“Well,” said Tim, “they weren’t ours, and I guess I just forgot about them.”

“So did I,” I said, “and I’m ashamed of it.”

“What about the geese?” he prompted.

Then I remembered a story Indian Pete had told. “Dig a trench!” I cried.

“A what?”

I led him out, and together we scooped out a trench some two feet wide and four feet deep. The snow was heavily crusted. It was lucky we had the trapper’s spade, for it would have been hard going with our bare hands.

It broke my heart to do it, but I took the handful of beans the convict had left unnoticed in our pack and scattered some of them out on the thin ice, then made a path of beans into the trench.

“Now, hide,” I whispered.

We crouched down, out of sight of the lake and the swimming geese. We heard their curious honking but could not see them.

“Is it working?” Tim asked.

“Be quiet.”

We waited, trembling, in the cold. Then slowly, a magnificent Canadian goose appeared, waddling up the trail of beans I had strewn. He was followed by a second, smaller bird. I pointed this one out to Tim.

“I’ll take the last one,” I said. “Wait until I give the word, then run for all your might.”

We held our breath, waiting to see if the birds would follow the bait into the trench. They hesitated, and then the first one went in. The other held back.

“The big one’s eating all the bait!” Tim said.

“Don’t move,” I warned. “Give them a little more time.”

Slowly, cautiously, the second goose waddled down into the trench. I gave Tim a punch on the leg.

“Go!”

We were upon the surprised geese before they knew what hit them. Part of my plan involved frightening them into trying to fly, so as we came into view, I gave a wild Indian yell, which scared Tim almost as much as it did the geese. It had its effect. The big birds spread their wings—or tried to—there wasn’t enough room in the trench for them to take off. They beat helplessly against the frozen walls. Tim jumped into one end, blocking it, and I came in by the rear door, and the birds were trapped.

They did not give up without a fight, however. I knew from my barnyard experience that geese are prone to give little girls a fierce nip with their strong beaks, and these wild birds did not disappoint me.

Tim was trying to grab hold of his goose by the body. Meanwhile it was giving him what for around his face and ears. “Get it by the neck!” I shouted. I had my own bird, although it clawed at me with its feet and flapped its wings. I twisted the neck until the head came off and the goose flailed in the snow. I felt a little guilty at letting the blood go to waste, but I had forgotten to bring a string from the cabin, and somehow, with the relatively large supply of food we had, the nutritional value of blood no longer seemed as important as it had in the woods.