For weeks the Indian tried to shoot that Wolverine, but failed. When the man, knowing through experience that he was followed, turned back suddenly in his footsteps or remained hidden on his own trail, the Wolverine, sensing the danger, would stop and vanish for the time being. As soon as the trapper proceeded on his way, the animal would follow and resume his mischief.
Once in Labrador, I had a cache raided by a Wolverine during the summer. We had left some grub, clothing and cooking utensils in a waterproof bag securely lashed to the branch of a tree. When we returned, the bag was gone. The Wolverine had managed to crawl down the branch and cut the rope. After that he had torn everything open, eaten every piece of food he could get his teeth in and destroyed or defiled all the clothing. But what really made us mad was the fact that he had carried away and hidden the tins of pork and beans and lard which he could not have opened anyway, however strong were his jaws.
The only thing which we recovered intact was a brand new kettle—and then we had to climb a tree for it. The Wolverine had carried it half way up a spruce and left it wedged between two branches.
I have already spoken about that dog. I had him on my team six winters. He was the most human “Husky” I have ever known.
In the spring when the ice begins to cut all dogs’ feet, he would always be the first to ask for his moccasins. He would not sulk, go lame, whimper or run out of the trail. He would stop dead in his tracks, lie on his back, stretch and wave his four legs straight in the air and howl until each moccasin was fastened securely to each foot.
In camp at nights if he was not tied up, he would burrow in the snow until he was completely hidden, and remain there out of sight until the team was ready to leave. No amount of calling and coaxing would induce him to leave his hole, which was generally so well hidden that it was impossible to find it. But as soon as he felt the other six dogs in harness ready to go, he would burst out of the snow and slip on his own collar with a toss of his nose while he looked around anxiously to see if the driver was coming to fasten his girth.
Poor, dear, old Spot! He died in 1913, in harness. He was getting old and the last trip was too much for him. After a week of bitter suffering, he fell in the traces. We put him on the sleigh. His pride forbade him to be drawn by the team. He rolled off in the snow and tried to get back to his place in the lead. He was very weak but he still snarled defiance at the young dogs who were doing the work without him.