near the summit may be found crossing the serpentine lines around the mountain;
and if the trail is steadily followed by the keeper he is almost certain to trace
reynard to his kennel. Although the impression of a Marten’s foot is smaller
than that of a fox, the marks are very much alike in the soft snow, and in a
thaw the prints of both are larger.
‘ Near the streams there are the web-footed impresses of teal and duck, the
finger-like marks left by the feet of herons, and the prints of snipe, plovers, and
titlarks. Where the rivulet descends to the vale water-voles have left their tracks,
resembling in miniature the " s e a l” of the otter; and here, too, are the imprints
of the moorhens’ long and slender claws. Amongst all these traces of beast and
bird the cat-like impression of the Marten’s pads is distinct and easily recognised.
Very often the trail is a long one, for Martens will travel as far as foxes during
the night, and they take a straighter line across the shoulders of the mountains.
Tracking a Marten in the snow is, therefore, a severe exercise, requiring patience
and experience in climbing. I f the wind changes to the south or west the snow
may melt before the hunter can follow the footprints up to the lair. In such
case a dog is of no assistance, as the Marten is free from that powerful odour
which the stoat leaves in its track.
‘ There is a spice of danger in hunting the Marten during hard weather.
The snow has hidden the treacherous bogs, the cliff ledges are slippery, and there
is always the risk that a snowstorm may overtake the hunter upon a desolate
height of perhaps 2,000 feet. But the sport is novel, and the mountain air
dispels a sense of fatigue. The chase leads on through steep masses of heather,
over great boulders, and across boggy places to the summit.
‘ For hours there is not a sound or glimpse of animal life. The track of the
Marten may be seen for fifty yards ahead on the snow-clad slope which descends
to the bay. Striding along the ridge, the Marten tracker and his terrier reach
the rocky summit. Thence the footprints lead to the pass of A., and across the
lonely glen of M., where they disappear amongst the boulders. The rough-coated
black and tan Welsh terrier begins to whine and sniff, and darts into a cavern.
His master cocks the trigger of his gun and stands keenly expectant. Within
the cave there is a snapping and growling. The Marten swells out its brush,
erects the hair on its back, and spits and hisses like a cat. Pinning the dog by
the nose the plucky beast fights viciously and retreats. But presently the Marten
chooses flight, and makes a bolt from one of the many outlets of the fastness.
The keeper levels his gun and fires, and the wildest life of the mountains is at
VOL. 11. n