Vine Island. It had been many months since he had lived on the big island lying in the center of the river, and the thought of the quiet woods and the old haunts filled him with joy. He forgot the excitement of the herring run, as he made plans for the days that were ahead of him.

  Sam pulled up on the small sandy beach of the island and tied the boat to a tree. It drifted under the dipping limbs of the water willows and was hidden from view. Shouldering his pack, he walked through the great stand of elms, climbed a small rocky rise, and threw down his gear before a giant husk of an old sycamore tree.

  The old tree was about six feet through. It had died many years before and the hollow base of the stump made a fine shelter where Sam had often spent the night. Besides being an excellent den, the old stump was loved by Sam because it sat on the only hillock on the island and looked out through a handsome stand of flood-washed elms to the turbulent waters of the Potomac.

  Sam unpacked his scant equipment, arranged the pots and pans on the stones and logs, and then set about gathering firewood. It didn’t take him long to accumulate a big pile of dry driftwood that he picked from crotches in trees. He stacked it neatly beside his sycamore home and went off in search of dry grasses for a bed.

  First he placed a layer of springy green branches on the soft floor of the stump and covered them with dry leaves, and grasses. The bed was resilient and comfortable. Sam tested it a few times and then sat down and lit his pipe before going off in search of food.

  He looked across the muddy river waters at the Maryland shore becoming visible through the rising mist. Wistfully he visualized his friends driving out to the main road that led to Washington and Chain Bridge.

  As Sam was pulling up on the island, Will and Al were coming through the woods to the locks. Will saw the game warden’s car parked beside his own and found Bill Stanley dozing in the front seat.

  “Oh, hello, Will!” Stanley said as he stretched and looked around him. “Guess I dropped off. I have those trapping bulletins you asked me for yesterday. Heard you and Al and Sam were leaving for Chain Bridge so thought I’d get here early.”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Stanley.” Will replied, “Well, I certainly thank you for your trouble.”

  “No trouble,” the warden answered. “Had to come down here today anyway. You know Saturday, lots of people up from Washington, and I got to watch that they don’t take any bass.”

  “Well, thank you anyway, Mr. Stanley. Say, have you seen Sam?”

  “Sam? No, no one’s been around here,” answered the warden.

  “That’s funny,” puzzled Will. “He said he would be here at dawn. He was countin’ big on this trip, too. I was sure he’d be here by now.”

  “Well, if he ain’t here,” Al put in, “he’s probably found something else to do. Old Sam is prompt about matters like this.”

  Will and Al waited a few minutes and then decided to go on. It was fairly evident that the old Negro was not coming. They drove slowly up the road, watching for him, thinking that the old man might yet appear.

  The game warden watched them leave and then pulled on his wading boots and went down toward the river.

  Out on the island Sam was busily collecting crayfish in the shallow ripples. The river was too muddy to catch them by hand so he was using an old fish head as bait. He tied the fish head on the end of a line attached to a pole. Dropping the bait in a likely spot, he let it sink to the bottom. After a few minutes he gently raised it to the surface. He saw a crayfish pinched to it and lifted it smoothly to the shore. He threw it into the gunny sack. As he moved slowly along, he came to a silted backwater where he knew he could find arrowheads. Sam gathered these water plant
s, digging deeply with his fingers to procure their tasty tubers.

  Humming and singing, he circled the island, gathering wild onions in the open grasslands and the bulbs of the spring beauties from the woodland floor. He dug up the fleshy roots of the Solomon’s seal with their parsnip-like flavor, and the young roots and leaves of dandelions. As he pushed through the brush and driftwood at the end of the island, he flushed a black duck. He watched the alarmed bird flap out across the water and circle the island. Sam pushed through the matted limbs of the shrubby willows and completed his tour.

  With his gunny sack full of wild food from the island, the old man trudged back to his camp site to prepare himself a sumptuous lunch.

  Wrapping the arrowhead tubers in moist leaves, Sam buried them under the hot coals of the fire. Then he washed the crayfish and dropped them in a pot of boiling water that he had flavored with wild onion and salt. In his frying pan, he placed the rinsed dandelion roots and leaves, and the pared bulbs of the spring beauties. When they were tender, he stirred a dash of flour into them, and a few drops of canned milk. The creamed vegetables bubbled and snapped as Sam removed them from the hot coals to a cooler edge of his small fire. While the tubers were cooking, the old man carefully took the crayfish from the boiling water and dropped the white meat from their tails into the creamed vegetables. He salted them, and cut a few green shoots of the onion over the top. While this simmered and browned, Sam went down to the water’s edge, gathered some empty clam shells and a few Virginia bluebells. With his love for beauty he decorated a big flat stone with green leaves, the shells, and the sprigs of bluebells.

  Sam drew his potato-like tubers from the fire, placed his pan of creamed crayfish and greens on the table and with great pleasure sat down to his lunch. He took a long, long time to eat it, stopping now and then to watch an osprey circle overhead, and a wood duck swim out to the eddies in search of food. When lunch was done, he leaned back against the great sycamore and stretched out in the sun to rest. He smoked his pipe and thought of Will and Al snagging the herring from the great boulders of the river at Little Falls. He was not envious, however. He enjoyed the solitude of the island wilderness—the squirrels climbing in the trees overhead, the courting ducks. A Carolina wren flitted about his camp. With boundless energy it explored the brush piles, frequently pausing to spill forth its liquid song. Sam chuckled as he thought of how he had cheated the game warden.

  Looking out across the river, he saw fishermen wading the rapids below the dam. As they worked their way into the deeper water, they sought refuge from the current on boulders. Sam put out his fire, picked up his rod, and joined the afternoon activities. He would not be conspicuous fishing for catfish from the end of his island.

  The old Negro put in the afternoon fishing and setting snares for rabbits along their runways. After he had brought five or six big “cats” from the river, he slipped them on his stringer and tied it to a branch at the water’s edge. They flopped and wriggled in the water. He went into the open meadow of the island, looked for rabbit sign, and then carefully set two snares. These he made from limber saplings. He tied a string to a young tree and pulled it down into an arch. The other end of the string was fastened to a small notched stick. The notch hooked into a catch on a sturdy stake driven into the ground. To the taut string he tied a noose that encircled the runway of the rabbit. Sam left his snares and went back to his camp to prepare his evening meal of catfish, stewed dandelions, and the chewy shoots of young cattails.

  When dinner was done, he walked around his island, checked for tracks and dens, and then came back to the sycamore where he sat like a king and looked across the darkening river.

  The constant roar of the rapids was melodious and soothing. It was almost nightfall when Sam saw a fleeting shadow cross the flowers on the woodland floor before him. He sat still. Vison stood up on his hind feet and searched the wind with his nose. He disappeared in a hollow log. While Sam was still focusing on the hole through which he had disappeared, Vison thrust his head out the other end. The mink looked around and, twisting his body, seemed to pour out over the top of the log and flow down into the garden of wildflowers.

  Sam’s heart was beating heavily. He recognized Vison of Muddy Branch. He was sure his little friend had followed him to the island to keep him company. A deep sigh trembled through the old Negro’s body. Vison looked up over the flowers where he had been cavorting and racing, hidden from view. He bounced out into a clearing, purring almost inaudibly as he rubbed his stomach on the cool sand. The sand clung to his whiskers, and he galloped off to the river’s edge to drink and take a quick swim in the water. Shaking the water from his fur as he ran, Vison leapt along the shore. He had seen Sam’s catfish, swimming on the stringer a few yards upstream.

  Now Vison was out of old Sam’s sight. The Negro rose quietly, pulled his coat close to his body, and crawled into his bed in the big hollow sycamore. Sam thought about Vison as he fell asleep.

  Vison, meanwhile, was tugging at the stringer of fish trying to drag them up on the shore where he could dine upon them leisurely. He would get one to the beach, but the weight of the others and the current would pull them down into the water again. Now he darted out on the willow limb to which they were tied and tugged from above. He saw the round shadow of Chelydra, the snapping turtle, drifting in toward the catch. Vison bounded back to the bank. He managed to pull one fish under a root. It held securely while he dined. The others dangled in the water. These Chelydra slowly chomped, holding himself in the current with the sculling of his big webbed feet.

  Vison ate until he was satisfied and left the rest for the dull Chelydra.

  The mink bounced up the hillock to Sam’s camping ground. The dull luster of the pot caught his attention. He went to look it over. It was filled with water. Vison sniffed at it, and lifted his head to look around. He saw the frying pan, bounded toward it, and hopped in it. He smelt the contents and sneezed. Ashes that had drifted into the pan when Sam had put out the fire had tickled his nose. He turned back to the pot, took a long drink of the water, and then climbed in, and churned around and around in the small container until he had cleaned his fur.

  The mink slipped from the water, rubbed his stomach and neck on Sam’s pack, and leapt off through the woods toward the open meadow. As he came out of the forest of elms, his attention was diverted by a rustle along a rabbit trail. Vison swerved and raced toward the sound. As he wove along the trail, the scent of rabbit suddenly filled the air. A few steps farther and it diminished. Vison turned around and went back. Again the scent was strong, but there was no cottontail. He circled the area, pinning the odor down to one small spot. Still he could not find the source of the aroma. In his ceaseless activity he looked up, then stood on his hind feet. Now the scent was truly strong, and the higher he stretched the stronger it became. Several inches above him, he saw a large form swinging gently.

  He leapt, clutched the object, swung with it a moment and then dropped to the ground. It did not seem odd to Vison that a rabbit should be hanging in the air, it only concerned him how he should dine upon it. Again he leapt, took a better hold on the dead animal, and looked around for a more secure footing. As he did so, his weight slowly bent the sapling to which Sam had tied the snare, and rabbit and mink came down to the ground. As long as he held fast, the rabbit stayed down; but as soon as he shifted to attack his meal, the sapling straightened out and the rabbit swung up into the dark.

  Four times Vison went after his prey, but he was not particularly hungry, and when the animal rose into the air the fourth time, he lost interest in the food and sped off along a trail in search of his hollow sleeping log.

  The mink crawled into his dark, dry den around midnight. He dropped off into a deep sleep, with his head turned upside down so that the little white patch under his chin showed clearly.

  Sam awoke after sunup and set about preparing breakfast. His pot of water had collected dirt over night, and he went down to the river to fetch another pail
. He pulled up his stringer of fish and was dismayed to find only heads dangling on the ends.

  “Look what those turtles did to my breakfast!” he cried aloud. “Now, if that ain’t a fine how-de-do.”

  He had to be content with a pot of sassafras tea as his morning meal until he could find a more hearty breakfast. He set out to check his traps and gather food.

  An opossum hung in the first trap. Delighted over his success, the old man unhitched the animal and reset the snare.

  Now, he not only had a delicious white meat for stew, but some fat in which to fry fish and frog legs. He hurried on to the next trap. From a distance he could see the rabbit, and he ran to it. As he took it down, he saw where Vison had attacked it.

  Sam stood up and scratched his head. What animal could have reached so high and taken his food? ’Coon? Fox?—Then he remembered his woodland friend.

  “I’ll just bet old Vison had a lot to do with this,” Sam said as he stroked his chin. He laughed softly as he slipped the cottontail out of the snare and pulled the sapling down to reset the trap.

  The old man tucked the rabbit between the roots of a big elm near his sycamore tree.

  “I’m just gonna give that old Vison a free meal,” he said. “I’ve kinda got my mouth set for a frog-leg dinner anyway.”

  Sam put in a busy day fishing, catching frogs in the reeds at the edge of the island, and gathering tubers and herbs. He did not know how long he would have to hide out. Old farmer Herbert had a long memory as far as his pigs were concerned.

  That evening, Will and Al returned from Chain Bridge. They pulled up at the locks about four o’clock, and immediately set about cleaning their big catch on the shore of the canal. They each had a gunny sack of herring. It took them until dark to clean the fish and stack them in barrels of salt. About 7:30 old Buck Queen crossed the locks on his way home from a fishing trip on the dam.