Newfoundland Stories by Eldon Drodge

fur were evidence of its primeval strength and power. Its yellow eyes suggested more than a hint of wolf in its bloodline and gave it an aura that bordered on menacing. Rough and filthy like its master who had found it and reared it from a pup, the animal brooded with a sinister presence. It was a beast no man would ever wish to encounter if alone and unarmed. The dog was now oblivious to the oozing wounds suffered on its shoulder and flank a day or two earlier. Its licking had already congealed the affected areas somewhat and stemmed the flow of blood, and that was good enough for now. Time would do the rest.
    The man was tired, bone weary from twelve hours of hard slogging. The wet clothes that clung to his sweat-covered body had already begun to chill, despite the warm weather. Although he had eaten that morning, he was now ravenous again. More than anything else, he wanted his pipe, to experience the soothing pleasantness of the smoke as it filled his lungs. For a brief moment, he was tempted to spread his coat out on the frozen ground and lie down on it, and just let himself drift off as he had sometimes done in the past. The last time he had done that, though, he had awakened shivering violently and had been forced to spend the next three days on the broad of his back in his cabin while chills and fevers alternately racked his body. He had vowed that he would never do that again.
    In the end, it was his craving for tobacco that prompted him to go on. He had smoked the last of his that morning. Before leaving to run his trap-line three days earlier, he had carefully rationed out the amount he estimated he would need while he was away, and had spared it along with great prudence and self-discipline, denying the urge to light up until he could stand it no longer. But now his tobacco pouch was empty. Just a short distance away lay the last of the hoard he had purchased in Twillingate the previous fall. It was hidden securely under the floorboards of his cabin, safe from any prowler who might happen by. He knew that the first thing he would do when he got home was to light up and have a good smoke.
    The circuit of his trap-line, totalling more than ten miles in distance, had been rewarding, much better than he had expected. The weather had been good and the sleek pelts of the pine marten, foxes, muskrats, and otters he had found in his snares and metal traps were of prime quality. They would undoubtedly fetch top dollar when he brought them to Twillingate in May. In the meantime he would leave them safely cached along his trap-line until it was time to retrieve them for market.
    During the three-day trek, he and the dog had gorged themselves on the rich dark meat of the skinned carcasses until they were both sated, unable to cram in another mouthful. Afterward, they rested blissfully for a few hours until their bloated and lethargic bodies summoned up enough energy to carry on again.
    The only sore point of the trip had been the fact that he had found six of his metal traps in disrepair. The jaws of two of them were rusted together so badly he could not pry them open, even using the barrel of his long-gun as a lever, so he discarded them on the spot. The other four he deemed salvageable. An application of animal fat and oil, along with some elbow grease, would restore their usefulness, and he decided to bring these traps home with him. His traps, some of which were of ancient vintage, were his means of livelihood and he intended to extract the maximum use from them.
    Reshouldering his backpack, snowshoes, and traps, he resumed his homeward journey, knowing he would now have to cover the remaining distance in the rapidly gathering darkness. His route lay across the northwestern corner of the lake, a path he had trodden so many times since the lake had frozen over last fall that his footprints forged a line in the ice straight to his cabin door. To follow the shoreline would entail twice the distance, and in the soft snow,