And the marten--why should it go in?
It hated the water; it was not hungry; it was out for sport, and water sport is not to its liking.

It braced its sinewy legs and halted at the very brink, while bunny crossed to the safe woods.
Back now came Wahpestan, the brown death, over the logs like a winged snake, skimming the ground like a sinister shadow, and heading for the cabin as the cabin's owner watched.

Passing the body of the squirrel it paused to rend it again, then diving into the brush came out so far away and so soon that the watcher supposed at first that this was another marten.

Up the shanty corner it flashed, hardly appearing to climb, swung that yellow throat and dark-brown muzzle for a second, then made toward the entry.
Rolf sat with staring eyes as the beautiful demon, elegantly spurning the roof sods, went at easy, measured bounds toward the open chink--toward its doom.

One, two, three--clearing the prickly cedar bush, its forefeet fell on the hidden trap; clutch, a savage shriek, a flashing,--a struggle baffling the eyes to follow, and the master of the squirrels was himself under mastery.
Rolf rushed forward now.