Leloo knew that his masters would do one of two things. Either they would follow the caribou and kill them, or they would ignore the trail and hold their own course. He hoped they would decide to follow the caribou. For two or three days he had been living on fish, and Leloo did not like fish and only ate them when there was nothing else to eat. He watched 'Merican Joe return to his dogs, and fairly leaped into the collar as Connie swung him on to the trail. Two bull caribou had gone that way scarcely an hour before. There would be a kill, and plenty of meat.

A quarter of a mile before reaching the timber, Connie, who was in the lead, swerved sharply from the trail and headed toward a point that would carry them to the bush well down wind from the place the caribou had entered. Leloo cheerfully followed for he understood this move, and approved it. Arriving in the scrub, Connie and 'Merican Joe quickly unharnessed the dogs and tied all except the wolf-dog to trees. The boy removed the rifle from the toboggan and threw a shell into the chamber.

"Hadn't we better put a line on Leloo?" he asked as they started in the direction of the trail.

'Merican Joe laughed; "No, Leloo he know 'bout hunt—you watch. You want to see de gran' dog work you jes' shoot wan caribou. Leloo he git' de odder wan, you bet!"

"You don't mean he'll get him unless he's wounded!"

"Sure, he git him—you see! If you shoot wan an' wound him, Leloo git de good wan first, an' den he go git de wounded wan."

They cut the trail at the edge of the muskeg and immediately circled down wind. Leloo trotted quietly beside them, and now and then Connie noted twitching of the delicate nostrils. Suddenly the animal halted, sniffing the air. The ruff bristled slightly, and turning at a right angle to the course, the dog headed directly into the wind.

"He ketch um," said 'Merican Joe. "Close by. Dat ain' no trail scent—dat body scent!"

The spruce gave place to willows, and creeping to the edge of a frozen marshy stream, they saw the two caribou feeding upon the opposite side.

Connie set for two hundred yards and fired. The larger bull reared high in front, pitched sidewise, and after several lurching leaps, fell to the snow. The other headed diagonally across the open at a trot. Beside him Connie heard a low growl, there was a flash of silver, and Leloo shot into the open like an arrow. For several seconds the bull trotted on, unconscious of the great grey shape that was nearly upon him. When he did discover it and broke into a run it was too late. As if hurled from a gun the flying wolf-dog rose from the snow and launched himself at the exposed flank of the fleeing caribou, which was whirled half way around at the impact. Leloo sprang clear as the stricken animal plunged and wobbled on his fast weakening legs. The caribou staggered on a few steps and lay down. And the wolf-dog, after watching him for a moment to make sure he was really done for, trotted over and sniffed at the bull Connie had shot.

While 'Merican Joe, with a quick twist of his sheath knife, cut the stricken animal's throat, Connie examined the wound that had brought him down. Leloo had returned to his kill, and as the boy glanced up the great wolf-dog opened his mouth in a prodigious yawn that exposed his gleaming fangs, and instantly the boy remembered the words of Waseche Bill, "Keep your eye on him ... if he ever turns wolf when he'd ort to be dog ... good-night." "It would be 'good-night,' all right," he muttered, as he turned again to look at the wound—a long slash that had cut through the thick hide, the underlying muscles, and the inner abdominal wall and literally disembowelled the animal as cleanly as though it had been done with a powerful stroke of a sharp knife.

"W'at you t'ink 'bout Leloo, now?" grinned the Indian, as he rose from his knee and wiped his bloody knife upon his larrigan.

"I think he's some killer!" exclaimed the boy. "No wonder you don't carry a rifle."

"Don't need no gun w'en we got Leloo," answered 'Merican Joe, proudly. "De gun too mooch heavy. Injun ain' so good shot lak de w'ite man. Waste too mooch shell—dat cost too mooch."

The butchering and cutting up of the two caribou took less than an hour, during which time 'Merican Joe found that no matter how much of a chechako Connie was in regard to the fur-bearers, he had had plenty of experience in the handling of meat. When the job was finished, the meat was covered with the hides, and taking only the livers and hearts with them, the two started for the toboggans. The low-banked, marshy river upon which they found themselves made a short turn to the northward a short distance farther on, and they decided to circle around far enough to see what lay beyond the wooded point. Rounding the bend, they came upon what was evidently a sluggish lake, or broadening of the river, its white surface extending for a distance of two or three miles toward the north. Far beyond the upper end of the lake they could make out another ridge of hills, similar to the one to the southward toward which they were heading. They were about to turn back when Connie pointed to Leloo who was sniffing the air with evident interest. "He smells something!" exclaimed the boy, "maybe there are some more caribou in the willows a little farther on."

The Indian watched the dog narrowly: "Noe he ain' git de body scent—dat de trail scent. Mus' be de strong scent. He smell um down wind. We go tak' a look—mebbe-so we git som' mor' meat."

Keeping close to shore they struck northward upon the surface of the lake and ten minutes later, 'Merican Joe uttered an exclamation and pointed ahead. Hastening forward they came upon a broad trail. As far as they could see the surface of the snow was broken and trampled by the hoofs of hundreds and hundreds of caribou. The animals had crossed the lake on a long slant, travelling leisurely and heading in a north-westerly direction for the hills that could be seen in the distance. The two bulls they had killed were evidently stragglers of the main herd, for the trail showed that the animals had passed that same day—probably early in the morning.

"We go back an git de dogs and de outfit, an' follow um up. We git plenty meat now. Dat good place we camp right here tonight an' in de mornin' we follow 'long de trail." The short afternoon was well advanced and after selecting a camping site, the Indian hung the livers and hearts upon a limb, and the two struck out rapidly for the toboggans.

After hastily swallowing a cold lunch, they harnessed the dogs and worked the outfit through the timber until they struck the river at the point where they had slipped upon the two caribou. As they stepped from the willows Connie pointed toward the opposite shore. "There's something moving over there!" he exclaimed. "Look—right between the meat piles! A wolf I guess."

'Merican Joe peered through the gathering dusk. "No, dat loup cervier. De wolf ain' hunt dead meat." Leloo had caught a whiff of the animal and the hairs of his great ruff stood out like the quills of an enraged porcupine. Stooping, the Indian slipped him from the harness and the next instant a silver streak was flashing across the snow. The loup cervier did not stand upon the order of his going but struck out for the timber in great twenty-foot bounds. He disappeared in the willows with the wolf-dog gaining at every jump, and a moment later a young spruce shivered throughout its length, as the great cat struck its trunk a good ten feet above the snow. Connie started at a run, but 'Merican Joe called him back.

"We tak' de outfit long an' load de meat first. We got plenty tam. Leloo hold um in de tree an' den we go git um." Picking up Leloo's harness the Indian led the way across the river where it was but the work of a few minutes to load the meat on to the toboggans.

When the loads were firmly lashed on, the toboggans were tipped over to prevent the dogs from running away, and taking the light rifle the two went to the tree beneath which Leloo sat looking up into the glaring yellow eyes of the lynx. One shot placed squarely in the corner of an eye brought the big cat down with a thud, and they returned to the outfit and harnessed Leloo. When they were ready to start, 'Merican Joe swung the two caribou heads to the top of his load.

"What are you packing those heads for?" asked Connie.

"Mus' got to hang um up," answered the Indian.

"Well, hang them up back there in the woods. There's a couple of handy limb stubs on that tree we got the lynx out of."

The Indian shook his head. "No, dat ain' no good. De bear head mus' got to git hang up right where she fall, but de deer an' de moose and de caribou head mus' got to hang up right long de water where de canoes go by."

"Why's that?"

The other shrugged. "I ain' know 'bout dat. Mebbe-so w'en Sah-ha-lee Tyee com' to count de deer, he com' in de canoe. I ain' care I know so mooch 'bout why. W'en de Injuns hang up de head in de right place, den de deer, an' de bear, an' all de big peoples ain' git all kill off—an' w'en de w'ite mans com' in de country an' don't hang up de heads, de big peoples is all gon' queek. So dat's nuff, an' don't mak' no differ' 'bout why."



At the bend of the river 'Merican Joe hung up the heads upon a couple of solid snags, and a short time later they were pitching their little tent upon the camp site selected beside the caribou trail. As darkness settled over the north county, a little fire twinkled in the bush, and the odour of sizzling bacon and frying liver permeated the cozy camp.



CHAPTER XII

THE TRAIL IN THE SNOW

It was noon the following day when they overtook the caribou herd, half way between the northern extremity of the lake and the range of hills. A halt was called upon the margin of a small lake along the shores of which the stragglers could be seen feeding slowly along.

"Dat bes' we ain' kill only 'bout six—seven today. Dat mak' us work pretty good to git um cut up before de night com' long an' freeze um. Tomorrow we kill eight—nine mor' an' dat be nuff."

The dogs were unhitched and tied to trees, and Connie started to loosen the rifle from its place on top of one of the packs. But the Indian stayed him: "No, dat ain' no good we mak' de shoot. We scare de herd an' dey travel fast. We let Leloo kill um, an' dat don't chase um off. Dey t'ink Leloo wan big wolf, an' dey all de tam git kill by de wolf, an' dey don't care."

So armed only with their belt axes and knives, they struck out for the herd accompanied by Leloo who fairly slavered in anticipation of the coming slaughter. And a slaughter it was, as one by one the stricken brutes went down before the deadly onslaught. What impressed Connie more even than the unerring accuracy of the death stroke was the ominous silence with which the great wolf-dog worked. No whimper—no growl, nor whine, nor bark—simply a noiseless slipping upon the selected animal, and then the short silent rush and a caribou staggered weakly to its knees never to rise again. One or two bawled out as the flashing fangs struck home, but the sound caused no excitement among the others which went on feeding as if nothing had happened. This was due to the cunning of Leloo—partly no doubt a native cunning inherited from his father, the great white wolf from the frozen land beyond the frozen sea—partly, too, this cunning was the result of the careful training of 'Merican Joe, who had taught the wolf-dog to strike only those animals that were separated from their fellows. For had the killer rushed blindly in, slashing right and left the herd would have bunched for defence, and later have travelled far into the hills, or struck out for the open tundra.

When six animals were down, Leloo was called off, and Connie and the Indian set about skinning and cutting up the carcasses.

"I see where we're going to make about two more trips for this meat," said Connie. "We've got more than we can pack now, and with what we kill tomorrow, it will take at least three trips."

'Merican Joe nodded. "Yes, we build de cache, an' we pack all we kin haul, an' com' back w'en we git time. Anyhow, dat ain' so far lak we gon' on dem odder hills. We strike mos' straight wes' from here we com' on de cabin."

The killing and cutting up was finished by noon next day, and when darkness fell the two gorged an enormous meal of bannocks and liver, and retired to their sleeping bags for a well-earned rest. For the two toboggans stood loaded with meat covered tightly with green hides that had already frozen into place, and formed an effective protection against the pilfering of the dogs, three or four of which were amazingly clever sneak-thieves—while at least two were out-and-out robbers from whose depredations even the liver sizzling in the frying pan was not safe. The same precaution of covering was taken with the meat on the platform of the pole cache, for while its height from the ground protected it from the prowlers, the frozen hides also protected it from the inroads of the "whiskey jacks," as the voracious and pestiferous Canada jays are called in the Northland. For they are the boldest robbers of all, not even hesitating to fly into a tent and grab some morsel from the plate of the camper while he is eating his meal. These birds scorn the cold, remaining in the far North all winter, and woe betide the unprotected piece of meat they happen to light upon, for though it be frozen to the hardness of iron, the sharp bills of these industrious marauders will pick it to the bone.

The pace was slow next day owing to the heavy loads, each toboggan carrying more than one hundred pounds to the dog. But the trail to the cabin was not a long one and the trappers were anxious to carry with them as much meat as possible, to avoid making another trip until well into fox trapping time. It was late in the afternoon when Connie who was travelling ahead breaking trail, paused at the edge of a clump of spruce and examined some tracks in the snow. The tracks were made by a pair of snowshoes, and the man who wore them had been heading north-east. 'Merican Joe glanced casually at the tracks. "Som' Injun trappin'," he opined.

"White man," corrected Connie, "and I don't believe he was a trapper."

The Indian glanced again at the trail. "Mebbe-so p'lice," he hazarded.

"Not by a long shot! If there was any patrol in here there'd be sled tracks—or at least he'd be carrying a pack, and this fellow was travelling light. Besides you wouldn't catch any men in the Mounted fooling with snowshoes like that!" The boy pointed to the pattern of a track. "Those are bought rackets from the outside. I saw some like 'em in the window of a store last winter down in Minneapolis. They look nice and pretty, but they're strung too light. Guess we'll just back track him for a while. His back trail don't dip much south, and we won't swing far out of the way."

'Merican Joe expressed indifference. "W'at you care 'bout de man? We ain' los' nuttin'. An' we ain' got to run way from de p'lice."

Connie grinned. "No, and believe me, I'm glad we haven't got to! They're a hard bunch to run away from. Anyway, this fellow is no policeman, and I've just got a hunch I'd like to know something about him. I can't tell why—just a hunch, I guess. But somehow I don't like the looks of that trail. It don't seem to fit. The tracks are pretty fresh. We ought to strike the remains of his noon camp before long."

The Indian nodded. "All right, we follow um. You know all 'bout de man trail. Som' tam you know all 'bout de fur trail, too—you be de gran' trapper."

The back trail held its course for a few miles and then swung from the westward so that it coincided with their own direction. At the point where it bent from the westward, they came upon the man's noon-time camp.

"Here's where he set his pack while he built his fire," pointed the boy. "He didn't have much of a pack, just a sleeping bag and a couple of day's grub rolled up in it. Here's where he set his rifle down—it was a high power—little shorter and thinner butt than mine—a thirty-thirty, I guess. He ain't a chechako though, for all he's got bought snowshoes. He tramped out his fire when he went, and he didn't throw away his tea-grounds. Whoever he is, he's got a camp not farther than two days from here, or he'd never be travelling that light in this country."

A few miles farther on Connie again halted and pointed to another trail that converged with the one they were following. They had been travelling upon the ice of a small river and this new trail dipped into the river bed from the north-eastward.

"It's the same fellow!" cried the boy. "This trail was made yesterday. He camped somewhere ahead of us last night and went back where he came from today. Left his own back trail here—thought it was easier to follow on up the river, I guess. Or, maybe he wanted to dodge some bad going. Where he came from isn't so far away, either," continued the boy, "he was travelling light yesterday, too."

They had proceeded but a short distance when 'Merican Joe called a halt. He came forward, and looked intently at Leloo who was the leader of Connie's team. Connie saw the great wolf-dog was sniffing the air uneasily.

"What is it?" he asked of 'Merican Joe.

"Injuns. Big camp. Me—I kin smell de smoke."

Connie sniffed the air, but could smell nothing. "How far?" he asked.

"She straight ahead on de wind—mebbe-so two, t'ree mile."

The banks of the small river they were following became lower as they advanced and finally disappeared altogether as the stream wound its way through a frozen swamp. In the swamp they encountered innumerable trails of snowshoes that crossed each other at every conceivable angle.

"Squaw tracks," grunted 'Merican Joe. "De squaw got to ten' de rabbit snare. Dat mak' um work pretty good. Injun don't buy so mooch grub lak de wi'te mans, an' every day de squaw got to ketch 'bout ten rabbit. If dey got mooch—w'at you call tenas-man?"

"Children—kids," supplied Connie.

"If dey got mooch kids dey mus' got to ketch 'bout twenty rabbit every day."

"Why don't they go after caribou?"

"Yes, dey hunt de caribou w'en de caribou com' roun'. But dey can't go mebbe-so hondre mile to hunt de caribou. Dey live on de rabbit, an ptarmigan, an' fish in de winter tam, an' w'en de bad rabbit year com' 'long den de Injun he's belly git empty an' de ribs stick out an' he too mooch die from de big hongre."

They were nearing the village. Sounds of a dog fight reached their ears, the savage growls of the combatants, and the yapping and barking of the pack that crowded about them. Then the hoarse call of an Indian, and a yelping of dogs as the man evidently worked on them industriously with a club.

They emerged suddenly from the thick growth of the swamp on to the ice of the broader stream which connects Lake Ste. Therese with McVicker Bay of Great Bear Lake. The village was located upon the opposite bank which rose some twelve or fifteen feet above the river ice. Through the gathering darkness Connie made out some five or six log cabins, and many makeshift dwellings of poles, skins and snow blocks.

Their appearance upon the river was the occasion for a pandemonium of noise as the Indian dogs swept out upon the ice to greet them with barks, yaps, growls, whines, and howls. Never had the boy seen such a motley collection of dogs. Big dogs and little dogs, long tailed, short tailed, and bob tailed—white dogs and black dogs, and dogs of every colour and all colours between. In only two particulars was there any uniformity—they all made some sort of a noise, and they were all skin-poor.

Heads appeared at the doors of various dwellings, and a little knot of Indians gathered at the top of the bank, where they waited, staring stolidly until two heavily loaded toboggans came to a halt at the foot of the steep bank.

Greetings were exchanged and several invitations were extended to the travellers to spend the night—one Indian in particular, who spoke a few words of English and appeared to be rather better dressed than the others, was very insistent, pointing with evident pride toward the largest of the log houses. But they declined with thanks, and indicated that they would camp a short distance below the village where a more gently sloping bank gave promise of ascent for the heavily loaded toboggans. As they proceeded along the foot of the bank, an Indian lurched from one of the skin dwellings, and leered foolishly at them from the top of the bank. Sounds issued from the shack as of voices raised in quarrel, and Connie and 'Merican Joe exchanged glances as they passed on to their camping place.

An hour later as they were finishing their supper, an Indian stepped abruptly out of the darkness, and stood blinking at them just within the circle of light from the little fire. He was the Indian they had seen lurch from the dwelling.

"Hello," said Connie, "what do you want?" The Indian continued to stare, and Connie tried jargon. "Iktah mika tika?" But still the man did not answer so the boy turned him over to 'Merican Joe who tried out several dialects and gave it up. The Indian disappeared as abruptly as he had come, and a few moments later stepped again into the firelight. This time he carried a large beaver skin which he extended for inspection. Connie passed it over to 'Merican Joe.

"Is it a good skin?" he asked.

"Good skin," assented 'Merican Joe, "Wan' ver' big beaver ..."

"How much?" asked Connie, making signs to indicate a trade.

The Indian grunted a single word. "Hooch!"

"Oh—ho, so that's it!" cried the boy. "I knew it when I saw him the first time. And I knew that trail we've been following this afternoon didn't look right. I had a hunch!"

He handed the Indian his skin and shook his head. "No got hooch." It took the man several minutes to realize that there was no liquor forthcoming, and when he did, he turned and left the fire with every evidence of anger. Not long after he had gone, another Indian appeared with the same demand. In vain Connie tried to question him, but apparently he knew no more English or jargon than the first.

"We've got to figure out some scheme to gum that dirty pup's game!" cried the boy. "I just wish I was back in the Mounted for about a week! I'd sure make that bird live hard! But in the Mounted or out of it, I'm going to make him quit his whiskey peddling, or some one is going to get hurt!"

'Merican Joe looked puzzled. "W'at you care 'bout dat? W'at dat mak' you mad som' wan sell Injun de hooch?"

"What do I care! I care because it's a dirty, low-lived piece of work! These Injuns need every bit of fur they can trap to buy grub and clothes with. When they get hooch, they pay a big price—and they pay it in grub and clothes that their women and children need!"

'Merican Joe shrugged philosophically, and at that moment another Indian stepped into the firelight. It was the man who had insisted upon their staying with him, and who Connie remembered had spoken a few words of English.

"You looking for hooch, too?" asked the boy.

The Indian shook his head vigorously. "No. Hooch bad. Mak' Injun bad. No good!"

Connie shoved the teapot into the coals and motioned the man to be seated, and there beside the little fire, over many cups of strong tea, the boy and 'Merican Joe, by dint of much questioning and much sign talk to help out the little English and the few words of jargon the man knew, succeeded finally in learning the meaning of the white man's trail in the snow. They learned that the Indians were Dog Ribs who had drifted from the Blackwater country and settled in their present location last fall because two of their number had wintered there the previous year and had found the trapping good, and the supply of fish and rabbits inexhaustible. They had done well with their traps, but they had killed very few caribou during the winter, and the current of the river had taken many of their nets and swept them away under the ice. The rabbits were not as plentiful as they had been earlier in the fall, and there was much hunger in the camp.

They traded as usual, and had gotten "debt" at Fort Norman last summer before they moved their camp. Later in the summer two men had come along in a canoe and told them that they would come back before the mid-winter trading. They said they would sell goods much cheaper than the Hudson's Bay Company, or the Northern Trading Company, and that they would also have some hooch—which cannot be obtained from the big companies.

Yesterday one of these men came into the camp. He had a few bottles of hooch which he traded for some very good fox skins, and promised to return in six days with the other man and two sled loads of goods. He told them that they did not have to pay their debt to the companies at Fort Norman because everything at the fort had burned down—all the stores and all the houses and the men had gone away down the river and that they would not return. The Indians had been making ready to go to the fort to trade, but when they heard that the fort was burned they decided to wait for the free traders. Also many of the young men wanted to trade with the free traders because they could get the hooch.

The Indian said he was very sorry that the fort had burned, because he did not like the free traders, and he wanted to pay his debt to the company, but if there was nobody there it would be no use to make the long trip for nothing.

When he finished Connie sat for some time thinking. Then, producing a worn notebook and the stub of a pencil from his pocket he wrote upon a leaf and tore it from the book. When he spoke it was to 'Merican Joe. "How long will it take you to make Fort Norman travelling light?" he asked.

"'Bout fi', six, day."

"That will be ten or twelve days there and back," figured the boy, as he handed him the note.

"All right. You start in the morning, and you go with him," he added, turning to the Indian.

"That white man lied! There has been no fire at the fort. He wants to get your skins, and so he lied. You go and see for yourself. The rest of them here won't believe me if I tell them he lied—especially as the young men want the hooch. I have written McTavish to send someone, back with you who has the authority to arrest these free traders. I'm going to stay to get the evidence. In the meantime you send your hunters on our back trail and they will find many caribou. Divide the meat we have on the sleds among the people—the women and the children. It will last till the men return with the meat. I am going to follow the free traders to their camp."

It took time and patience to explain all this to the Indian but once he got the idea into his head he was anxious to put the plan into effect. He slipped away and returned with two other Indians, and the whole matter had to be gone over again. At the conclusion, one of them agreed to accompany Connie, and the other to distribute the meat, and to lead the caribou hunt, so after unloading the sleds and making up the light trail outfits, they all retired to get a few hours' sleep for the strenuous work ahead. How well they succeeded and how the free traders—but, as Mr. Kipling has said, that is another story.



CHAPTER XIII

AT THE CAMP OF THE HOOCH-RUNNERS

The late winter dawn had not yet broken when the little camp on the outskirts of the Indian village was struck and two dog teams drawing lightly loaded toboggans slipped silently into the timber. When out of sight and sound of the village the two outfits parted.

Connie Morgan, accompanied by an Indian named Ton-Kan, swung his great lead-dog, Leloo, to the eastward, crossed the river, and struck out on the trail of the free trader; while 'Merican Joe with Pierre Bonnet Rouge, the Indian who had told them of the free trader's plans, headed north-west in the direction of Fort Norman.

It was nearly noon six days later that they shoved open the door of the trading post and greeted McTavish, the big bewhiskered Scotchman who was the Hudson's Bay Company's factor.

"What are ye doin' back here—you? An' where is the lad that was with ye? An' you, Pierre Bonnet Rouge, where is the rest of your band? An' don't ye ken ye're two weeks ahead of time for the tradin'?"

"Oui, M's'u," answered the Indian. "But man say——"

He was interrupted by 'Merican Joe who had been fumbling through his pockets and now produced the note Connie had hastily scribbled upon a leaf of his notebook.

McTavish carried the scrap of paper to the heavily frosted window and read it through slowly. Then he read it again, as he combed at his beard with his fingers. Finally, he laid the paper upon the counter and glanced toward a man who sat with his chair tilted back against the bales of goods beyond the roaring stove.

"Here's something for ye, Dan," he rumbled. "Ye was growlin' about fightin' them ice bourdillons, here's a job t'will take ye well off the river."

"What's that?" asked Dan McKeever—Inspector Dan McKeever, now, of N Division, Royal Northwest Mounted Police. "It better be somethin' important if it takes me off the river, 'cause I'm due back at Fort Fitzgerald in a month."

"It's important, all right," answered McTavish, "an lucky it is ye're here. That's one good thing the rough ice done, anyhow. For, if it hadn't wore out your dogs you'd be'n gone this three days. D'ye mind I told ye I'd heard they was a free trader over in the Coppermine country? Well, there's two of 'em, an' they're workin' south. They're right now somewheres south of the big lake. They've run onto the Dog Ribs over near Ste. Therese, an' they're tradin' em hooch!"

"Who says so?" asked the Inspector, eying the two Indians doubtfully.

"These two. Pierre Bonnet Rouge I have known for a good many years. He's a good Indian. An' this other—he come in a while back with his pardner from over on the Yukon side. His pardner is a white man, an' about as likely a lookin' lad as I've seen. He's over there now on the trail of the free traders an' aimin' to stand between them 'an the Indians till someone comes with authority to arrest them."

"Who is this party, an' what's he doin' over in that country himself?"

"He's just a lad. An' him an' his pardner, here, are trappin'. Name's Morgan, an——"

Big Dan McKeever's two feet hit the floor with a bang, and he strode rapidly forward. "Morgan, did you say? Connie Morgan?"

'Merican Joe nodded vehemently. "Yes, him Connie Mo'gan! Him wan skookum tillicum."

The big inspector's fist smote the counter and he grinned happily. "I'll say he's skookum tillicum!" he cried. "But what in the name of Pat Feeney is he doin' over here? I heard he'd gone outside."

"D'ye know him?" asked McTavish, in surprise.

"Know him! Know him, did you say? I do know him, an' love him! An' I'd rather see him than the Angel Gabriel, this minute!"

"Me, too," laughed McTavish, "I ain't ready for the angels, yet!"

"Angels, or no angels, there's a kid that's a man! An' his daddy, Sam Morgan, before him was a man! Didn't the kid serve a year with me over in B Division? Sure, Mac, I've told you about the time he arrested Inspector Cartwright for a whiskey runner, an'——"

McTavish interrupted. "Yes, yes, I mind! An' didn't he fetch in Notorious Bishop, whilst all the rest of you was tearin' out the bone out in the hills a-huntin' him?"

"That's the kid that done it! An' there's a whole lot more he done, too. You don't need to worry none about yer Injuns as long as that kid's on the job."

"But, ye're goin' to hurry over there, ain't you? I hate to think of the lad there alone. There's two of them traders, an' if they're peddlin' hooch, they ain't goin' to care much what they do to keep from gittin' caught."

Dan McKeever grinned. "You don't need to worry about him. That kid will out-guess any free trader, or any other crook that ever was born. He's handled 'em red hot—one at a time, an' in bunches. The more they is of 'em, the better he likes 'em! Didn't he round up Bill Cosgrieve an' his Cameron Creek gang? An' didn't he bring in four of the orneriest cusses that ever lived when they busted the Hart River cache? An' he done it alone! Everyone's got brains, Mac, an' most of us learns to use 'em—in a way. But, that kid—he starts in figurin' where fellers like us leaves off!"

"But this case is different, Dan," objected the factor. "He was in the Mounted then. But what can he do now? He ain't got the authority!"

McKeever regarded the Scotchman with an almost pitying glance. "Mac, you don't know that kid. But don't you go losin' no sleep over how much authority he ain't got. 'Cause, when the time comes to use it, he'll have the authority, all right—if he has to appoint himself Commissioner! An' when it comes right down to cases, man to man, there's times when a six-gun has got more authority to it than all the commissions in the world."

"But they're two to one against him——"

"Yes, an' the kid could shoot patterns in the both of 'em while they was fumblin' to draw, if he had to. But the chances is there won't be a shot fired one way or another. He'll jest naturally out-guess 'em an' ease 'em along, painless an' onsuspectin' until he turns 'em over to me, with the evidence all done up in a package, you might say, ready to hand to the judge."

McTavish smote his thigh with his open palm. "By the great horn spoon, I'll go along an' see it done!" he cried. "We'll take my dogs an' by the time we get back yours will be in shape again. My trader can run the post, an' I'll bring in them Dog Ribs with me to do their tradin'."

The Indian, Ton-Kan, who accompanied Connie proved to be a good man on the trail. In fact, the boy wondered, as he followed with the dog team, if the Indian did not show just a little too much eagerness. Connie knew something of Indians, and he knew that very few of them possessed the zeal to exert themselves for the good of the tribe. Their attitude in regard to the troubles of others was the attitude of 'Merican Joe when he had shrugged and asked, "W'at you care?" Pierre Bonnet Rouge, Connie knew to be an exception, and this man might be too, but as he understood no word of either English or jargon, and Connie knew nothing of the Dog Rib dialect, the boy decided to take no chances, but to keep close watch on the Indian's movements when the time for action came.

In the afternoon of the second day Connie exchanged places with the Indian, he himself taking the lead and letting Ton-Kan follow with the dogs. The boy figured that if the trader had expected to be back at the village in six days, his camp could not be more than two days away, travelling light. That would allow him one day to pack his outfit for the trail, and three days to reach the Indian village travelling heavy. Therefore, he slowed the pace and proceeded cautiously.

Connie's experience as an officer of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police had taught him something of the law, and of the value of securing evidence. He knew that if he himself could succeed in buying liquor from the free traders he would have evidence against them under the Northwest Territories Act upon two counts: having liquor in possession in prohibited territory, and selling liquor in prohibited territory. But what he wanted most was to get them under the Indian Act for supplying liquor to Indians, and it was for this purpose he had brought Ton-Kan along. The boy had formulated no plan beyond the first step, which was to have the Indian slip into the traders' camp and purchase some liquor in payment for which he would give a beautiful fox skin, which skin had been carefully and cunningly marked the night before by himself and Pierre Bonnet Rouge. With the liquor as evidence in his possession his course would be determined entirely by circumstances.

The early darkness was just beginning to fall when, topping a ridge, Connie caught the faint glimmer of a light at the edge of a spruce thicket beyond a strip of open tundra. Drawing back behind the ridge Connie motioned to the Indian to swing the dogs into a thick clump of stunted trees where they were soon unharnessed and tied. Loosening the pack Connie produced the fox skin while the Indian lighted a fire. A few moments later the boy held out the skin, pointed toward the camp of the free traders, and uttered the single word "hooch."

Notwithstanding the Indian's evident eagerness to reach the trader's camp, he hesitated and made signs indicating that he desired to eat supper first—and Connie's suspicion of him immediately strengthened. The boy shook his head, and reluctantly Ton-Kan obeyed, but not without a longing look toward the grub pack.

When he had disappeared over the ridge Connie hastily bolted some bannocks and a cold leg of rabbit. Then he fed the dogs, looked to his service revolver which he carried carefully concealed beneath his mackinaw, slipped Leloo's leash, and moved silently out on to the trail of the Indian. Skirting the tundra, he kept in the scrub, and as he worked his way cautiously toward the light he noted with satisfaction that his own trail would excite no suspicion among the network of snowshoe tracks that the free traders had made in visiting their rabbit snares. In the fast gathering darkness the boy concealed himself in a bunch of willows which commanded a view of the door and window of the tiny cabin that lay half-buried in the snow. It was an old cabin evidently, rechinked by the free traders. The light shone dully through the little square window pane of greased paper. The Indian had already been admitted and Connie could see dim shadows move across the pane. The great wolf-dog crept close and, throwing his arm about the animal's neck, the boy cuddled close against the warm shaggy coat. A few minutes later the door opened and Ton-Kan reappeared. Immediately it slammed shut, and Connie could dimly make out that the Indian was fastening on his snowshoes. Presently he stood erect and, as the boy had expected, instead of striking out for camp across the open tundra, he gave a hurried glance about him and plunged into the timber.

Instantly the boy was on his feet. "I thought so, Leloo," he grinned. "I thought he was awfully anxious to get that hooch. And when he wanted to wait and eat supper first, I knew that he figured on pulling out and wanted a full belly to travel on."

"He won't travel very far nor very fast," muttered the boy, as he circled the little clearing. "Because it's a cinch he didn't get anything to eat out of those birds—they'd take the fox skin for the hooch, and they're not giving away grub." Leloo walked beside him, ears erect, and every now and then as they glanced into the boy's face, the smouldering yellow eyes seemed to flash understanding.

Darkness had settled in earnest, and it was no easy task to pick up the trail in the scrub among the crisscrossed trails of the free traders, especially as the boy did not dare to strike a light. He had carefully studied the Indian's tracks as he had mushed along behind the dogs until he knew every detail of their impression, but in the darkness all trails looked alike. Time and again he stooped and with his face close to the snow, examined the tracks. Time and again he picked up the trail only to lose it a moment later. Then Leloo took a hand in the game. Connie's attention was drawn to the dog by a low whine, and stopping he found the great animal sniffing the fresh trail. "Good old dog!" whispered the boy, patting the great head. Understanding what was wanted the wolf-dog bounded off on the trail, but Connie called him back. "If I only dared!" he exclaimed under his breath. "You'd run him down in five minutes—but when you did—what then?" The boy shuddered at the recollection of the stricken caribou and the swift silent rush with which the great silvered brute had launched himself upon them. "I'm afraid you wouldn't savvy the difference," he grinned, "and I don't want old Ton-Kan cut plumb in two. If you'd only throw him down and hold him, or tree him like you did the loup cervier, we'd have him in a hurry—and some time I'm going to train you to do it." A sudden thought struck the boy as he met the glance of the glowing yellow eyes. "If I had something to tie you with, I'd start the training right now," he exclaimed. A hasty search of his pockets produced a length of the heavy line that he and 'Merican Joe used for fishing through the ice.

It was but the work of a moment to secure the line about the neck of the wolf-dog and lead him to the spot where he had nosed out the Indian's trail. With a low whine of understanding the great beast struck straight into the timber, the confusion of tracks that had thrown Connie completely off in the darkness, offering no obstacle whatever to the keen-scented dog. As Connie had anticipated, Ton-Kan did not travel far before stopping to sample the contents of the bottle. A half-hour after the boy took the trail he pulled the straining Leloo to a stand and peered through the scrub toward a spot at the edge of a thick windfall where the Indian squatted beside a tiny fire. Holding Leloo close in, Connie silently worked his way to within twenty feet of where the Indian sat, bottle in hand, beside his little fire. The man drank from the bottle, replaced the cork, rose to his feet, and with a grunt of satisfaction, rubbed his stomach with his mittened hand. Then he carefully placed the bottle in the snow, and moved toward a small dead spruce to procure firewood. It was but the work of a moment for Connie to secure the bottle, and at the sound Ton-Kan whirled to find himself confronted by the smiling boy. With an exclamation of rage the Indian sprang to recover his bottle, and the next instant drew back in terror at sight of Leloo who had stepped in front of the boy, the hair of his huge ruff a-quiver, the delicately pointed nose wrinkled to expose the gleaming white fangs, and the yellow eyes glowing like live coals.

"Thought you'd kind of slip one over on me, did you?" smiled the boy as he made signs for the Indian to follow, and headed for the sled. "You did drink part of the evidence, but we've got enough left to hold those birds for a while—and I'm going to get more."

The boy led the way back to the sled with Ton-Kan following dejectedly, and while the Indian ate his supper, Connie did some rapid thinking. The meal over he took the Indian's blankets from the sled and, together with a two days' supply of grub, made them into a pack, which he handed to Ton-Kan and motioned for him to hit the back trail. At first the Indian feigned not to understand, then he protested that he was tired, but the boy was unmoved. When Ton-Kan flatly refused to leave camp Connie drew his watch from his pocket, held up three fingers, meaningly, and called Leloo to his side. One glance at the great white wolf-dog with his bristling ruff settled the argument, and with a grunt of fear, the Indian snatched up his pack and struck out on the back trail with an alacrity that belied any thought of weariness. Alone in the camp the boy grinned into the embers of the little fire. "The next question," he muttered to himself, "is where do I go from here? Getting rid of Ton-Kan gets the odds down to two to one against me, but what will I do? I haven't got any right to arrest 'em. I can't stay here, because they'll be hitting the back trail for the Indian camp in the morning, and the first thing they'll do will be to run on to my trail. Then they'll figure the Mounted is on to them and they'll beat it, and make a clean get-away. That would keep the hooch away from this bunch of Indians, but they'd trade it to the next bunch they came to. I ain't going to let 'em get away! I started out to get 'em and I will get 'em, somehow. Guess the best way would be to go straight to the shack and figure out what to do when I get there." Suiting the action to the word, the boy carefully cached the bottle of liquor and packed his outfit. Then he harnessed his dogs. When it came the turn of the leader, he whistled for Leloo, but the great wolf-dog was not to be found. With a sudden fear in his heart, the boy glanced toward the back trail. Had the great brute understood that Connie and the Indian were at outs and had he struck out on the trail to settle the matter in his own way? Swiftly the boy fastened on his snowshoes, and overturning the sled to hold the other dogs, he headed back along the trail. He had gone but a few steps, however, before he halted and pushing the cap from his ears, listened. From a high ridge to the northward, in the opposite direction from that taken by the Indian, came the long howl of a great grey caribou-wolf, and a moment later came an answering call—the weird blood-chilling, terrible cry of the big white wolf-dog. And then Connie returned to his outfit, for he knew that that night Leloo would run with the hunt-pack.



CHAPTER XIV

THE PASSING OF BLACK MORAN

A string of curses that consigned all Indians to regions infra-mundane, greeted Connie's knock upon the door of the cabin of the free traders.

"I'm not an Indian!" answered the boy. "Open the door and let a fellow in! What's the matter with you?"

Connie could hear muttered conversation, as one of the occupants stumbled about the room. Presently a light was struck and the door flew open. "Who be you, an' what d'ye want? An' what you doin' trailin' this time o' night, anyway?"

The man who stood framed in the doorway was of huge build, and scowling countenance, masked for the most part by a heavy black beard.

Connie smiled. "My partner and I are trapping over beyond the Injun village, about forty miles southwest of here, and the Injuns told us that there were some free traders up here some place. We're short of grub and we thought that if we could get supplies from you it would save us a trip clear to Fort Norman."

"Turn yer dogs loose an' come in," growled the man, as he withdrew into the cabin and closed the door against the cold. If Connie could have seen, as he unharnessed his dogs, the swift glances that passed between the two occupants of the cabin, and heard their muttered words, he would have hesitated a long time before entering that cabin alone. But he did not see the glances, nor did he hear the muttered words.

As he stepped through the doorway, he was seized violently from behind. For a moment he struggled furiously, but it was child's play for the big man to hold him, while a small, wizened man sat in his underclothing upon the edge of his bunk and laughed.

"Frisk him!" commanded the big man, and the other rose from the bunk and removed the service revolver from its holster. Then, with a vicious shove, the big man sent Connie crashing into a chair that stood against the opposite wall. "Sit there, you sneakin' little pup! Thought you could fool us, did you, with yer lies about trappin'? Thought we wouldn't know Constable Morgan, of the Mounted, did you? You was some big noise on the Yukon, couple years back, wasn't you? Most always goin' it alone an' makin' grandstand plays. Thought you was some stuff, didn't you?" The man paused for breath, and Connie scrutinized his face, but could not remember to have seen him before. He shifted his glance to the other, who had returned to the edge of the bunk, and was regarding him with a sneering smirk.

"Hello, Mr. Squigg," he said, in a voice under perfect control. "Still up to your old crookedness, are you? It's a wonder to me they've let you live this long."

The big man interrupted. "Know him, do you? But you don't know me. Well, I'll tell you who I be, and I guess you'll know what yer up against. I'm Black Moran!"

"Black Moran!" cried the boy. "Why, Black Moran was——"



"Was drounded when he tried to shoot them Pelly Rapids about three jumps ahead of the police boat, was he? Well, that's what they said but he wasn't, by a long sight. When the canoe smashed I went under all right but the current throw'd me into a eddy, an' when the police boat went down through the chute I was hangin' by my fingers to a rock. The floater they found later in the lower river an' said was me, was someone else—but I didn't take the trouble to set 'em right—not by a jug full, I didn't. It suited me to a T."

"So you're the specimen that murdered old man Kinney for his dust and——"

"Yup, I'm the party. An' they's a heft of other stuff they've got charged up agin me—over on the Yukon side. But they ain't huntin' me, 'cause they think I'm dead." There was a cold glitter in the man's eye and his voice took on a taunting note. "Still playin' a lone hand, eh? Well, it got you at last, didn't it? Guess you've saw the handwritin' on the wall by this time. You ain't a-goin' no place from here. You've played yer string out. This here country ain't the Yukon. They ain't nobody, nor nothin' here to prevent a man's doin' just what he wants to. The barrens don't tell no tales. Yer smart, all right—an' you've got the guts—that's why we ain't a-goin' to take no chances. By tomorrow night it'll be snowin'. An' when the storm lets up, they won't be no cabin here—just a heap of ashes in under the snow—an' you'll be part of the ashes."

Connie had been in many tight places in his life, but he realized as he sat in his chair and listened to the words of Black Moran that he was at that moment facing the most dangerous situation of his career. He knew that unless the man had fully made up his mind to kill him he would never have disclosed his identity. And he knew that he would not hesitate at the killing—for Black Moran, up to the time of his supposed drowning, had been reckoned the very worst man in the North. Escape seemed impossible, yet the boy showed not the slightest trace of fear. He even smiled into the face of Black Moran. "So you think I'm still with the Mounted do you?" he asked.

"Oh, no, we don't think nothin' like that," sneered the man. "Sure, we don't. That there ain't no service revolver we tuk offen you. That there's a marten trap, I s'pose. 'Course you're trappin', an' don't know nothin' 'bout us tradin' hooch. What we'd ort to do is to sell you some flour an' beans, an' let you go back to yer traps."

"Dangerous business bumping off an officer of the Mounted," reminded the boy.

"Not over in here, it ain't. Special, when it's comin' on to snow. No. They ain't no chanct in the world to git caught fer it—or even to git blamed fer it, 'cause if they ever find what's left of you in the ashes of the cabin, they'll think it got afire while you was asleep. Tomorrow mornin' yo git yourn. In the meantime, Squigg, you roll in an' git some sleep. You've got to take the outfit an' pull out early in the mornin' an' unload that hooch on to them Injuns. I'll ketch up with you 'fore you git there, though. What I've got to do here won't take me no longer than noon," he glanced meaningly at Connie, "an' then, we'll pull out of this neck of the woods."

"Might's well take the kid's dogs an' harness, they might come in handy," ventured Mr. Squigg.

"Take nothin!" roared Black Moran, angrily. "Not a blame thing that he's got do we take. That's the trouble with you cheap crooks—grabbin' off everything you kin lay yer hands on—and that's what gits you caught. Sometime, someone would see something that they know'd had belonged to him in our possession. Then, where'd we be? No, sir! Everything, dogs, gun, sled, harness an' all goes into this cabin when she burns—so, shut up, an' git to bed!" The man turned to Connie, "An' now, you kin roll up on the floor in yer blankets an' pertend to sleep while you try to figger a way out of this mess, or you kin set there in the chair an' figger, whichever you want. Me—I'm a-goin' to set right here an' see that yer figgerin' don't 'mount to nothin'—see?" The evil eyes of Black Moran leered, and looking straight into them, Connie deliberately raised his arms above his head and yawned.

"Guess I'll just crawl into my blankets and sleep," he said. "I won't bother to try and figure a way out tonight—there'll be plenty of time in the morning."

The boy spread his blankets and was soon fast asleep on the floor, and Black Moran, watching him from his chair, knew that it was no feigned sleep. "Well, of all the doggone nerve I ever seen, that beats it a mile! Is he fool enough to think I ain't a-goin' to bump him off? That ain't his reputashion on the Yukon—bein' a fool! It ain't noways natural he should take it that easy. Is he workin' with a pardner, that he expects'll git here 'fore mornin', or what? Mebbe that Injun comin' here after hooch a while back was a plant." The more the man thought, the more uneasy he became. He got up and placed the two rifles upon the table close beside him, and returned to his chair where he sat, straining his ears to catch the faintest night sounds. He started violently at the report of a frost-riven tree, and the persistent rubbing of a branch against the edge of the roof set his nerves a-jangle. And so it was that while the captive slept, the captor worried and fretted the long night through.

Long before daylight, Black Moran awoke Squigg and made him hit the trail. "If they's another policeman along the back trail, he'll run on to Squigg, an' I'll have time fer a git-away," he thought, but he kept the thought to himself.

When the man was gone, Black Moran turned to Connie who was again seated in his chair against the wall. "Want anything to eat?" he asked.

"Why, sure, I want my breakfast. Kind of a habit I've got—eating breakfast."

"Say!" exploded the man, "what ails you anyway? D'you think I'm bluffin'? Don't you know that you ain't only got a few hours to live—mebbe only a few minutes?"

"So I heard you say;" answered the boy, dryly. "But, how about breakfast?"

"Cook it, confound you! There it is. If you figger to pot me while I'm gittin' it, you lose. I'm a-goin' to set right here with this gun in my hand, an' the first move you make that don't look right—out goes yer light."

Connie prepared breakfast, while the other eyed him closely. And, as he worked, he kept up his air of bravado—but it was an air he was far from feeling. He knew Black Moran by reputation, and he knew that unless a miracle happened his own life was not a worth a gun-wad. All during the meal which they ate with Black Moran's eyes upon him, and a gun in his hand, Connie's wits were busy. But no feasible plan of escape presented itself, and the boy knew that his only chance was to play for time in hope that something might turn up.

"You needn't mind to clean up them dishes," grinned the man. "They'll burn dirty as well as clean. Git yer hat, now, an' we'll git this business over with. First, git them dogs in the cabin, an' the sled an' harness. Move lively, 'cause I got to git a-goin'. Every scrap of stuff you've got goes in there. I don't want nothin' left that could ever be used as evidence. It's clouded up already an' the snow'll take care of the tracks." As he talked, the two had stepped out the door, and Connie stood beside his sled about which were grouped his dogs. The boy saw that Leloo was missing, and glanced about, but no sign of the great wolf-dog was visible. "Stand back from that sled!" ordered the man, as he strode to its side. "Guess I'll jest look it over to see if you've got another gun." The man jerked the tarp from the pack, and seizing the rifle tossed it into the cabin. Then he slipped his revolver into its holster and picked up Connie's heavy dog-whip. As he did so Connie caught just a glimpse of a great silver-white form gliding noiselessly toward him from among the tree trunks. The boy noted in a flash that the cabin cut off the man's view of the wolf-dog. And instantly a ray of hope flashed into his brain. Leloo was close beside the cabin, when with a loud cry, Connie darted forward and, seizing a stick of firewood from a pile close at hand, hurled it straight at Black Moran. The chunk caught the man square in the chest. It was a light chunk, and could not have possibly harmed him, but it did exactly what Connie figured it would do—it drove him into a sudden rage—with the dog-whip in his hand. With a curse the man struck out with the whip, and as its lash bit into Connie's back, the boy gave a loud yell of pain.

At the corner of the cabin, Leloo saw the boy throw the stick. He saw it strike the man. And he saw the man lash out with the whip. Also, he heard the boy's cry of pain. As the man's arm drew back to strike again, there was a swift, silent rush of padded feet, and Black Moran turned just in time to see a great silvery-white shape leave the snow and launch itself straight at him. He saw, in a flash, the red tongue and the gleaming white fangs, and the huge white ruff, each hair of which stuck straight out from the great body.

A single shrill shriek of mortal terror resounded through the forest, followed by a dull thud, as man and wolf-dog struck the snow together. And then—the silence of the barrens.

It was long past noon. The storm predicted by Black Moran had been raging for hours, and for hours the little wizened man who had left the cabin before dawn had been plodding at the head of his dogs. At intervals of an hour or so he would stop and strain his eyes to pierce the boiling white smother of snow that curtained the back-trail. Then he would plod on, glancing to the right and to the left.

The over-burden of snow slipping from a spruce limb brushed his parka and he shrieked aloud, for the feel of it was a feel of a heavy hand upon his shoulder. Farther on he brought up trembling in every limb at the fall of a wind-broken tree. The snapping of dead twigs as the spruce wallowed to earth through the limbs of the surrounding trees sounded in his ears like—the crackling of flames—flames that licked at the dry logs of a—burning cabin. A dead limb cracked loudly and the man crouched in fear. The sound was the sound of a pistol shot from behind—from the direction of Black Moran.

"Why don't he come?" whispered the wizened man. "What did he send me alone for? Thought I didn't have the nerve fer—fer—what he was goin' to do. An' I ain't, neither. I wisht I had—but, I ain't." The man shuddered: "It's done by this time, an'—why don't he come? What did I throw in with him fer? I'm afraid of him. If he thought I stood in his way he'd bump me off like he'd squ'sh a fly that was bitin' him. If I thought I could git away with it, I'd hit out right now—but I'm afraid. If he caught me—" The wizened man shuddered and babbled on, "An' if he didn't, the Mounted would. An' if they didn't—" again he paused, and glanced furtively into the bush. "They is things in the woods that men don't know! I've heered 'em—an' seen 'em, too. They is ghosts! And they do ha'nt men down. They're white, an—it's beginnin' to git dark! Why don't Moran come? I'd ruther have him, than them—an' now there's another one of 'em—to raise out of the ashes of a fire! I'd ort to camp, but if I keep a pluggin' along mebbe I kin git to the Injun village. 'Taint fur, now—acrost this flat an' then dip down onto the river—What's that!" The man halted abruptly and stared. "It's one of 'em now!" he faltered, with tongue and lips that felt stiff. "An' it's covered with fine white ashes!" He knew that he was trembling in every limb, as he stared at the snow-covered object that stood stiffly beside the trail only a few yards ahead. "Nuthin' but a stump," he said, and laughed, quaveringly. "Sure—it's a stump—with snow on it. I remember that stump. No—it wasn't here where the stump was. Yes, it was. It looks different with the snow on it. Gosh, a'mighty, it's a ghost! No 'taint—'taint moved. That's the stump. I remember it. I says to Moran, 'There's a stump.' An' Moran says, 'Yup, that's a stump.'" He cut viciously at his dogs with the whip. "Hi yu there! Mush-u!"

At the door of the little cabin Connie Morgan stared wide-eyed at the thing that lay in the snow. Schooled as he was to playing a man's part in the drama of the last great frontier, the boy stood horror-stricken at the savage suddenness of the tragedy that had been enacted before his eyes. A few seconds before, he had been in the power of Black Moran, known far and wide as the hardest man in the North. And, now, there was no Black Moran—only a grotesquely sprawled thing—and a slush of crimson snow. The boy was conscious of no sense of regret—no thought of self-condemnation—for he knew too well the man's record. This man who had lived in open defiance of the laws of God and of man had met swift death at the hand of the savage law of the North. The law that the men of the outlands do not seek to explain, but believe in implicitly—because they have seen the workings of that law. It is an inexorable law, cruel, and cold, and hard—as hard as the land it governs with its implacable justice. It is the law of retribution—and its sentence is PAY.

Black Moran had paid. He had played his string out—had come to the end of his trail. And Connie knew that justice had been done. Nevertheless, as the boy stood there in the silence of the barrens and stared down at the sprawling form, he felt strangely impressed—horrified. For, after all, Black Moran had been a human being, and one—the boy shuddered at the thought—who, with murder in his heart, had been ill equipped for passing suddenly into the presence of his God.

With tight-pressed lips the boy dragged the body into the cabin and covered it with a blanket, and then, swiftly, he recovered his rifle and revolver, harnessed his dogs, and struck out on the trail of Squigg. An hour after the storm struck, the trail was obliterated. Here and there, where it cut through thick spruce copses, he could make it out but by noon he knew he was following only its general direction. He knew also that by bearing slightly to the southward he would strike the river that led to the village of the Indians.

It was nearly dark when he came out upon a flat that even in the gloom and the whirling snow he recognized as the beaver meadow from which the trail dipped to the river. Upon the edge of it he halted to examine the spruce thickets along its western side, for signs of the trail of Squigg, and it was while so engaged that he looked up to see dimly in the white smother the form of the man and his dog-team. The man halted suddenly and seemed to be staring at him. Connie stood motionless in his tracks, waiting. For a long time the man stood peering through the flying snow, then the boy saw his arm raise, heard the crack of his whiplash, and then the sound of his voice—high-pitched and unnatural it sounded coming out of the whirling gloom: "Hi yu, there! Mush-u!"

Not until Squigg was within ten feet of him did the boy move, then he stepped directly into the trail. A low, mewling sound quavered from the man's lips, and he collapsed like an empty bag.

"Stand up!" ordered the boy, in disgust. But instead of obeying, the man grovelled and weltered about in the snow, all the while emitting an incoherent, whimpering wail. Connie reached down to snatch the man to his feet, when suddenly he started back in horror. For the wailing suddenly ceased, and in his ears, high and shrill, sounded a peal of maniacal laughter. The eyes of the man met his own in a wild glare, while peal after peal of the horrible laughter hurtled from between the parchment-like lips that writhed back to expose the snaggy, gum-shrunken teeth.

Horrible as had been the sight of Black Moran lying in the blood-reddened snow, the sight of Squigg wallowing in the trail and the sound of his weird laughter, were far more horrible. The laughter ceased, the man struggled to his feet and fixed Connie with his wild-eyed stare, as he advanced toward him with a peculiar loose-limbed waddle: "I know you! I know you!" he shrilled. "I heard the flames cracklin', an' snappin'! An' now you've got me, an' Moran's comin' an' you'll git him, an' we'll all be ghosts together—all of us—an' we'll stand like stumps by the trail! I'm a stump! I'm a stump! Ha, ha, ha. He, he, he! I'm a stump! I'm a stump!"

"Shut up!" cried Connie in desperation, as he strove to master an almost overwhelming impulse to turn and fly from the spot. "Crazy as a loon," thought the boy, with a shudder, "and I've got to take him clear to Fort Norman, alone!" "I'm a stump, I'm a stump," chanted the man, shrilly, and the boy saw that he had come to a rigid stand close beside the trail.

With a final effort Connie pulled himself together. "I've got it to do, and I'll do it," he muttered between clenched teeth. "But, gee whiz! It will take a week to get to Fort Norman!"

"I'm a stump, I'm a stump," came the monotonous chant, from the rigid figure beside the trail.

"Sure, you're a stump," the boy encouraged, "and if you'll only stick to it till I get the tent up and a fire going, you'll help like the dickens."

Hurrying to his dogs the boy swung them in, and in the fast gathering darkness and whirling snow he worked swiftly and skillfully in pitching the little tent and building a fire. When the task was finished and the little flames licked about his blackened teapot, he sliced some fat pork, threw a piece of caribou steak in the frying pan, and set it on the fire. Then he walked over to where Squigg stood repeating his monotonous formula.

"Grub's ready," announced the boy.

"I'm a stump. I'm a stump."

"Sure you are. But it's time to eat."

"I'm a stump, I'm a stump," reiterated the man.

Connie took hold of him and essayed to lead him to the fire, but the man refused to budge.

"As long as you stay as stiff as that I could pick you up and carry you to the tent, but suppose you change your mind and think you're a buzz saw? Guess I'll just slip a babiche line on you to make sure." The man took not the slightest notice as the boy wound turn after turn of line about his arms and legs and secured the ends. Then he picked him up and carried him to the tent where he laid him upon the blankets. But try as he would, not a mouthful of food would the man take, so Connie ate his supper, and turned in.

In the morning he lashed Squigg to the sled and with both outfits of dogs struck out for Fort Norman. And never till his dying day will the boy forget the nightmare of that long snow-trail.

Two men to the sled, alternating between breaking trail and handling the dogs, and work at the gee-pole, is labour enough on the trail. But Connie had two outfits of dogs, and no one to help. He was in a snow-buried wilderness, back-trailing from memory the route taken by the Bear Lake Indians who had guided him into the country. And not only was he compelled to do the work of four men on the trail, but his camp work was more than doubled. For Squigg had to be fed forcibly, and each morning he had to be lashed to the sled, where he lay all day, howling, and laughing, and shrieking. At night he had to be unloaded and tended like a baby, and then put to bed where he would laugh and scream, the whole night through or else lie and whimper and pule like a beast in pain.

On the fifth day they came suddenly upon the noon camp of the party from Fort Norman, and before Connie could recognize the big man in the uniform of an Inspector of the Mounted he was swung by strong arms clear of the ground. The next moment he was sobbing excitedly and pounding the shoulders of Big Dan McKeever with both his fists in an effort to break the bear-like embrace.

"Why, you doggone little tillicum!" roared the man, "I know'd you'd do it! Didn't I tell you, Mac? Didn't I tell you he'd out-guess 'em? An' he's got the evidence, too, I'll bet a dog! But, son—what's the matter? Gosh sakes! I never seen you cryin' before! Tell me quick, son—what's the matter?"

Connie, ashamed of the sobs that shook his whole body, smiled into the big man's face as he leaned heavily against his shoulder: "It's—nothing, Dan! Only—I've been five days and nights on the trail with—that!" He pointed toward the trussed figure upon the sled, just as a wild peal of the demoniacal laughter chilled the hearts of the listeners. "And—I'm worn out."

"For the love of Mike!" cried the big Inspector, after Connie lay asleep beside the fire. "Think of it, Mac! Five days an' five nights! An' two outfits!"

"I'm sayin' the lad's a man!" exclaimed the Scotchman, as he shuddered at an outburst of raving from Squigg. "But, why did he bring the other sled? He should have turned the dogs loose an' left it."

For answer McKeever walked over to Squiggs' sled and threw back the tarp. Then he pointed to its contents. "The evidence," he answered, proudly. "I knew he'd bring in the evidence."

"Thought they was two of 'em, son," said McKeever, hours later when they all sat down to supper. "Did the other one get away?"

The boy shook his head. "No, he didn't get away. Leloo, there, caught him. He couldn't get away from Leloo."

"Where is he?"

Connie glanced at the big officer curiously: "Do you know who the other one was?" he asked.

"No. Who was it?"

"Black Moran."

"Black Moran! What are you talkin' about! Black Moran was drowned in the Pelly Rapids!"

"No, he wasn't," answered the boy. "He managed to get to shore, and then he skipped to the other side of the mountains. The body they pulled out of the river was someone else."

"But—but, son," the big Inspector's eyes were serious, "if I had known it was him—Black Moran—he was the hardest man in the North—by all odds."

"Yes—I know," replied the boy, thoughtfully. "But, Dan, he PAID. His score is settled now. I forgot to tell you that when Leloo caught him—he cut him half in two."



CHAPTER XV

SETTING THE FOX TRAPS

After turning over the prisoner to Inspector McKeever, Connie Morgan and 'Merican Joe accompanied the men from Fort Norman back to the Indian village where they found that the party of hunters had succeeded in locating the caribou herd and had made a big kill, so that it had been unnecessary for the men to use any of the cached meat.

Preparation was at once started by the entire population to accompany McTavish back to the post for the mid-winter trading. In the Indian's leisurely method of doing things these preparations would take three or four days, so Pierre Bonnet Rouge, who seemed to be a sort of chief among them, dispatched some of his young men to haul in all the meat that the two partners had cached. Meanwhile, leaving Mr. Squigg at the village in the care of McTavish, Connie piloted Inspector McKeever to the little cabin of the free traders. For McKeever had known Black Moran over on the Yukon, and had spent much time in trying to run him down in the days before his reported drowning, and he desired to make absolutely sure of his ground before turning in his report upon the death of so notorious a character.

Connie had placed the man's body in the cabin, and as the two pushed open the door Dan McKeever stepped forward and raised the blanket with which the boy had covered it. The big officer stooped and peered into the face of the dead man. Finally, he rose to his feet with a nod: "Yes, that's Black Moran, all right. But, gosh, son! If I'd know'd it was him that you was up against over here, I wouldn't have been so easy in my mind. You sure done a big thing for the North when you got him."

"I didn't get him, Dan. It was Leloo that got him—look there!"

McKeever stooped again and breaking back the blood-soaked clothing examined the long deep gash that extended from the man's lower ribs to the point of his hip. Then he turned and eyed Leloo who stood looking on with blazing eyes, his great silver ruff a-quiver. "Some dog!" he exclaimed. "Or is he a dog? Look at them eyes—part dog, part wolf, an' mostly devil, I'd say. Look out, son, if he ever goes wrong. Black Moran looks like he'd be'n gashed with a butcher's cleaver! But, at that, you can't lay all the credit on the dog. He done his share all right, but the head work—figurin' out jest what Black Moran would do, an' jest what the dog would do, an' throwin' that chunk at jest the right second to make 'em do it—that's where the brains an' the nerve comes in——"

"It was mostly luck," interrupted Connie.

The big officer grinned. "Uh-huh," he grunted, "but I've noticed that if there's about two hundred per cent brains kind of mixed in with the luck, a man's got a better show of winnin' out in the long run—an' that's what you do."

"What will we do with him?" asked the boy after McKeever had finished photographing the body, and the wolf-dog, and Connie, and such of the surroundings as should be of interest in connection with his report.

"Well, believe me," answered the officer, "I ain't goin' to dig no grave for him in this frozen ground. We'll jest throw a platform together in that clump of trees, an' stick him up Injun fashion. I'd cremate him, like he was goin' to do to you, but he was so doggone tough I don't believe nothin' would burn but his whiskers, an' besides I don't want to burn the cabin. It's got a stove, an' it might save some poor fellow's life sometime."

The early winter darkness had fallen when the work was finished, and Connie and McKeever decided to wait until morning before striking out for the village.

After supper the big Inspector filled his pipe and glanced about the little room. "Seems like old times, son—us bein' on trail together. Don't you never feel a hankerin' to be back in the service? An' how comes it you're trappin' way over here? Did you an' Waseche Bill go broke? If you did, you've always got a job in the service, an' it beats trappin' at that."

Connie laughed. "You bet, Dan, if I ever need a job I'll hit straight for you. But the fact is Waseche and I have got a big thing over at Ten Bow—regular outfit, with steam point drills and a million dollars' worth of flumes and engines and buildings and things——"

"Then, what in time are you doin' over here trappin' with a Siwash?"

"Oh, just wanted to have a look at the country. I'll tell you, Dan, hanging around town gets on my nerves—even a town like Ten Bow. I like to be out in the open where a fellow has got room enough to take a good deep breath without getting it second-handed, and where you don't have to be bumping into someone every time you turn around. You know what I mean, Dan—a long trail that you don't know the end of. Northern lights in the night-sky. Valleys, and mountains, and rivers, and lakes that maybe no white man has ever seen before, and a good outfit of dogs—that's playing the game. You never know what's going to happen—and when it does happen it's always worth while, whether it's striking a colour, or bringing in hooch-runners."

The big Inspector nodded. "Sure, I know. There ain't nothin' that you know the end of that's worth doin'. It's always what lies jest beyond the next ridge, or across the next valley that a man wants to see. Mostly, when you get there you're disappointed—but suppose you are? There's always another ridge, or another valley, jest beyond. An' if you keep on goin' you're bound to find somethin' somewheres that's worth all the rest of the disappointments. And sometime, son, we're goin' to find the thing that's bigger, or stronger, or smarter than we are—an' then it'll get us. But that's where the fun comes in."

"That's it, exactly!" cried the boy his eyes shining, "and believe me, Dan—that's going to be some big adventure—there at the end of the last trail! It'll be worth all the others—just to be there!"

"Down in the cities, they don't think like we do. They'd ruther plug along—every day jest like the days that's past, an' jest like all the days that's comin'."

Connie interrupted him: "Down in the cities I don't care what they think! I've been in cities, and I hate 'em. I'm glad they don't think like we do, or they'd be up here plastering their houses, and factories, and stores all over our hills and valleys."

"Wonder who stuck this shack up here," smiled McKeever, glancing inquisitively around the room. "Looks like it had been here quite a while. You can see where Black Moran an' Squigg rammed in fresh chinkin'."

Connie nodded. "Some prospector or trapper, I guess. I wonder what became of him?"

McKeever shook his head. "Maybe McTavish would know. There's nothin' here that would tell. If he pulled out he took everything along but the stove, an' if he didn't the Injuns an' the Eskimos have carried off all the light truck. There was a fellow name of Dean—James Dean, got lost in this country along about six or seven years back. I was lookin' over the records the other day, an' run across the inquiry about him. That was long before my time in N Division. There was a note or two in the records where he'd come into the country a couple of years before he'd disappeared, an' had traded at Fort Norman an' at Wrigley. The last seen of him he left Fort Norman with some supplies—grub an' powder. He was prospectin' an' trappin'—an' no one ever seen him since. He was a good man, too—accordin' to reports. He wasn't no chechako."

"There you are!" exclaimed Connie, "just what we were talking about. I'd give a lot to know what happened at the end of his trail. I've seen the end of a lot of those trails—and always the signs told the story of the last big adventure. And always it was worth while. And, good or bad, it was always a man's game they played—and they came to a man's end."

"Gee, Dan, in cities men die in their beds!"

Upon the evening before the departure of the Indians who were to accompany McTavish and McKeever back to Fort Norman for the mid-winter trading, Connie Morgan, the factor, and the big officer sat in the cabin of Pierre Bonnet Rouge and talked of many things. The owner of the cabin stoked the fire and listened in silence to the talk, proud that the white men had honoured his house with their presence.

"You've be'n in this country quite a while, Mac," said Inspector McKeever, as he filled his pipe from a buckskin pouch. "You must have know'd something about a party name of James Dean. He's be'n reported missin' since six or seven years back."'

"Know'd him well," answered McTavish. "He was a good man, too. Except, maybe a leetle touched in the head about gold. Used to trap some, an' for a couple of years he come in twice a year for the tradin'. Then, one time he never come back. The Mounted made some inquiries a couple years later, but that's all I know'd. He had a cabin down in this country some place, but they couldn't find it—an' the Injuns didn't seem to know anything about him. Pierre, here, would know, if anyone did." He turned to the Indian and addressed him in jargon. "Kumtux Boston man nem James Dean?"

The Indian fidgeted uneasily, and glanced nervously, first toward one window and then the other. "S'pose memaloose," he answered shortly, and putting on his cap, abruptly left the room.

"Well, what do you think of that?" exclaimed McKeever. "Says he thinks he's dead, and then up an' beat it. The case might stand a little investigatin' yet. Looks to me like that Injun knew a whole lot more than he told."

McTavish shook his head. "No, Dan, I don't think ye're right. Leastways, not altogether. I've known this band of Indians for years. They're all right. And Pierre Bonnet Rouge is the best one of the lot. His actions were peculiar, but they were actions of fear, not of guilt or of a man trying to cover up guilty knowledge. He believes Dean is dead—and for some reason, he fears his ghost."

"The factor is right," agreed Connie. "There's some kind of a tamahnawus that he's afraid of—and somehow he believes it's connected with Dean."

McKeever nodded. "That's about the size of it. And when you run up against their superstitions, you might as well save your time as far as any investigatin' goes. I'd like to know what's on his mind, though."

"Maybe I'll run on to the end of his trail," said Connie. "It's a pretty cold trail by this time—but I might."

"Maybe you will, son," assented McKeever. "An' if you do, be sure to let me know. I'd kind of like to clean up the record."

Good-byes were said the following morning, and Connie and 'Merican Joe, their sleds piled high with caribou meat, pulled out for their little cabin where for the next three days they were busy freshening up their trap line, and resetting rabbit and lynx snares.

"Dat 'bout tam we start in to trap de fox, now," observed 'Merican Joe, as he and Connie finished skinning out the last of the martens that had been taken from the traps. "Dat de bes' kin' trappin'. De leetle fox she de smartes' of all de people, an' w'en you set de fox trap you never kin tell w'at you goin' git."

"Never can tell what you're going to get?" asked Connie. "Why, you're going to get a fox, if you're lucky, ain't you?"

"Yes—but de fox, she so many kin'. An' every kin' some differ'. De bes' fox of all, he is de black wan, den com' de black silver, an' de silver grey. Dem all fine fox, an' git de big price for de skin. Den com' de cross fox. Lots of kin' of cross fox. Firs' com' de black cross, den de dark cross, den de common cross, den de light cross. All de cross fox pret' good fox, too. Den com' de blue fox—dark blue, an' light blue. Den com' de red fox—bright red, an' light red, an' pale red—de pale red ain' no mooch good. She de wors' fox dere is. Even de white fox is better, an' de white fox is mor' differ' as all de fox. She de only fox w'at is good to eat, an' she de only fox w'at is easy to trap. She ain't got no sense. She walk right in de trap. But de res' of de fox she plent' hard to trap—she ain' goin' roun' where she git de man-scent. Dat why I hang de two pair of moccasins an' de mittens out on de cache, so she don' git no camp-scent on 'em."

The following morning 'Merican Joe took from the cache the dozen steel traps he had placed there when the platform was first built. Also he brought down the moccasins and mittens that had lain exposed to the air. Then, drawing on the mittens, he proceeded to cut into small chunks portions of the carcass of the bear which he placed in a bag of green caribou skin.

"Those traps look pretty small for foxes," opined Connie, as he reached to pick one up from the snow.

'Merican Joe pushed back his hand before it touched the trap. "Don't pick 'em up!" he cried, "Dey git de man-scent on 'em. W'at you t'ink I'm keep 'em out on de cache for? W'en you touch dem trap you got to put on de mitten lak I got—de mitten dat ain' be'n in de cabin. An' dem trap ain' too leetle. If you set de beeg trap for de fox, dat ain' no good. She git caught high up on de leg, an' de beeg spring bre'k de leg an den de leg freeze an' in wan hour de fox giv' de pull an' de leg twist off, an' de fox run away—an' nex' tam you bet you ain' ketch dat fox no mor'. Any fox she hard to ketch, but de t'ree legged fox she de hardes' t'ing in de worl' to trap—she too mooch smart. You got to git de trap jes right for de fox. You got to ketch 'em right in de pads where de foot is thick an' strong an' don' bust an' freeze. Den you hol' 'em good."

Slipping on the outside moccasins over their others, the two trappers struck out for a small lake they had passed on the caribou hunt—a lake that lay between the foot of a high ridge and the open tundra upon which they had struck the trail of the two caribou bulls. Connie carried the light rifle, and Leloo accompanied them, running free.

That night they camped comfortably upon the shore of the lake, with their blankets spread beneath a light fly. They slept late and it was long after sunrise the following morning when they started out with their traps. Fox tracks were numerous along the shore, some of them leading back onto the ridge, and others heading across the lake in the direction of the open tundra. Connie was beginning to wonder why 'Merican Joe did not set his traps, when the Indian paused and carefully scrutinized a long narrow point that jutted out into the lake. The irregularity of the surface of the snow showed that the point was rocky, and here and there along its edge a small clump of stunted willows rattled their dry branches in the breeze. The Indian seemed satisfied and, walking to the ridge, cut a stick some five or six feet long which he slipped through the ring of a trap, securing the ring to the middle of the stick. A few feet beyond one of the willow clumps, nearly at the end of the point, the Indian stooped, and with his ax cut a trench in the snow the length of the stick, and about eight or ten inches in depth. In this trench he placed the stick, and packed the snow over it. He now made a smaller trench the length of the trap chain, at the end of which he pressed the snow down with the back of his mitten until he had made a depression into which he could place the trap with its jaws set flat, so that the pan would lie some two inches below the level of the snow. From his bag he drew some needles which he carefully arranged so that they radiated from the pan to the jaws in such manner as would prevent snow from packing down and interfering with the springing of the trap. Then he broke out two pieces of snow-crust and, holding them over the depression which held the trap, rubbed them together until the trap was completely covered and the snow mounded slightly higher than the surrounding level. He then rubbed other pieces of crust over the trenches which held the clog, and the trap-chain. When that was finished he took from the bag a brush-broom, which he had made of light twigs as he walked along, and dusted the mounded snow lightly until the whole presented an unbroken surface, which would defy the sharpest-eyed fox to discover it had been tampered with. All this the Indian had done without moving from his tracks, and now from the bag he drew many pieces of bear meat which he tossed on to the snow close about the trap. Slowly, he backed away, being careful to set each snowshoe in its own track, and as he moved backward, he dusted the tracks full of snow with the brush-broom. For fifty or sixty feet he repeated this laborious operation, pausing now and then to toss a piece of meat upon the snow.

Connie surveyed the job with admiration. "No wonder you said foxes are hard to trap if you have to go to all that trouble to get 'em," smiled the boy.

"It ain' hard to do. It is, w'at you call careful. You mak' de trouble to be careful, you git de fox—you ain' mak' de trouble you ain' git no fox. Odder peoples you kin git mebbe-so, if you ain' so careful, but de fox, an' de wolf, you ain' git."

Leloo circled in from the ridge, and Connie called to him sharply. "Wish we hadn't brought him along," he said. "I'm afraid he'll get to smelling around the bait and get caught."

'Merican Joe shook his head. "No. Leloo, he ain' git caught. He too smart. He know w'at de bait for. He ain' goin' for smell dat bait. If de meat is 'live, an' run or fly, Leloo he grab him if he kin. If de meat dead Leloo he ain' goin' fool wit' dat meat. You feed him dead meat—me feed him dead meat—he eat it. But, if he fin' dead meat, he ain' eat it. He too mooch smart. He smart lak de wolf, an' he smart lak de dog, too."



CHAPTER XVI

THE VOICE FROM THE HILL

The shore of the lake was irregular, being a succession of rocky points between which narrow bays extended back to the foot of the ridge which grew higher and higher as the two progressed toward the upper end of the lake, where it terminated in a high hill upon the sides of which bold outcroppings of rock showed at intervals between thick patches of scrub timber.

It was well toward the middle of the afternoon when the two reached the head of the lake, a distance of some five or six miles from the starting point. All the steel traps had been set, and 'Merican Joe had constructed two deadfalls, which varied from those set for marten only by being more cunningly devised, and more carefully prepared.

"The other shore ain't so rough," said Connie, when the second deadfall was finished. "We can make better time going back."

'Merican Joe swept the flat, tundra-skirting eastern shore with a glance. "We ain' fool wit' dat shore. She too mooch no good for de fox. We go back to camp an' tomor' we hont de nudder lak!"

"Look, what's that?" exclaimed Connie pointing toward a rocky ledge that jutted from the hillside a few rods back from the lake. "It looks like a cache!"

'Merican Joe scrutinized the arrangement of weather-worn poles that supported a sagging platform, and with a non-committal grunt, led the way toward the ledge. The spot was reached after a short climb, and by ascending to another ledge close behind the first, the two were able to look down upon the platform, which was raised about eight feet from the floor of its rock-ledge.

"Funny bunch of stuff to cache!" exclaimed the boy. "I'll tell you what it is, there's a grave here. I've seen the Indians over on the Yukon put stuff out beside a grave. It's for the dead man to use in the Happy Hunting Ground."

The Indian shook his head. "No. Ain' no grave here."

"Maybe they buried him there beside the rock," ventured the boy.

"No. Injun ain' bury lak' white man. If de man ees here, she would be on de rocks, lak de cache. Injun lay de dead man on de rock an' mak' de leetle pole house for um."

"Well, what in thunder would anyone want to cache that stuff 'way out here for? Look, there's a blanket, and it's been here so long it's about rotted to pieces, and a pipe, and moccasins, and there's the stock of a rifle sticking out beneath the blanket—those things have been there a long time—a year or two at least. But there's grub there, too. And the grub is fresh—it hasn't been there more than a month."