Free Forest World by Felix Salten Page A

badly!”
    â€œYes, that might be it,” Martin said and his face flushed with sudden anger.
    â€œMight be? I’m sure of it! A roe doesn’t run here with her kids for nothing.”
    â€œBut I heard no shooting.”
    â€œYou’re—well, sir, may I say innocent? They’re mighty careful to make no noise. They lay out traps, the scoundrels!”
    â€œPeter, we’ve got to put a stop to it.”
    The older man said nothing. He only nodded grimly.

Chapter 13
    P ETER WAS SCOUTING THROUGH the forest, staying on the trails when he thought he might be seen by any other human being at large in the preserve, breaking through thickets to stalk along wild paths when he could be neither seen nor heard.
    For a long time he found nothing. Then a squadron of crows gathered somewhere close by in the brush, cawing and flapping their wings.
    Peter turned toward where the sound came from.At his approach the crows flew off, leaving behind the remains of a deer. This, Peter could tell, was where the poachers had cut up the prey. But where had the roe been killed? Peter’s expert eyes made out a man’s footprints, alternately deep and shallow in the soft ground.
    He followed them. Now he could see marks in the drying grass where the garrotted roe had been dragged along.
    So the criminal had not cut and divided the body where he had snared his victim. “A cunning fellow!” thought Peter in disgust.
    It was easy to follow the trail; fur caught here and there on the branches of low bushes showed the way. Peter came to a crossing of two wide paths made by stags and does. Peter knew, for trails made by hares and other small animals are thin as threads.
    â€œAnd,” he thought to himself, “that fellow knows too.” He came to a spot where the earth had been dug up and the bushes trampled down—the spot on which the roe’s death struggle had been played out.
    Peter had learned enough for one day. He wenthome by a roundabout route. “Scoundrels are at work, that’s sure,” he muttered. “But—one, or two?”
    When he told Martin what he had discovered rage drove color into the hunchback’s face. He whispered hoarsely, “I’ll help you find out!”
    Peter objected. “I’d rather you didn’t do anything, sir—take your usual walk, follow your regular trails. That’ll be less likely to cause suspicion.”
    â€œBut I want to—”
    Peter broke in. “You understand, sir, that catching the fellow now is the most difficult thing. Only one of us can do it. Leave everything to me, won’t you, please?”
    Martin looked helplessly into Peter’s determined face. But he knew Peter was right, and thereafter the older man continued his stalking expeditions day after day alone.
    For days he found nothing—no snares, no traps. Every evening Martin asked for results, but Peter only shook his head.
    He had seen more than enough in the way of evidence: the roe’s remains, the dragging trail, the prints of boots, the place on the roe trail where the trappedanimal jerked itself to death. Proof upon proof of evil. But he could not find the evil-doer.
    Then, after two days more of wasted time, Peter found a snare in the midst of a thicket. It hung barely a hand’s breadth above the ground.
    â€œThis is for a hare,” he said to himself.
    With the utmost care he avoided leaving any trace of his own presence. But here and there he broke a thin twig so that it swung loosely. He marked the way by sticking a dry branch with a few wilted leaves into the ground in an inconspicuous spot.
    He decided this was the place to watch if he were going to surprise the poacher. But he mustn’t come too close, or he might defeat his own purpose. As long as no hare dangled in the snare the poacher would not crawl into the bush. If caught outside, he could say he had only been taking a walk, although walking here in the