Some years ago, while in the northern part of Maine, I spent the month of September and a portion of October at a "hay-farm" on the borders of Chamberlain Lake—Lake Apmoogenegamook, the Indians used to call it. The whole region was almost an unbroken wilderness. Game was plenty, and by way of recreation from my duties as an assistant engineer I had set up a "line of traps" for mink and sable—"saple," as old trappers say—along a small but very rapid, noisy stream called Bear Brook, which comes down into the lake through a gorge between two high spruce-clad mountains.

Huge boulders had rolled down the sides, and lay piled along the bed of the gorge. The brook, which was the outlet of a small pond, pent up among the ridges above, foamed and roared and gurgled down among rocks shaded by thick, black spruces, which leaned out from the sides of the ravine.

It was a wild place. I had stumbled upon it, one afternoon, while hunting a caribou (a kind of deer) some weeks before, and knew it must be good trapping ground; for the rocks and clear, black pools, in short the whole place had that peculiar, fishy smell which bespoke an abundance of trout; and where trout abound there are sure to be mink.

My traps were of that sort which hunters call "figure four" traps, made of stakes and poles, with a figure-four spring. Perhaps some of our boy readers may have caught squirrels in that way. For bait I used trout from the brook. I carried my hook and line with me, and after setting a trap, threw in my hook and pulled out trout enough to bait it. My line extended about a mile up the gorge, and comprised some twenty-five or thirty traps.

After setting them, I shot a number of red squirrels for a "drag," and thus connected the traps together. Perhaps I should explain that a drag is a bundle of squirrels or partridges newly killed and from which the blood is dripping, which are dragged along by a withe from trap to trap to make a trail and scent, so that the mink and sable will follow it.

It is customary to visit mink traps once in two or three days. But as I had plenty of time just then, I went to mine every forenoon.

During the first week after setting them I had excellent luck. I caught eleven mink and three sable—about fifty dollars' worth, as I reckoned it. My hopes of making a small fortune in the fur business were very sanguine, until one morning I found every trap torn up! The poles and stakes were scattered over the ground, spindles were broken to pieces, and at one or two places where there had been a mink in the trap, the head and bits of fur were lying about as if it had been devoured.

At first I thought that perhaps some fellow who had intended to trap there had done the mischief to drive me away (a very common trick among rival trappers); but when I saw that the minks had been torn to pieces, I knew the destruction was the work of some animal—a fisher, most likely, or as some call it, a "black-cat."

I had never yet seen one of these creatures, but had often heard hunters and trappers tell what pests they were, following them on their rounds, robbing and tearing up their traps almost as rapidly as they could set them. Indeed, I had read in Baird's—I believe it was Baird's—Works on Natural History, that the fisher-cat, or mustela canadensis, is a very fierce carnivorous animal of the weasel family, a most determined fighter and more than a match for a common hound.

Well, I had nothing to do but to set the traps again, a task which I did in the course of the day, really hoping that the beast had merely paid the place a transient visit, and gone on upon his wanderings.

But the next morning showed my hopes were vain, for he had "gone through" my line again, and every trap was upset. It really seemed as if the "varmint" had taken a malicious delight in tearing them to pieces.

At one of the traps a fine sable had been caught, and as if for very mischief the marauder had torn the beautiful skin, which was worth ten or a dozen dollars, to shreds.

Surely, if there is a business in the world that demands patience and perseverance, it is trapping. At least it took about all I could summon to go resignedly to work, make new spindles, catch fresh bait, and set the traps again, especially with the prospect of having the same task to perform the next morning.

I went at it, however, and by eleven o'clock had them all reset save one, the upper one, where the sable had been caught, when, on approaching it through the thick spruces, I saw a large raccoon gnawing the sable's head. Seeing me at the same instant, he caught up the head, and before I could unsling my gun scuttled away out of sight.

Was it possible that a 'coon had been doing all this mischief? I knew them to be adepts at a variety of woods tricks, but had never heard of their robbing traps before. Here was one caught gnawing a sable's head in the vicinity of the broken traps. Circumstantial evidence, as they say in court, was strong against him.

I determined to watch—that trap, at least.

Going over to our camp on the lake, I took a hasty lunch, and putting a fresh charge into my gun went back to the ravine. A few rods from the place where I had surprised the 'coon there was a thick clump of low spruces. Here I hid myself and began my watch.

The afternoon dragged away. Crows and hawks cawed and screamed; kingfishers and squirrels chickered and chirred, but no animal came near the traps. The sun was setting behind the high, black mountain, twilight began to dim the narrow valley.

Thinking I had had my labor for my pains, I was about crawling out of my hiding-place, when a twig snapped in the direction of the traps, and turning quickly I saw the 'coon coming up the bank of the brook, the same one, I was sure, that I had seen before, because of its unusual size.

With a glance around, to see that there was no danger near, he ambled along to the spot where the sable's head had been, and began sniffing at the shreds and bits of fur which lay about. Wishing to see if he would touch the trap, I did not stir, but watched his movements.

After picking up the bits of skin, he walked round the trap several times, with his queer, quizzical face askew, examining it. Then happening to scent one of the sable's legs which lay at a little distance, he ran to it and began to eat it. I could hear his sharp teeth upon the bones. Suddenly he stopped, listened, then growled. Very much to my surprise, there was an answering growl. Then another and another response. In a moment more, from behind a great rock in the bank, there stole out a large, black animal, an object of the 'coon's utter abhorrence, evidently.

Fresh growls greeted the appearance of the intruder, who came stealthily forward. He was a wicked looking fellow, and had evidently hostile intentions.

The 'coon rose to his feet, lifting his back like a bear or a cat, and growling all the while. The newcomer crouched almost to the earth, but continued to steal up to the 'coon until within a yard or two.

There they stood facing each other, getting more angry every moment; and evidently intended to have a big "set to." I had no wish to interfere, and was contented to remain a spectator. The two thieves might settle their quarrels between themselves. I wasn't at all certain to which of them I stood indebted for my extra labor, and concluded to keep my charge of shot for whichever of them survived the fray.

The growls rose to shrieks; the fisher, for such I judged it to be, wriggling his black tail, and the 'coon getting his back still higher. Then came a sudden grab, quick as a flash, and a prodigious scuffle. Over and over they rolled, grappling and tearing; now the gray tail would whisk up in sight, then the black one. The fur flew, and that strong, disagreeable odor, sometimes noticed when a cat spits, was wafted out to my hiding-place.

It was hard to tell which was the best fighter. Gray fur and black fur seemed to be getting torn out in about equal snatches. Suddenly the 'coon got away from his antagonist, and running to the foot of a great spruce tree standing near, went like a dart up the trunk to the lower limbs. There he faced about.

The fisher followed to the tree and looked up. He saw his late foe, growled, and then began to climb after him. He was not so good a climber as the 'coon, but scratched his way up with true weasel determination. The moment he came within reach the raccoon jumped at him, regardless of the height from the ground, and fastened upon his back. The shock caused the fisher to lose his hold, and down both animals dropped with tremendous force, sufficient to knock the breath out of them, I thought. But they clung to each other, and dug and bit with the fury of maniacs. 'Coons are noted fighters; and as for the fishers, they never give up while the breath of life is in them.

Presently the 'coon broke away again, and once more ran to the tree, this time going up its trunk, out of sight, among the branches at the very top. It looked as if he was getting about all the fight he cared to have.

Not so with the big weasel. He instantly followed his antagonist, clumsily but surely clawing his way up the trunk. It took him some time to reach the top, but he got there at last. Another grapple ensued among the very topmost boughs, and they both came tumbling to the ground, catching at the limbs as they fell; but grappling afresh they rolled down the steep bank to the edge of the water.

Meanwhile it had grown so dark that I could but just see their writhing forms. The growling, grappling sound continued, however, and I could hear them splash in the water. Then there came a lull. One or the other had "given in," I felt sure. Which was the victor?

Cocking my gun, I crept to the bank. As nearly as I could make out the situation, the fisher was holding the 'coon by the throat.

I took a step forward. A twig snapped under my foot. Instantly a pair of fiery eyes glared up at me in the gloom; and with a harsh snarl the fisher raised himself. But the 'coon didn't stir; he was dead.

It seemed almost too bad to shoot the victor of so desperate a fight; but thinking of my traps I hardened my heart and fired. The fisher reared up, fell over, then recovering its legs, leaped at me with all the ferocity of its bloodthirsty race. But the heavy buckshot had surely done its work, and with another attempt to spring at me the animal fell back dead.

I had no more trouble with my traps.