Wolverine

He left before sunrise, his snowshoes beating a plodding rhythm atop the recent powder. Reaching the first trap on his line an hour later, he braced himself on a tree as he brushed the fresh snow away with a pine bough, the frozen bait glistening in the morning light.

The sun leisurely tracing an arc across the horizon, his steps gradually slowed till reaching the following trap. Sitting on his haunches to catch his breath, he grunted, "I better turn back after the next two."

But at the third trap, a mutilated badger greeted him, its pelt ruined. Wrinkling his nose at the pungent scent, he whispered, "Wolverine," and spat. He furrowed his brow in concern. It had not eaten any of its meat.

Finding a bloodied and shredded white fox at the next trap, he cursed his rotten luck, his face turning pale when he saw steam still rising from its carcass. Slipping his rifle off his shoulder he ensured a bullet was chambered.

It was too late to turn back now.

The only warning a sudden snarl, he turned and pointed the rifle, but the wolverine leapt with such ferocity that the man tumbled backward, his rifle shot echoing in the answering silence. His throat torn and bleeding, the trapper pushed its carcass off his chest and gazed in horror at its foam flecked jaws.

"God in heaven, hydrophobia," he cried. Tears streaming down his cheeks, he stuck the rifle barrel under his chin and closed his eyes.