'Merican Joe was silent, and as the boy turned toward him, he caught him glancing furtively over his shoulder toward the dark patches of timber that blotched the hillside. "I ain' lak dis place. She no good," he muttered, as he caught the boy's glance.

"What's the matter with it?" smiled Connie. "What do you make of it?"

For answer, 'Merican Joe turned abruptly and descended to the shore of the lake. At the extremity of a rocky point that afforded a sweeping view of the great hillside, he stopped and waited for Connie to join him. "Dis place, she ain' no good," he reiterated, solemnly.

"What's the matter with it?" repeated the boy. "You said all along, until we came across that cache, that it was a dandy lake to trap foxes on."

"Good for fox, mebbe—but no good for Injun. Me—I'm t'ink I'm pull up dem trap, an' fin' som' nudder place."

"Pull up nothing!" cried the boy. "After all that work setting them? Buck up! What's the matter with you anyhow?"

"Dat cache—she lak you say—lak de grave cache. But dey ain' no grave! Dat mus' got to be de tamahnawus cache!"

"Tamahnawus cache!" laughed the boy. "Tamahnawuses don't make caches. And besides there ain't any tamahnawuses! Don't you remember the other tamahnawus—that turned out to be a man in a moose hide? I've heard a lot about 'em—but I never saw one yet."

'Merican Joe regarded the boy gravely. "Dat better you don't see no tamahnawus, neider. You say, 'ain' no tamahnawus, 'cos I ain' see none'. Tell me, is dere any God?"

"Why, yes, of course there's a God," answered the boy, quickly.

The Indian regarded him gravely. "Me—I ain' say, 'ain' no God 'cos I ain' see none'. I say, dat better I ain' mak' dat white man God mad. But, jus' de same, I ain' goin' mak' no tamahnawus mad, neider."

"All right," smiled Connie. "We won't make him mad, but I'm going to find out about that tamahnawus—you wait and see. I wonder who built that cache?"

"Dat Dog Rib cache," promptly answered the Indian.

"Probably the Injuns up at the village will know about it. They'll be back from Fort Norman in a few days, and I'll ask Pierre Bonnet Rouge."

Avoiding the rough shore, the two struck out for camp down the middle of the ice-locked lake where the wind-packed snow gave excellent footing. The air was still and keen, the sky cloudless, and Connie watched the sun set in a blaze of gold behind the snow-capped ridge to the westward. Suddenly both halted in their tracks and glanced into each other's faces. From far behind them, seemingly from the crest of the hill they had left, sounded a cry: "Y-i-i-e-e-o-o-o!" Long-drawn, thin, quavering, it cut the keen air with startling distinctness. Then, as abruptly as it had started, it ceased, and the two stood staring. Swiftly Connie's glance sought the bald crest of the hill that showed distinctly above the topmost patches of timber, as it caught the last rays of the setting sun. But the hill showed only an unbroken sky-line, and in the dead silence of the barrens the boy waited tensely for a repetition of the wild cry. And as he waited he was conscious of an uncomfortable prickling at the roots of his hair, for never had he heard the like of that peculiar wailing cry, a cry that the boy knew had issued from the throat of no wild animal—a wild cry and eerie in its loud-screamed beginning, but that sounded half-human as it trailed off in what seemed a moan of quavering despair.

The cry was not repeated and Connie glanced into the face of 'Merican Joe who stood with sagging jaw, the picture of abject fear. With an effort, the boy spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, for he well knew that it would never do to let the Indian see that his own nerve had been momentarily shaken:

"Someone lost up in the hills, I guess. We'd better go hunt him up."

The Indian's eyes stared wide with terror, his lips moved stiffly and the words rasped huskily: "Tamahnawus! She git dark. We git to camp. Mak' de big fire. Tamahnawus she no lak' de fire." And without waiting for a reply, he struck off down the lake as fast as his snowshoes would let him. And Connie followed, knowing that in the approaching darkness nothing could be done toward clearing up the mystery of that loud-drawn wail.

That night the boy slept fitfully, and each time he awoke it was to see 'Merican Joe seated close beside the huge fire which he kept blazing high all the night through. Breakfast was finished just as the first grey light of dawn showed the outlines of the ridge. 'Merican Joe watched in silence as Connie made the remaining grub into a pack. "Take down the fly," ordered the boy, and the Indian obeyed with alacrity. Folding the fly, he added the blankets to the pack, fastened on his snowshoes and struck out toward the north-west.

"Here, where you going?" cried Connie.

The Indian paused. "Goin' back to de cabin, jus' so fas' lak I kin."

"No you ain't," laughed the boy. "You're going with me, and we're going to find out all about who, or what made that racket last night."

"No, no, no! I ain' got to fin' dat out! Me—I know!"

"You don't know a thing about it. Listen here. That sound came from that high hill, didn't it?"

The Indian glanced fearfully toward the hill, the outline of which was just visible at the head of the lake, and nodded.

"Well, we're going to circle that hill. There has been no fresh snow for ten days or two weeks, and if we circle the base of it we'll strike the trail of whoever is on the hill. Then we can follow the trail."

"I ain' want no trail! Tamahnawus she don' mak' no trail. Dat hill she b'long to tamahnawus. I ain' want dat hill. Plent' mor' hill for me. An' plent' mor' lak' to trap de fox. An' besides, we ain' got nuff grub. We got to git back."

"We've got enough grub for today and tomorrow if we go light on it. It won't take us long when we strike the trail to follow it up on to the hill. Come on, buck up! There may be someone up there that needs help—maybe someone that is in the same fix you were when I found you back on Spur Mountain."

"Ain't no one up dere. I ain' hang roun' on Spur Mountain an' yell lak tamahnawus. Me—I'm too mooch dead."

"Come on. Are you going with me?"

The Indian hesitated. "If we go roun' de hill an' ain' fin' no track, den we hit for de cabin?" he asked, shrewdly.

"Yes," answered the boy, confident that they would strike the trail by circling the hill, "if we don't strike the trail of whoever or whatever made that sound, we'll hit back to the cabin."

"All right, me—I'm go 'long—but we ain' strike no trail. Tamahnawus don' mak' no trail." Connie struck out with the Indian following, and as they reached the summit of the ridge that paralleled the shore of the lake, the sun showed his yellow rim over a distant spruce swamp, and at the same instant, far away—from the direction of the hill, came once more the long-drawn quavering yell. 'Merican Joe whirled at the sound and started out over the back trail, and it required a full fifteen minutes of persuasion, ridicule, entreaty, and threat before he reluctantly returned and fell in behind Connie.

At the base of the hill, the boy suggested that they separate and each follow its base in opposite directions, pointing out that much time could be saved, as the hill, which was of mountainous proportions, seemed likely to have a base contour of eight or ten miles. But 'Merican Joe flatly refused. He would accompany Connie, as he had agreed to, but not one foot would he go without the boy. All the way up the ridge, he had followed so closely that more than once he had stepped on the tails of Connie's snowshoes, and twice, when the boy had halted suddenly to catch some fancied sound, he had bumped into him.

It was nearly sundown when the two stood at the intersection of their own trail after having made the complete circuit of the hill. Fox tracks they had found, also the tracks of wolves, and rabbits, and of an occasional loup cervier—and nothing more. Connie had examined every foot of the ground carefully, and at intervals had halted and yelled at the top of his lungs—had even persuaded 'Merican Joe to launch forth his own peculiarly penetrating call, but their only answer was the dead, sphinx-like silence of the barrens.

"Com' on," urged 'Merican Joe, with a furtive glance into a nearby thicket. "Me—I got nuff. I know we ain' goin' fin' no track. Tamahnawus don' mak' no track."

"Tamahnawus, nothing!" exclaimed Connie, impatiently. "I tell you there ain't any such thing. If we had grub enough I'd stay right here till I found out where that yell comes from. There's no sign of a camp on the hill, and no one has gone up or come down since this snow fell. There's something funny about the whole business, and you bet I'm going to find out what it is."

"You say we no fin' de track, we go back to de cabin," reminded the Indian.

"Yes, and we will go back. And then we'll load up a sled-load of grub, and we'll hit right back here and stay till we get at the bottom of this. The sun will drop out of sight in a minute, and then I think we'll hear it again. We heard it last evening at sundown, and at sunrise this morning."

"I ain' wan' to hear it no mor'," 'Merican Joe announced uneasily. "Dat ain' no good to hear."

Extending upward clear to the crest of the hill, directly above where the two stood, was an area half a mile wide upon which no timber grew. Here and there a jumbled outcropping of rock broke the long smooth sweep of snow upon which the last rays of the setting sun were reflected with dazzling brightness. As Connie waited expectantly he was conscious of a tenseness of nerves, that manifested itself in a clenching of his fists, and the tight-pressing of his lips. His eyes swept the long up-slanting spread of snow, and even as he looked he heard 'Merican Joe give a startled grunt, and there before them on the snow beside an outcropping of rocks not more than three hundred yards from them, a beautiful black fox stood clean-cut against the white background, and daintily sniffed the air. Connie's surprise was no less than the Indian's for he knew that scarcely a second had passed since his eyes had swept that exact spot—and there had been no fox there.

The sunlight played only upon the upper third of the long slope now, and the fox lifted his delicately pointed muzzle upward as if to catch some fleeting scent upon the almost motionless air. Then came that awful cry, rising in a high thin scream, and trailing off as before in a quavering wail of despair.

As Connie stared in amazement at the black fox, there was a swift scratching of claws, and a shower of dry snow flew up, as Leloo like a great silver flash, launched himself up the slope. For a fraction of a second the boy's glance rested upon the flying grey shape and once more it sought the fox—but there was no fox there, only the low rock-ledge outcropping through the snow. Instantly the boy sprang after Leloo, disregarding the inarticulate protest of 'Merican Joe, who laboured heavily along in his wake, hesitating between two fears, the fear of being left alone, and the fear of visiting the spot at which had appeared the fox with the voice of a man.

As Connie reached the rock-ledge he stopped abruptly and stared in surprise at Leloo. The great wolf-dog's nose quivered, and his yellow eyes were fixed with a peculiar glare upon a small irregular hole beneath a projecting lip of rock—a hole just big enough to admit the body of the fox. Even as the boy looked, the long hairs of Leloo's great ruff stiffened, and stood quiveringly erect, a low growl rumbled deep in the dog's throat, and with a curious tense stiffness of movement, he began to back slowly from the hole. Never for an instant did the low throaty growl cease, nor did the fixed yellow eyes leave the black aperture. Not until he had backed a full twenty feet from the hole did the dog's tense muscles relax and then his huge brush of a tail drooped, the hair of his ruff flattened, and he turned and trotted down the back trail, pausing only once to cast a hang-dog glance up the slope.

Connie was conscious of a strange chill at the pit of his stomach. Why had Leloo, the very embodiment of savage courage, backed away from that hole with every muscle tense, and why had he hit the back trail displaying every evidence of abject terror? The boy had seen him run foxes to earth before, and he had never acted like that. He had always torn at the edges of the hole with fang and claw. A hundred times more terrifying than even the fox with the strange human cry, was the action of the wolf-dog. Without moving from his tracks, the boy examined the rock-ledge. It was probably twenty feet in length, and not more than four or five feet high, and he saw at a glance that the small irregular hole was the only aperture in the mass of solid rock. His eyes swept the surrounding hillside but with the exception of numerous fox tracks that led to and from the hole, the surface of the snow was unbroken.

The sunlight had disappeared from the crest of the hill. On the lower levels the fast deepening twilight was rendering objects indistinguishable, when Connie turned to 'Merican Joe, who presented a pitiable picture of terror. "Let's go," he said, shortly. "We'll have a moon tonight. We can travel till we get tired."

And 'Merican Joe without waiting for a second invitation struck off down the hill after Leloo, at a pace that Connie found hard to follow.



CHAPTER XVII

THE-LAKE-OF-THE-FOX-THAT-YELLS

Leaving 'Merican Joe to look after the line of marten and mink traps, Connie Morgan struck out from the little cabin and headed for the Indian village. Straight to the cabin of Pierre Bonnet Rouge he went and was welcomed by the Indian with the respect that only the real sourdough ever commands in the Indians of the North. For Pierre knew of his own knowledge of the boy's outwitting the hooch-runners, and he had listened in the evenings upon the trail to Fort Norman, while big Dan McKeever recounted to McTavish, as he never tired of doing, the adventures of Connie in the Mounted.

After supper, which the two ate in silence, while the squaw of Bonnet Rouge served them, they drew up their chairs to the stove. The boy asked questions as to the success of the trading, the news of the river country, and prospects for a good spring catch. Then the talk drifted to fox trapping, and Connie told the Indian that he and 'Merican Joe had set some traps on the lake a day's journey to the south-eastward. Pierre Bonnet listened attentively, but by not so much as the flicker of an eyelash did he betray the fact that he had ever heard of the lake. Finally, the boy asked him, point-blank, if he had ever been there. Connie knew something of Indians, and, had been quick to note that Pierre held him in regard. Had this not been so, he would never have risked the direct question, for it is only by devious and round-about methods that one obtains desired information from his red brother.

Pierre puffed his pipe in silence for an interminable time, then he nodded slowly: "Yes," he answered, "I be'n dere."

"What is the name of that lake?"

"Long tam ago nem 'Hill Lak'. Now, Injun call um 'Lak'-of-de-Fox-Dat-Yell'."

"You have seen him, too—the fox that yells?" asked the boy, eagerly.

"Yes. I kill um two tam—an' he com' back."

"Came back!" cried the boy. "What do you mean?"

"He com' back—an' yell w'en de sun com' up. An' w'en de sun go down he yell on de side of de hill."

"But surely he couldn't yell after you'd killed him. You must have killed the wrong fox."

"No. Wan tam I trap um, an' wan tam I shoot um—an' he com' back an' yell."

"Where did you trap him? At the hole that goes under the rocks?"

"No. Wan tam I trap um on de shore of de lak'. An' wan tam I watch um com' out de hole an' shoot um."

"But the one you trapped—how do you know that it was the same one? There's lots of foxes over there."

"Yes, I trap odder wans, too. Kin tell de fox dat yell. He wear de collar."

"Wears a collar!" cried the boy. "What do you mean? Are you crazy?"

"No. He tamahnawus fox. He wear de collar."

"What kind of a collar?"

"Ermine skin collar—always he got it on."

"Look here," exclaimed Connie, shortly. "Are you lying to me? Do you expect me to sit here and believe any such rot as that? Did you save the collars? I want to look at 'em."

"De collar, an de skin, dey on de cache at de end of dat lak'."

"What do you leave the black fox skins out there for, they're worth a lot?"

The Indian shrugged. "I ain' want for mak' de tamahnawus mad. I put de skin an' de collar under de blankets on de cache."

"Are they there now?"

The Indian shrugged. "I ain' know dat. Mebbe-so tamahnawus fox com' an' git he's skin an' he's leetle w'ite collar an' wear um agin."

"But you've been to the cache lately. There was grub on it that hadn't been there more than a month at the most."

"Yes. I got bad luck w'en I kill dem fox, so I build de cache an' mak' de tamahnawus de present. All de tam I tak' mor' grub, an' now I ain' got de bad luck."

For a long time Connie was silent as he went over in his mind step by step the happenings at the lake where 'Merican Joe had set the fox traps. Then he thought over what Pierre Bonnet Rouge had told him, but instead of clearing things up, the Indian's words had only served to deepen the mystery of the fox that yelled like a man. Suddenly the boy remembered the action of Pierre when McTavish had asked him if he knew anything about James Dean, the missing prospector. He glanced at the Indian who was puffing his pipe in silence, and decided to risk another direct question although he knew that in all probability Pierre Bonnet Rouge would relapse into a stubborn muteness; for in matters touching upon his superstitions, the Indian is a man of profound silence. "I won't be any worse off than I am, now," thought the boy, "if he don't say another word—so here goes." He addressed the Indian gravely.

"Pierre," he began, watching the man narrowly to note the effect of his words, "you know I am a friend of yours, and a friend of the Indians. I gave them meat, and I saved them from being robbed by the hooch-runners." The Indian nodded, and Connie felt encouraged to proceed. "Now, I believe there is something else beside a tamahnawus down there at Hill Lake. And I'm going back there and find out what it is."

Pierre Bonnet Rouge shook his head emphatically. "No. I ain' goin' 'long. I w'at you call, learn lesson for fool wit' tamahnawus."

"That's all right. I won't ask you to go. I am not afraid of the tamahnawus. If 'Merican Joe won't go with me, I'll go alone. I want you to tell me, though, what became of James Dean? Is he mixed up in this?"

The Indian smoked without answering for so long a time that the boy feared that he would never speak, but after a while he removed the pipe from his mouth and regarded the boy sombrely. "You skookum tillicum," he began, gravely. "I ain' lak I see you mak' de tamahnawus mad. De tamahnawus, she mor' skookum as you. She git you. I tell you all I know 'bout dat tamahnawus. Den, if you goin' back to de lak—" he paused and shrugged meaningly, and turning to the squaw, who had finished washing the supper dishes, he motioned with his hand, and the woman threw a brilliant red shawl over her head and passed out the door.

Pierre Bonnet Rouge refilled his pipe, and hunching his chair closer to Connie, leaned toward him and spoke in a low tone. "She start long tam ago—six, seven year. We camp on de Blackwater. Wan tam in de winter, me, an' Ton-Kan, an' John Pickles, we go on de beeg caribou hunt. We swing up by de beeg lak' an' by-m-by we com' on de cabin. She w'ite man cabin, an' no wan hom', but de fresh track lead sout'. Ton-Kan, he t'ink de man got de hooch to trade an' he want som' hooch, an' John Pickles too—so we fol' de track. By-m-by we com' to Hill Lak', an' de man she got de leetle camp by de hill. He ain' got no hooch. We got som' fox trap 'long, so we mak' de camp. Plent' fox track roun' de lak', an' we say tomor' we set de trap. Dat night com' de man to de camp. Say, 'nem James Dean.' Say, 'w'at you Injun goin' do?' I say, 'we goin' trap de fox. He ain' lak dat. By-m-by he say, 'you got look out. De tamahnawus fox here. She talk lak de man.' I ain' b'lieve dat. I t'ink he say dat 'cos he wan' to trap de fox. But Ton-Kan an' John Pickles git scare. I say, 'de tamahnawus ain' git you, he mebbe-so ain' git me, neider.' He say, 'me—I got de strong medicine. De tamahnawus she know me. She do lak I say.' I ain' b'lieve dat, an' he say, 'You wait, I show you. I go back to my camp an' mak de medicine an' I tell de tamahnawus to burn de snow out on de lak'.' He go back to he's camp an' Ton-Kan an' John Pickles is ver' mooch scare. De night she ver' black. Wan tam I t'ink I hear som' wan walk out on de lak', but I ain' sure an' Ton-Kan say dat tamahnawus. Den he point out on de lak' an' I kin see leetle fire lak' de eye of de fox in de dark. Den she mak de leetle spark, an' she move 'long ver slow. I laugh an' I say, 'Dat James Dean out dere, she mak de fire to scare Injun.' Den rat behine me som' wan laugh, an' stands James Dean, an' he say, 'No, James Dean is here. Dat de tamahnawus out on de lak'. He burn de snow, lak I tell um.' I say, 'Mebbe-so, de piece of rope burn lak dat.' An' he say, 'No, dat ain' no rope. Dat tamahnawus burn de snow. You t'ink you smart Injun—but I show you. If dat is rope she goin' out pret' queek, ain' it? She can't mak' de big fire?' I say, 'No, rope can't mak' no big fire.' 'A'right,' he say, 'I tell de tamahnawus to mak' de beeg fire dat mak' de lak' all light.' Den he yell at de tamahnawus. He say, 'Mak' de beeg fire! Mak' de beeg fire!' But she ain' mak' no beeg fire, an' de leetle fire crawl slow out on de snow, an' I laugh on heem. He say, 'De tamahnawus ain' hear dat. I got yell louder.' So he yell louder, 'Mak' de beeg fire! Mak' de beeg fire!' An den." Pierre Bonnet Rouge paused and shuddered. "An' den de beeg fire com'! So queek—so beeg you kin see de trees. An' den she all dark, so black you can't see nuttin'. An' James Dean laugh. An' Ton-Kan, she so scare she howl lak' de dog. An' John Pickles, she try to dig de hole in de snow an' crawl in. An' me—I'm so scare I can't talk.

"Nex' mornin' w'en she git light nuff to see we go 'way from dat lak' jes' so fas lak we kin, an' we ain' stop till we git to de Blackwater." Pierre Bonnet Rouge lapsed into silence, and at length Connie asked:

"But the cache? And the foxes that wore the collars?"

"Nex' year I hunt caribou agin, but I ain' go by Hill lak', you bet. Young Injun 'long nem Clawhammer, an' we swing roun' by de beeg lak' an' com' by de cabin. Lots of tracks, but I ain' see James Dean tracks. By-m-by, we com' on de camp of 'bout ten Innuit. Dey mak' de track by de cabin, an' dey got all de stuff out. I ain' see James Dean. S'pose James Dean dead. He los' de medicine, an' de tamahnawus git um.

"So I keep way from Hill Lak'. T'ree, four year go by, an' de fox trappin' is bad. I ain' so mooch fraid of tamahnawus no mor' an' I t'ink 'bout dem plent' fox tracks on Hill Lak' so me an' Clawhammer we go dere. We set 'bout twent' traps de firs' day. Never see so many fox track. We set um by de hill. We git t'rough early an' set up de tent on de shore of de lak'. She almos' sundown an' I look up de hill an' rat beside wan leetle rock-ledge, I see wan fine black fox. I grab de gun, an' tak' de res' on de sled, an' den I hear de yell! It soun' lak' wan man w'at is los'! But it com' from de fox! I shoot queek, an' de fox com' roll down de hill! Clawhammer he run an' git um, an' den we see it—de collar of ermine skin! Den I know dat de tamahnawus fox James Dean say talk lak' de man, an' I ver' mooch scare. I ain' tell Clawhammer 'bout James Dean, an' he t'ink som' wan git los' mak' de yell. He ain' see it com' from de fox. I look on dat leetle fox, an' I see he ver' dead. But no blood. De fur jes' scratch' cross de back of de head—but, she ver' dead—I look good.

"Clawhammer he wan' to skin dat fox, but I don' know w'at to do. If de Injun kill de fox, he mus' got to skin um. Dat bad to waste de fox. Sah-ha-lee Tyee don' want de Injun to waste de peoples. I got to t'ink 'bout dat an' so I lay de fox behine de tent an' mak' de supper. After supper I t'ink long tam. Tamahnawus, she bad spirit. Sah-ha-lee Tyee, she good spirit. If I skin de fox, tamahnawus git mad on me. If I ain' skin de fox, Sah-ha-lee Tyee git mad on me. I ain' know w'at to do. I t'ink som' mor'. By-m-by I t'ink dat bes to skin de fox. I ain' know where Sah-ha-lee Tyee liv'. If I mak' um mad I ain' kin giv' um no present. Better I mak' tamahnawus mad cos he liv' rat here, an' if I mak' um mad I kin give um de present an' mebbe-so he ain' stay mad on me. So, I go behine de tent to git de fox. But, de fox, she gon'! An' de track show she gon' back up de hill, an' I ver' mooch scare—cos she was dead!

"In de morning Clawhammer say he look at de traps to de wes', an' swing on roun' de hill to fin' de track of de man w'at git los' an' yell. I ain' say nuttin', an' he start ver' early. I go look at de traps down de lak', an' w'en de sun com' up, I hear de yell agin! An' I ver' mooch scare, cos I'm fraid de tamahnawus mad on me for kill de fox w'at yell lak de man. So I go back, an' I skin two fox w'at I ketch in de trap. Clawhammer ain' back, so I go an' build de cache. An' I put my blankets an' rifle on it, an' plenty grub, for de present to tamahnawus. Clawhammer com' 'long an' he say he ain' fin' no track. He begin to git scare 'bout dat yell, w'en he don' fin' de track. So he show me wan fox what he took from de trap. It is de black fox wit' de ermine collar! Clawhammer ver' mooch scare now. He wan' to run away. But I tell um we got to skin dat fox. If we don' skin um, we goin' to mak' Sah-ha-lee Tyee ver' mad. Tamahnawus he ver' mad anyhow; so we mak' him de present, an' we skin de fox, an' put de skin an' de collar on de cache too. Den mebbe-so tamahnawus ain' so mad w'en he git de guns an' de blankets, an' de fox skin back. So we go 'way from dat lak' ver' fas'.

"Dat day I bre'k my leg. An' nex' day Clawhammer's tepee burn up. So we git bad luck. Den de bad luck go 'way, cos tamahnawus fin' dat cache, an' he ain' so mad. But every tam de leetle moon com' I tak' som' mor' grub to de cache. An' so, I keep de luck good."

"And do you think it's still there on the cache—the fox skin and the collar?"

The Indian shrugged. "I ain' know 'bout dat. Mebbe-so de tamahnawus fox com' an' git he's skin. 'Bout wan year ago Bear Lake Injun, nem Peter Burntwood, trap wan fox way up on de beeg lak'. She black fox, an' she got de collar of ermine skin. Me—I'm over to Fort Norman w'en he bring in de skin an' de collar, an' trade de skin to McTavish."

"What did McTavish make of it?" asked Connie eagerly.

"He ain' b'lieve dat. He t'ink Peter Burntwood mak' dat collar to fool um. He say Peter Burntwood lak too mooch to tell de beeg lie."

"But didn't you tell McTavish about the fox you shot, and the one you trapped with the collar on?"

"No. I ain' say nuttin'. Dat hurt too mooch to bre'k de leg. I ain' want dat tamahnawus mad on me no mor'."

Connie was silent for a long time as he racked his brain for some reasonable explanation of the Indian's strange story, pieced out by what he, himself, had actually seen and heard at the lake. But no explanation presented itself and finally he shook his head.

"W'at you t'ink 'bout dat?" asked Pierre Bonnet Rouge, who had been watching the boy narrowly.

"I don't know. There's something back of it all—but I can't seem to figure what it is. I'm going back to that lake, though, and I'm going to stay there till I do know."

The Indian shook his head forebodingly. "Dat better you keep way from dat lak'. She no good. James Dean he fool wit de tamahnawus. An' he hav' de strong medicine to mak' de tamahnawus do lak' he tell um. But de tamahnawus git James Dean. An' he git you—too."

Connie waited for two days after 'Merican Joe returned from the trap line before he even mentioned returning to The-Lake-of-the-Fox-That-Yells, as the Indians had renamed Hill Lake. Then, one evening he began to make up a pack for the trail.

"Were you goin'?" asked 'Merican Joe, eying the preparations with disapproval.

"It's about time we went down and looked at those fox traps, isn't it?" he asked casually. "And we ought to get some more out."

The Indian shook his head. "Me—I'm lak' dat better we let de tamahnawus hav' dem fox trap. We go on som' nudder lak' an' set mor'."

"Look here!" ripped out the boy, angrily, "if you're afraid to go you can stay here and snare rabbits like a squaw! I ain't afraid of your tamahnawus, and I'll go alone! And I'll stay till I find out what all this business is about—and then I'll come back and laugh at you, and at Pierre Bonnet Rouge, too. You're a couple of old women!" 'Merican Joe made no answer, and after puttering a bit he went to bed.

When Connie awakened, before daylight the following morning, the fire was burning brightly in the stove, and 'Merican Joe, dressed for the trail, was setting the breakfast table. Connie drew on his clothing and noticing that the pack he had thrown together the night before was missing, stepped to the door. A pack of double the size was lashed to the sled, and the boy turned to 'Merican Joe with a grin: "Decide to take a chance?" he asked.

The Indian set a plate of beans on the table and looked into the boy's eyes. "Me—I'm t'ink you too mooch skookum. Wan tam on Spur Mountain, I say you good man, an' I say 'Merican Joe, she good man, too. But she ain' so good man lak you. She scare for tamahnawus mor' as anyt'ing on de worl'. Rat now I'm so scare—me—dat de knees shivver, an' de hair com's from de head an' crawl up an' down de back an' de feet is col' lak de piece of ice, an' de belly is sick lak I ain' got nuttin' to eat in my life. But, I'm goin' 'long, an' I stan' rat beside you all de tam, an' w'en de tamahnawus git Connie Mo'gan, by Goss! she got to git 'Merican Joe, too!"

The boy stepped to the Indian's side and snatched his hand into both his own. "'Merican Joe," he cried, in a voice that was not quite steady, "you're a brick! You're the best doggone Injun that ever lived!"

"Me—I'm de scarest Injun ever liv'. I bet I lak she was nex' week, an' I was t'ousan' miles 'way from here."

"You're braver than I am," laughed the boy; "it's nothing for me to go, because I'm not scared, but you're scared stiff—and you're going anyway."

"Humph," grinned the Indian, "I ain' know w'at you mean—you say, if you scare, you brave—an' if you ain' scare, you ain' so brave. By Goss! I lak dat better if I ain' so mooch brave, den—an' ain' so mooch scare neider."

Travelling heavy, darkness overtook them some six or eight miles from their destination, and they camped. The sun was an hour high next morning when they pushed out on to the snow-covered ice and headed for the high hill at the end of the lake. 'Merican Joe agreed to look at the traps on the way up while Connie held the dogs to a course parallel to the shore. As the Indian was about to strike out he pointed excitedly toward the point where he had made the first set. Connie looked, and there, jumping about on the snow, with his foot in the trap was a beautiful black fox! It is a sight that thrills your trapper to the marrow, for here is the most valuable skin that it is possible for him to take, and forgetting for the moment his fear of the lake, 'Merican Joe struck off across the snow. A few moments later he halted, stared at the fox, and turning walked slowly back to the sled.

"Mebbe-so dat fox is de fox dat yell lak' de man. She black fox, too. Me—I'm 'fraid to tak' dat fox out de trap. I'm 'fraid she talk to me! An' by Goss! She say jus' wan word to me, I git so scare I die!"

Connie laughed. "Here, you take the dogs and I'll look at the traps. I remember where they all are, and I'll take out the foxes. But you will have to reset the traps, later."

As Connie approached, the fox jerked and tugged at the chain in an effort to free himself from the trap, but he was fairly caught and the jaws held. Connie drew his belt ax, for 'Merican Joe had explained that the fox is too large and lively an animal to be held with the bow of the snowshoe like the marten, while the trapper feels for his heart. He must be stunned by a sharp blow on the nose with the helve of the ax, after which it is an easy matter to pull his heart. As he was about to strike, the boy straightened up and stared at a small white band that encircled the neck of the fox. It was a collar of ermine skin! And as he continued to stare, little prickly chills shot up and down his spine. For a moment he stood irresolute, and then, pulling himself together, he struck. A moment later the fox's heart-strings snapped at the pull, and the boy released the foot from the trap, and holding the animal in his hands, examined the ermine collar. It was nearly an inch wide, of untanned skin, and was tied at the throat. "No Injun ever tied that knot," muttered the boy, "and there's no use scaring 'Merican Joe any more than necessary," he added, as with his sheath knife he cut the collar and placed it carefully in his pocket, and carrying the fox, proceeded up the shore.

In the fifth trap was another black fox. And again the boy stared at the ermine skin collar that encircled the animal's neck. He removed this collar and placed it with the first. 'Merican Joe was a half-mile out on the lake, plodding along at the head of the dogs. The two foxes were heavy, and Connie decided to carry them to the sled.

'Merican Joe stared, wide-eyed, at the catch. "Did dey talk?" he asked, huskily. And when Connie had assured him that they had not, the Indian continued to stare.

"Dat funny we git two black fox. De black fox, he ain' so many. You trap wan all winter, you done good. We got two, sam' day. I ain' never hear 'bout dat before!"

"I knew this was a good lake for foxes," smiled the boy. 'Merican Joe nodded, sombrely. "Som't'ing wrong. Dat lak' she too mooch good for fox. Som' t'ing wrong."

The twelfth trap yielded another black fox, and another ermine collar, and as the boy removed it from the animal's neck he gave way to an expression of anger. "What in thunder is the meaning of this? Who is out here in the hills tying ermine collars on black foxes—and why? The most valuable skin in the North—and some fool catches them and ties a collar on them, and turns them loose! And how does he catch them? They've never been trapped before! And how does it come there are so many of them and they are so easy to trap?" He gave it up, and returned to the sled, to show the astounded 'Merican Joe the third black fox. But the Indian took no joy in the catch, and all the time they were setting up the tent in the shelter of a thicket at the foot of the high hill, he maintained a brooding silence.

"While you skin the foxes, I guess I'll slip over and have another look at that cache," said the boy, when they had eaten their luncheon.

"You sure git back, pret' queek?" asked the Indian, "I ain' want to be here 'lone w'en de sun go down. I ain' want to hear dat yell."

"Oh, I'll be back long before sundown," assured Connie. "That yell is just what I do want to hear."

At the cache he raised the rotting blanket and peered beneath it and there, as Pierre Bonnet Rouge had told him, was a black fox skin, and its ermine collar. The boy examined the collar. It was an exact counterpart of the three he had in his pocket. He replaced the blanket and walked slowly back to camp, pondering deeply the mystery of the collars, but the more he thought, the more mysterious it seemed.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE MAN IN THE CAVE

It was late afternoon when 'Merican Joe finished skinning the three foxes and stretching the pelts. As the sun approached the horizon Connie seated himself upon the sled at a point that gave him a clear view of the rock-ledge on the hillside. 'Merican Joe went into the tent and seated himself on his blankets, where he cowered with his thumbs in his ears.

The lower levels were in the shadows, now, and the sunlight was creeping slowly up the hill. Suddenly, from the rock-ledge appeared a black fox. Connie wondered if he, too, wore an ermine skin collar. The fox sniffed the air and trotted off along the hillside, where he disappeared behind a patch of scrub. Again the boy's eyes sought the ledge, another fox was trotting away and still another stood beside the rock. Then it came—the wild quavering yell for which the boy waited. The third fox trotted away as the yell came to its wailing termination, and Connie leaped from the sled. "It's just as I thought!" he cried, excitedly. "The fox never gave that yell!" The boy had expected to find just that, nevertheless, the actual discovery of it thrilled him with excitement.

The head of 'Merican Joe peered cautiously from the tent. "Who giv' um den?" he asked in fear and trembling.

"The man that's at the bottom of that fox-hole," answered the boy, impressively, "and if I'm not mistaken, his name is James Dean."

The Indian stared at the boy as though he thought he had taken leave of his senses. "W'at you mean—de bottom of de fox-hole?" he asked "Dat hole so leetle small dat de fox she almos' can't git out!"

"That's just it!" cried the boy. "That's just why the man can't get out."

"How he git in dere?" asked 'Merican Joe, in a tone of such disgust that Connie laughed.

"I'll tell you that tomorrow," he answered, "after James Dean tells me."

"If de yell com' from de hole, den de tamahnawus mak' um," imparted the Indian, fearfully. "An' if he can't get out dat better we let um stay in dere. Ain' no man kin git in dat hole. I ain' know nuttin' 'bout no James Dean."

A half-hour before sunrise the following morning Connie started up the slope, closely followed by 'Merican Joe, who mumbled gruesome forebodings as he crowded so close that he had to keep a sharp lookout against treading upon the tails of Connie's rackets. When they had covered half the distance a black fox broke from a nearby patch of scrub and dashed for the hole in the rock-ledge, and as they approached the place another fox emerged from the thicket, paused abruptly, and circled widely to the shelter of another thicket.

Arriving at the ledge, Connie took up his position squarely in front of the hole, while 'Merican Joe, grimly grasping the helve of his belt ax, sank down beside him, and with trembling fingers untied the thongs of one of his snowshoes.

"What are you doing that for?" asked Connie, in a low voice.

"Me—I'm so scare w'en dat yell com', I'm 'fraid I runaway. If I ain' got jus' wan snowshoe, I can't run."

"You're all right," smiled the boy, as he reached out and laid a reassuring hand upon the Indian's arm, and hardly had the words left his lips than from the mouth of the hole came the wild cry that mounted higher and higher, and then died away in a quavering tremolo. Instantly, Connie thrust his face close to the hole. "Hello!" he cried at the top of his lungs, and again: "Hello, in there!"

A moment of tense silence followed, and then from the hole came the sound of a voice. "Hello, hello, hello, hello, hello! Don't go 'way—for God's sake! Hello, hello, hello——"

"We're not going away," answered the boy, "we've come to get you out—James Dean!"

"James Dean! James Dean!" repeated the voice from the ground. "Get James Dean out!"

"We'll get you out, all right," reassured the boy. "But tell us how you got in, and why you can't get out the same way?"

"There's no way out!" wailed a voice of despair, "I'm buried alive, an' there's no way out!"

"How did you get in?" insisted the boy. "Come, think, because it'll help us to get you out."

"Get in—a long time ago—years and years ago—James Dean is very old. The whole hill is hollow and James Dean is buried alive."

Connie gave up trying to obtain information from the unfortunate man whose inconsistent remarks were of no help. "I'll see if these rocks are loose," he called, as he scraped the snow away from the edges of the hole and tapped at the rock with the back of his belt ax.

"It ain't loose!" came the voice. "It's solid rock—a hundred ton of it caved in my tunnel. The whole hill is quartz inside and I shot a face and the hill caved in."

A hurried examination confirmed the man's statement. Connie found, under the snow, evidences of the mouth of a tunnel, and then he saw that the whole face of the ledge had fallen forward, blocking the tunnel at the mouth. The small triangular opening used by the foxes, had originally been a notch in the old face of the ledge. The boy stared at the mass of rock in dismay. Fully twelve feet of solid rock separated the man from the outside world! Once more he placed his mouth to the hole. "Hello, James Dean!"

"Hello!"

"Isn't there any other opening to the cave?" he asked.

"Opening to the cave? Another opening? No—no—only my window, an' that's too high."

"Window," cried Connie. "Where is your window?"

"'Way up high—a hundred feet high. I've carried forty ton of rock—but I never can reach it—because I've run out of rock—and my powder and drills was buried in the cave-in."

"I'm going to find that window!" cried the boy. "You go back and get as close to the window as you can, and yell and I'll find it, and when I do, we'll pull you out in a jiffy."

"It's too high," wailed the man, "and my rock run out!"

"Go over there and yell!" repeated the boy. "I'll let a line down and we'll pull you out."

Turning to 'Merican Joe, whose nerve had completely returned when he became convinced that the author of the strange yell was a man of flesh and blood, the boy ordered him post-haste to the tent to fetch the three coils of strong babiche line that he had added to the outfit. When the Indian had gone, Connie struck straight up the hill, examining the surface of the snow eagerly for sight of a hole. But it was not until two hours later, after he and the Indian had circled and spiralled the hill in every direction, that he was attracted to a patch of scrawny scrub by the faint sound of a long-drawn yell.

Into the scrub dashed the boy, and there, yawning black and forbidding, beneath a low rock-ledge, was a hole at least four feet in height, and eight or nine feet wide. And from far down in the depths came the sound of the voice, loud and distinct now that he stood directly in front of the hole. The boy called for 'Merican Joe, and while he waited for the Indian to come, he noted that the edges of the hole, and all the bushes that over-hung its mouth were crusted thickly with white frost. Carefully he laid flat on his belly and edged himself along until he could thrust his face into the abyss. The air felt very warm—a dank, damp warmth, such as exudes from the depths of a swamp in summer. He peered downward but his eyes could not penetrate the Stygian blackness out of which rose the monotonous wail of the voice.

"Strike a light down there!" cried the boy. "Or build a fire!"

"Light! Fire! Ha, ha, ha." Thin, hollow laughter that was horrible to hear, floated upward. "I ain't had a fire in years, and years—an' no light."

"Wait a minute!" called the boy, and began to collect dry twigs which he made into a bundle. He lighted the bundle and when it was burning fiercely he shouted, "Look out below!" And leaning far inward, he dropped the blazing twigs. Down, down like a fiery comet they rushed through the darkness, and then suddenly the comet seemed to explode and a million tiny flames shot in all directions as the bundle burst from contact with the rock floor. "Pile the sticks together and make a fire!" called the boy, "and I'll toss you down some more!" He could see the tiny red faggots moving toward a central spot, and presently a small blaze flared up, and as more twigs were added to the pile the flame brightened. Connie collected more wood, and calling a warning, tossed it down. Soon a bright fire was burning far below, and in the flickering light of the flames the boy saw a grotesque shape flitting here and there adding twigs to the fire. He could not see the man clearly but he could see that his head and face were covered with long white hair, and that he was entirely naked except for a flapping piece of cloth that hung from his middle.

'Merican Joe arrived with the babiche lines, and as the boy proceeded to uncoil and knot them together, he sent the Indian to the tent for some blankets. When he returned the line was ready, with a fixed loop in the end.

"All right!" called the boy, "here comes the line. Sit in the loop, and hold on to the rope for all you're worth, and we'll have you out in a few minutes!" He could hear the man talking to himself as he hovered about the fire so closely that the flames seemed to be licking at his skin.

The man looked upward, and Connie paid out the line. When it reached the bottom, the boy noted that there was only about ten feet of slack remaining, and he heaved a sigh of relief. He could feel the man tugging at the rope, and after a moment of silence the voice sounded from below: "Haul away!"

Connie and 'Merican Joe braced their feet on the rocks and pulled. They could feel the rope sway like a pendulum as the man left the floor, and then, hand over hand they drew him to the surface. While the Indian had gone for the blankets, Connie had cut a stout pole to be used to support the load while they got the man out of the hole. Even with the pole to sustain the weight it was no small task to draw the man over the edge, but at last it was accomplished, and James Dean stood once more in the light of day after his years of imprisonment in the bowels of the earth. With a cry of pain the man clapped his hands to his eyes, and Connie immediately bound his handkerchief over them, as 'Merican Joe wrapped the wasted form in thickness after thickness of blankets. When the blankets were secured with the babiche line the Indian lifted the man to his shoulders, and struck out for the tent, as Connie hurried on ahead to build up the fire and prepare some food.

The bandage was left on the man's eyes, for the daylight had proved too strong, but after the tent had warmed, the two dressed him in their extra clothing. The man ate ravenously of broiled caribou steak and drank great quantities of tea, after which, the day being still young, camp was struck, and the outfit headed for the cabin.

It was midnight when they drew up at the door, and soon a roaring fire heated the interior. Connie turned the light very low, and removed the bandage from the man's eyes. For a long time he sat silent, staring about him, his eyes travelling slowly from one object to another, and returning every few moments to linger upon the faces of his rescuers. At times his lips moved slightly, as if to name some familiar object, but no sound came, and his eyes followed every movement with interest, as 'Merican Joe prepared supper.

When the meal was ready the man stepped to the pole-shelf that served as a washstand, and as he caught sight of his face in the little mirror that hung above it, he started back with a cry of horror. Then he stepped to the mirror again, and for a long time he stared into it as though fascinated by what he beheld. In a daze, he turned to Connie. "What—what year is it?" he asked, in a voice that trembled with uncertainty. And when the boy told him, he stood and batted his squinting eyes uncomprehendingly. "Six years," he mumbled, "six years buried alive. Six years living with weasels, and foxes, and fish without eyes. I was thirty, then—and in six years I'm eighty—eighty years old if I'm a day. Look at me! Ain't I eighty?"

In truth, the man looked eighty, thought Connie as he glanced into the face with its faded squinting eyes, the brow wrinkled and white as paper, and the long white hair and beard that hung about his shoulders. Aloud he said, "No, you'll be all right again in a little while. Living in the dark that way has hurt your eyes, and turned your skin white, and the worry about getting out has made your hair turn grey but you can cut your hair, and shave off your whiskers, and the sun will tan you up again. Let's eat now, and after supper if you feel like it you can tell us how it happened."

The man ate ravenously—so ravenously in fact, that Connie who had learned that a starving man should be fed slowly at first, uttered a protest. "You better go a little easy on the grub," he cautioned. "Not that we haven't got plenty, but for your own good. Anyone that hasn't had enough to eat for quite a while has got to take it slow."

The man looked at the boy in surprise. "It ain't the grub—it's the cooking. I've had plenty of grub, but I ain't had any fire."

After supper the man begged to be allowed to help wash the dishes, and when the task was finished, he drew his chair directly in front of the stove, and opening the door, sat staring into the flames. "Seems like I just got to look at the fire," he explained, "I ain't seen one in so long."

"And you ate all your grub raw?" asked the boy.

James Dean settled himself in his chair, and shook his head. "No, not raw. I might's well begin at the start. There's times when my head seems to kind of go wrong, but it's all right now."

"Wait a few days, if you'd rather," suggested the boy, but the man shook his head:

"No, I feel fine—I'd about give up ever seein' men again. Let's see where'll I begin. I come north eight year ago. Prospected the Coppermine, but there ain't nothin' there. Then I built me a cabin south of the big lake. From there I prospected an' trapped, an' traded with McTavish at Fort Norman. One time I struck some colour on the shore of the lake, right at the foot of the hill where you found me. Looked like it had come out of rotted quartz, an' I figured the mother lode would maybe be in the hill so I fetched my drills, an' powder, an' run in a drift. I hadn't got very far in when I shot the whole face out and busted into a big cave. The whole inside was lined with rotten quartz, but it wasn't poor man's gold. It was a stamp mill claim.

"I prodded around in the cave all day, an' that evenin' some Injuns come an' camped near my tent. They was goin' to trap fox, an' I didn't want 'em around, so I went over to their camp an' told 'em there was a tamahnawus around. Two of 'em was scairt stiff, but one wasn't. I told 'em they was a fox that could talk like a man. But one buck, he figured I was lyin', so to make the play good, I told 'em I had the medicine to make the tamahnawus do what I told him. I said I would make him burn the snow, so I slips back to my tent and laid a fuse out on the lake, an' put about a pound of powder at the end of it, an' while she was burnin' I went back. The Injuns could see the fuse sputterin' out on the lake, but this one buck said it was a piece of rope I'd set afire. I told him if it was rope it would go out, but if it was tamahnawus I'd tell him to make a big fire. So I yelled at the tamahnawus a couple of times, and when the spark got to the powder she flashed up big, an' like to scairt them Injuns to death. In the morning they beat it—an' that was the end of them. If you're smart you can out-guess them Injuns." The man paused, and Connie, although he said nothing, smiled grimly for well he knew that the man had paid dearly for his trick.

"Nex' day I decided to shoot down a face of the rotten quartz to see how thick she was, an' I drilled my holes an' tamped in the shots, an' fired 'em. I had gone back in the cave, instead of steppin' outside, an' when the shots went off the whole ledge tipped over, an' plugged up my tunnel. I'd shoved my drills an' powder into the tunnel, an they was buried.

"Well, there I was. At first I yelled, an' hollered, an' I clawed at the rock with my hands. Then I come to. The cave was dark as pitch, the only light I could see come through under the rocks where the foxes use—only they wasn't any foxes then. There I was without nothin' to eat an' drink, an' no way out. I had matches, but there wasn't nothin' to burn. Then I started out to explore the cave. It was an awful job in the dark. Now an' then I'd light a match an' hold it till it burnt my fingers. It was a big cave, an' around a corner of rock, five or six hundred foot back from the hole, I found the window you drug me out through. That let in a little light, but it was high up an' no way to get to it. I heard runnin' water, an' found a crick run right through the middle of that room, it was the biggest room of all. In one place there was a rapids not over six inches deep where it run over a ledge of rocks. I crossed it, an' found another long room. It was hot in there an' damp an' it stunk of sulphur. There was a boilin' spring in there, an' a little crick run from it to the big cold crick. I heard a splashin' in the rapids an' I was so scairt I couldn't run. There wouldn't have been no place to run to if I could. So I laid there, an' listened. The splashin' kept up an' I quit bein' so scairt, an' went to the rapids. The splashin' was still goin' on an' it took me quite a while there in the dark to figure out it was fish. Well, when I did figure it, I give a whoop. I wasn't goin' to starve, anyhow—not with fish, an' a boilin' spring to cook 'em. I took off my shoes an' waded in an' stood still in the rapids. Pretty quick I could feel 'em bumpin' my feet. Then I stuck my hands in an' when they bumped into 'em I'd throw 'em out. I got so I never missed after a couple of years. They run in schools, an' it got so I knew when they was up the river, an' when they was down. I'd scoop one or two out, an' carry 'em to the spring, an' I made a sort of pen out of rocks in the boilin' water, an' I'd throw 'em in, an' a half-hour or so later, they'd be done. But they stunk of sulphur, an' tasted rotten, an' at first I couldn't go 'em—but I got used to it after a while.

"The first year, I used to yell out the door, about every couple of hours, then three times a day, an' at last I only yelled when the light in the hole told me the sun was going down, an' again when it come up. In summer a rabbit would now an' then come in the hole an' I got so I could kill 'em with rocks when they set for a minute in the light at the end of the hole. They was plenty o' weasels—ermine they call 'em up here, but they ain't fit to eat. Towards spring a couple of black fox come nosin' into the hole, an' I slipped in a rock so they couldn't get out. I done it first, jest to have company. They was so wild, I couldn't see nothin' but their eyes for a long time. But I scooped fish out for 'em an' fed 'em every day in the same place an' they got tamer. Then they had a litter of young ones! Say, they was the cutest little fellers you ever saw. I fed 'em an' after a while they was so tame I could handle 'em. I never could handle the old ones, but they got so tame they'd take fish out of my hand.

"All this time I used to go to the hole every day, an' two or three times a day, an' lay with my face in it, so my eyes would get the light. I was afraid I'd go blind bein' all the time in the dark. An' between times I'd carry loose rock an' pile it under that window. I spent years of work on pilin' them rocks, an' then I used up all the rocks an' had to quit.

"When the little foxes got about a quarter grow'd I took 'em one at a time, an' shoved 'em out the hole, so their eyes wouldn't go bad. After a while I could let 'em all out together, an' they would always come back. I was careful to keep 'em well fed. But I didn't dare let the old ones go, I was afraid they'd never come back an' would drag off the little ones, too. It wasn't so long before them six little fellows could beat me scoopin' out fish. Well, one day the big ones got out, an' the little ones followed. They'd clawed the rock away where I hadn't jammed it in tight. I never felt so bad in my life. I sat there in the dark and bawled like a baby. It was like losin' yer family all to once. They was all I had. I never expected to see 'em again. They stayed out all night, but in the mornin' back they all come—big ones an' all! After that I left the hole open, an' they come an' went as they pleased. Well, they had more little ones, an' the little ones had little ones, until they was forty or fifty black fox lived with me in the cave—an' I had 'em all named. They used to fetch in ptarmigan an' rabbits an' I'd take 'em away an' eat 'em. Then one or two begun to turn up missin' an' I figured they'd be'n trapped. That give me an idea. If I could tie a message onto 'em, maybe sometime someone would trap one and find out where I was. But I didn't have no pencil nor nothin' to write on. So I begun tearin' strips from my coat an' pants an' tied 'em around their necks, but the goods was gettin' rottin, an' bushes clawed it off, or maybe the foxes did. I used up my coat, an' most of my pants, an' then I used ermine skins. I figured that if any one trapped a black fox wearin' an ermine skin collar it would call for an investigation. If it was a white trapper he would tumble right away that something was wrong, an' if it was an Injun he would brag about it when he traded the fur, an' then the factor would start the investigation. But nothin' come of it till you come along, although they was several of them foxes trapped—as long as three years back. But I kept on yellin' night an' mornin'. Sometime, I know'd someone would hear. An' that's all there is to it, except that my clothes an' shoes was all wore out—but I didn't mind so much because it was warm as summer all the time, an' no mosquitoes in the cave."

"And now you can rest up for a few days, and well take you to Fort Norman," smiled Connie, when the man relapsed into silence, "and you can go out in the summer with the brigade."

"Go out?" asked the man, vaguely. "Go out where?"

"Why!" exclaimed the boy, "go out—wherever you want to go."

The man lapsed into a long silence as he sat with his grey beard resting upon his breast and gazed into the fire. "No," he said, at length, "I'll go to Fort Norman, an' get some drills an' powder, an' shoot me a new tunnel. I'll take a stove so I can have a fire, an' cook. I like the cave. It's all the home I got, an' someone's got to look after them foxes."

"But the gold?" asked the boy. "How about bringing in a stamp mill and turn your hill into a regular outfit?"

James Dean shook his head. "No, it would spoil the cave an' besides where would me and the foxes go? That hill is the only home we've got—an' I'm gettin' old. I'm eighty if I'm a day. When I'm dead you can have the hill—but you'll look after them foxes, won't you, boy?"

A week later Connie and 'Merican Joe and James Dean pulled up before the Hudson's Bay Post at Fort Norman, and, as the boy entered the door, McTavish greeted him in surprise. "You're just the one I want!" he cried. "I was just about to send an Indian runner to your cabin with this letter. It come from the Yukon by special messenger."

Connie tore the document open, and as he read, his eyes hardened. It was from Waseche Bill, and it had not been intrusted to "Roaring Mike O'Reilly" to transcribe. It ran thus:

MR. C. MORGAN,

Cannady.

Son, yo better come back yere. Theys an outfit thats tryin to horn in on us on Ten Bow. They stack up big back in the states—name's Guggenhammer, or somethin' like it, an they say we kin take our choist to either fight or sell out. If we fight they say they'll clean us out. I ain't goin' to do one thing or nother till I hear from you. Come a runnin' an' les here you talk.

Your pard, W. BILL.

"What's the matter, son, bad news?" asked McTavish, as he noted the scowling face of the boy.

"Read it," he snapped, and tossed the letter to the big Scotchman. Then stepping to the counter he rapidly wrote a report to Dan McKeever, in re the disappearance of James Dean, after which he turned to 'Merican Joe—"I've got to go back to Ten Bow," he said. "All the traps and the fur and everything we've got here except my sled and dog-team are yours. Stay as long as you want to, and when you are tired of trapping, come on over into the Yukon country, and I'll give you a job—unless the Guggenhammers bust me—but if they do they'll know they've been somewhere when they get through!"

And without waiting to hear the Indian's reply, the boy turned to McTavish and ordered his trail grub, which 'Merican Joe packed on to the boy's sled as fast as the factor's clerk could get it out. "So-long," called Connie, as he stood beside the sled a half-hour later. "Here goes a record trip to the Yukon! And, say, McTavish, give James Dean anything he wants, and charge it to me!"

"All right, lad," called the factor, "but what are ye goin' to do? Dan McKeever'll be wantin' to know, when he comes along?"

"Do?" asked the boy.

"Yes, are ye goin' to sell out, or fight 'em?"

"Fight 'em!" cried the boy. "Fight 'em to the last ditch! If they've told Waseche we've got to sell, I wouldn't sell for a hundred million dollars—and neither would he! We'll fight 'em—and what's more we'll beat 'em—you wait an' see!" And with a yell the boy cracked his whip, and the dogs, with the great Leloo in the lead, sprang out on to the long, long trail to the Yukon.

THE END.



A Selection from the Catalogue of

G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS



Complete Catalogues sent on application

Connie Morgan in the Lumber Camps

By

James B. Hendryx

Author of "Connie Morgan in Alaska," "Connie Morgan with the Mounted," etc.

All his many friends will be glad to greet Connie Morgan again.

This time we find him in the timber regions of northern Minnesota, where he solves a mystery that robbed him and his partner of thousands of dollars' worth of logs. He is the same straight-forward lad "who finds out what has to be done, and does it the best he knows how."

Mr. Hendryx has lived much in the lumber woods and has written an excellent, exciting story of adventure.

G.P. Putnam's Sons

New York London

Connie Morgan in Alaska

By

James B. Hendryx

Author of "The Promise," "The Law of the Woods," etc.

12o. Over twenty illustrations

Mr. Hendryx, as he has ably demonstrated in his many well-known tales, knows his Northland thoroughly, but he has achieved a reputation as a writer possibly "too strong" for the younger literary digestion. It is a delight, therefore, to find that he can present properly, in a capital story of a boy, full of action and adventure, and one in whom boys delight, the same thorough knowledge of people and customs of the North.

G.P. Putnam's Sons

New York London

Connie Morgan with the Mounted

By

James B. Hendryx

Author of "Connie Morgan in Alaska"

Illustrated.

It tells how "Sam Morgan's Boy," well known to readers of Mr. Hendryx's "Connie Morgan in Alaska," daringly rescued a man who was rushing to destruction on an ice floe and how, in recognition of his quick-wittedness and nerve, he was made a Special Constable in the Northwest Mounted Police, with the exceptional adventures that fell to his lot in that perilous service. It is a story of the northern wilderness, clean and bracing as the vigorous, untainted winds that sweep over that region; the story of a boy who wins out against the craft of Indians and the guile of the bad white man of the North; the story of a boy who succeeds where men fail.

G.P. Putnam's Sons

New York London

The Promise

A Tale of the Great Northwest and of a Man Who Kept His Word

By James B. Hendryx

A tale of a strong man's regeneration—of the transformation of "Broadway Bill" Carmody, millionaire's son, rounder, and sport, whose drunken sprees have finally overtaxed the patience of his father and the girl, into a Man, clear-eyed and clean-lived, a true descendant of the fighting McKims.

The Texan

A Story of the Cattle Country

By James B. Hendryx

Author of "The Promise," etc.

A novel of the cattle country and of the mountains, by James B. Hendryx, will at once commend itself to the host of readers who have enthusiastically followed this brilliant writer's work. Again he has written a red-blooded, romantic story of the great open spaces, of the men who "do" things and of the women who are brave—a tale at once turbulent and tender, impassioned but restrained.

G.P. Putnam's Sons

New York London

The White Blanket

By

Belmore Browne

Author of "The Quest of the Golden Valley," etc.

12o. Illustrated

A sequel to The Quest of the Golden Valley, this time taking the chums through the vicissitudes of an Alaskan winter. They trap the many fur-bearing animals, hunt the big game, camp with the Indians, do dog-driving, snow-shoeing, etc. With the coming of spring they descend one of the wilderness rivers on a raft and at the eleventh hour, after being wrecked in a dangerous canyon, they discover a fabulous quartz lode, and succeed in reaching the sea coast.

G.P. Putnam's Sons

New York London

THE END