We were trailing, Henry and I, trailing and trapping In the land to the north, where fur was the thickest, And knaves were as plenty as mink or as otter. We took turns at sleeping, and trailed our line double To keep our own skins, if we didn't get others. It was folly to stay where we were, and we knew it, For the knaves they got thicker, and soon there was shooting Going on pretty lively. But we held to the business And scouted the line once a week like true trappers. And no accident happened save some holes in our jackets, And my powder-horn emptied by a vagabond's bullet. So we mended our clothing and felt pretty lively. But the signs pointed one way. Our enemies thickened Around us each day, and we weren't quite decided To stand in for a fight and settle the matter, Or pull up our traps and get out of the country, When it settled itself. And in this way it happened. We were scouting the lake on the west shore one morning, To find the knaves' camp and how many were in it, When a short space ahead there came of a sudden A crash as of thunder, and we knew that a dozen Or twenty placed rifles had burst an ambushment. And then in an instant there sounded another. Two sharp, twin reports and the death yells that followed Told us as we listened where the lead had been driven. Knew who he was? Of course. The man was Jack Whitcomb. Do you think men who live by trapping and shooting Don't learn to distinguish the voice of their rifles? Jack was trailing the lake to find our encampment, For far away in the south there had come to his cabin A rumor that we in the north land were holding Our line and our furs with a good deal of shooting. So he left his own traps and came by swift trailing To give us the help of another good rifle. That was just like Jack Whitcomb. If you were in trouble He was there by your side. You could always count on him, With finger on trigger and both barrels loaded.