in a lonely spot by the river. At the lower end of the path,
where it came out of the water, I set a trap, my biggest one,
with a famous grip for skunks and woodchucks. But the fish rotted
away, as did also another basketful in another place. Whatever
was eaten went to the crows and mink. Keeonekh disdained it.

Then I set the trap in some water (to kill the smell of it) on a
game path among some swamp alders, at a bend of the river where
nobody ever came and where I had found Keeonekh's tracks. The
next night be walked into it. But the trap that was sure grip for
woodchucks was a plaything for Keeonekh's strength. He wrenched
his foot out of it, leaving me only a few glistening hairs--which
was all I ever caught of him.

Years afterward, when I found old Noel's trap on Keeonekh's
portage, I asked Simmo why no bait had been used.

"No good use-um bait," he said, "Keeonekh like-um fresh fish, an'
catch-um self all he want." And that is true. Except in
starvation times, when even the pools are frozen, or the fish die
from one of their mysterious epidemics, Keeonekh turns up his
nose at any bait. If a bit of castor is put in a split stick, he
will turn aside, like all the fur-bearers, to see what this
strange smell is. But if you would toll him with a bait, you must
fasten a fish in the water in such a way that it seems alive as
the current wiggles it, else Keeonekh will never think it worthy
of his catching.

The den in the river bank was never disturbed, and the following
year another litter was raised there. With characteristic