The reason, that being locked into Big Pete's park in the mountains struck me as being very serious, was because I realized that although the park was extensive it was completely surrounded by a practically unsurmountable barrier of rugged cliffs and mountains negotiable, as far as I knew, not even by the sure-footed mountain sheep and goats which we could occasionally see on the cliffs from the valley floor, but never saw in the park itself. I questioned Big Pete and found that he did not know of a trail up the cliffs.

"Though," he said, "there must be some sort of a one for that tha' Wild Hunter gits in an' out and brings his wolf pack along too. He knows a trail all right an' ef he knows it why it's up to us to find it, too."

"Maybe we can trail him," I suggested.

"Trail him! Me? With that wolf pack clingin' to his heels? Not while I'm alive!"

That was the last that was said about trailing the Wild Hunter for some time to come, but meanwhile we built a more or less open faced permanent camp and Big Pete initiated me into mysteries of real woodcraft, for it was up to us now to live on the land, so to speak.

Although hard usage had made havoc with my tailormade clothes, neither time nor the elements seemed to affect the personal appearance of my big companion; his buckskin suit was apparently as clean and fresh as it was on the day I first met him. There was no magic in this. Big Pete knew how to clamber all day through a windfall without leaving the greater part of his clothes on the branches, a feat few hunters and no tenderfoot have yet been able to accomplish.

As I have already said, Pete was a dude, but he was what might be called a self-perpetuating dude, who never ran to seed no matter how long he might be separated from the city tailor shops, for Pete was his own tailor, barber and valet, and the wilderness supplied the material for his costume.

In the camp he was as busy as an old housewife, and occupied his leisure time mending, stitching and darning. Many a morning my own toilet consisted of a face wash at the spring, but my guide seldom failed to spend as much time prinking as if he expected distinguished visitors!

Instead of "Tenderfoot," Big Pete now called me "Le-loo," which I understand is Chinook for wolf and I took so much pride in my promotion that I would not have changed clothes with the Prince of Wales; I gloried in my wild, unkempt appearance!

Nevertheless, Big Pete announced that he was the Hy-as-ty-ee (big boss) and he forthwith declared that my costume was unsuitable for the approaching cold weather. There was no disputing that Big Pete was Hy-as-ty-ee and I agreed to wear whatever clothes he should make for me, and can say with no fear of dispute that if that ancient chump, Robinson Crusoe, had had a Big Pete for a partner in place of a man Friday, he would have never made himself his outlandish goatskin clothes and a clumsy umbrella.

From a cache in the rocks Pete brought forth a miscellaneous lot of trappers' stores, bone needles made from the splints of deer's legs, elk's teeth with holes bored through them, and odds and ends of all kinds.

Among his stuff was a supply of salt-petre and alum, and this was evidently the material for which he was searching for he at once preceeded to make a mixture of two parts salt-petre to one of alum and applied the pulverized compound to the fleshy side of the skins, then doubling the raw side of the hides together he rolled them closely and placed the hides in a cool place where they were allowed to remain for several days; when at length unrolled, the skins were still moist.

"Just right, by Gosh," he exclaimed, as he took a dull knife and carefully removed all particles of fat or flesh which here and there adhered to the hide. After this was done to his satisfaction we both took hold and rubbed, and mauled and worked the skins with our hands until the hides were as soft and as pliable as flannel. Thus was the material for my winter clothing prepared.

It took four whole deer-skins to furnish stuff for my buckskin shirt with the beautiful long fringes at the seams; but the whole garment was cut, sewed and finished in a day's time. It was sewed with thread made of sinew.

When it came to making the coat and trousers Big Pete spent a long time in solemn thought before he was ready to begin work on these garments; at length he looked up with a broad smile and cried:

"See here, Le-loo, I have taken a fancy to them 'ere tenderfut pants o' your'n. Off with 'em now an' I'll jist cut out the new ones from the old uns." In vain I pleaded with him to make my trousers like his own; he would not listen to me, he insisted upon having my ragged but stylish knickerbockers to use as a pattern.



CHAPTER X

Big Pete was an expert backwoods tailor, shoemaker and shirtmaker, but these were but few of his accomplishments, not his trade; he was first, last and aways a hunter and scout. No matter what occupation seemed to engage his attention for the time it never interfered with his ability to hear, see or smell.

It was while I was going around camp minus my lower garments that I saw Pete suddenly throw up his head and suspiciously sniff the air, at the same time sharply scanning the windward side of our camp. Living so long with this strange man made me familiar with his actions and quick to detect anything unusual and I now knew that something of interest had happened. To the windward and close by us was a mound thickly covered with bullberry bushes and underbrush, and so far as could be seen there was nothing suspicious in the appearance of the thicket. Fixing my eyes on Big Pete, I saw a peculiar expression spread over his face which seemed to be half of mirth and half of wonderment, and I immediately knew that his wonderful nose had warned him of the presence of something to the windward.

Slowly and quietly he laid aside my almost finished breeches and silently stole away. It was only a few minutes before he returned with a very solemn face.

"Doggone my corn shucked bones, Le-loo, we've had a visitor but it got away mighty slick and quick. I hain't determint yit whether it wa' man er beast er both, er jist a thing wha' might change into 'tother. We'll hafter investigate later. Here git these duds on."

When I put on my new elk-hide knickerbockers with cuffs of dressed buckskin laced around my calves, and my beautiful soft buckskin shirt tucked in at the waist I began to feel like a real Nimrod, but after I added my "Moo-loch-Capo," the shooting jacket with elk-teeth buttons, pulled a pair of shank moccasins over my feet and donned a cap made of lynx skin, I was as happy as a child with its Christmas stocking. It was a really wonderful suit of clothing; the hair of the elk hide was on the outside, and not only made the coat and breeches warmer, but helped to shed the rain. The buttons of the elk-teeth were fastened on with thongs run through holes in their centers, and my coat could be laced up after the fashion of a military overcoat. The elk's teeth served as frogs and loops of rawhide answered for the braid that is used on military coats.

My shank moccasins were made by first making a cut around each of the hind legs of an elk, at a sufficient distance above the heels to leave hide enough for boot legs and making another cut far enough below the heels to make room for one's feet. The fresh skins when peeled off looked like rude stockings with holes at the toes. The skins were turned wrong side out, and the open toes closed by bringing the lower part, or sole, up over the opening and sewing it there after the manner of a tip to the modern shoe. When this novel foot-gear was dry enough for the purpose, Big Pete ornamented the legs with quaint colored designs made with split porcupine quills colored with dyes which Pete himself had manufactured of roots and barks.

Dressed in my unique and picturesque costume I stood upright while Pete surveyed me with the pride and satisfaction of one who had done a fine piece of work. I had now little fear of being called a tenderfoot and when I viewed my reflection in the spring I felt quite proud of my appearance.

"Come along now old scout," said Pete viewing me with the pride of an artist, "come along and let me test you on a real trail. I want to see what my teaching has done for you."

Pete led me through the underbrush to a point among the rocks.

"Tha'. A trail begins right under yore nose; let's see what you make of it," he said crisply.

Down on all fours I crept over the ground and, to my surprise and joy, I found that I could here and there detect a turned leaf the twist of which indicated the direction taken by the party who made the trail. I noticed that the bits of wood, pine cones and sticks scattered around were darker on the parts next to the ground, and it only required simple reasoning for me to conclude that when the dark side was uppermost the object had been recently disturbed and rolled over.

It was a day of great discoveries. I found that what is true of the sticks is equally true of the pebbles and a displaced fragment of stone immediately caught my eyes. With the tenacity of a bloodhound I stuck to my task until I suddenly found myself at the base of the park wall, at the foot of the diagonal fracture in the face of the cliff where I had climbed when I discovered the golden trout. As I have said, the fracture led diagonally up the towering face of the beetling precipice.

For fear that I might have made some mistake I carefully retraced my steps backward toward the bullberry bushes near the camp. On the back trail I came upon some distinct and obvious footprints in a dusty place, but so deeply interested was I in hidden signs, the slight but tell-tale disturbances of leaf and soil, that I once passed these plainly marked tracks with only a glance and would have done so the second time had not their marked peculiarities accidentally caught my attention.

When examining the trail of this mysterious camp visitor I suddenly realized that in place of moccasin footprints I was following bear tracks, my heart ceased to beat for a moment or two before I could pull myself together and smother the prehensile footed superstitious old savage in me with the practical philosophy of the up-to-date man of today.

Taking a short cut I ran back to the foot of the pass and there, on hands and knees, ascended for a hundred feet or more—the bear steps led up the pass, and yet at the beginning of the trail the feet wore moccasins. This I knew because at one place the foot-mark showed plainly in the gray alkali dust which had accumulated upon a projecting stone a few feet below the ledge. Obviously whoever the visitor was, he had entered and left by this pass. Returning to camp I sat down on a log lost in thought. My reverie was at last broken by the voice of my guide quietly remarking. "Well, Le-loo, what's your judication?"

"Pete," I said, "that bear walks on its hind-legs; there is not the sign of a forefoot anywhere along the trail. Now this could not be caused by the hind feet obliterating the tracks of the front feet, because in many places the pass is so steep that the forefeet in reaching out for support would make tracks not overlapped by the hind ones."

"That's true, Le-loo; sartin true. If you live to be a hundred years you'll make as good a trailer as the great Greaser trailer of New Mexico, Dolores Sanchez, or my old friend Bill Hassler, who could follow a six-month-old trail," replied my guide. "But," he continued, "maybe witch-bears do walk on their hind legs same as people."

"Witch be blamed!" I cried impatiently; "this is no four-legged witch nor bear either. That was a man and when he thought he would be followed he put on moccasins made from bears' paws to leave a disguised trail. And moreover I believe that man is none other than the Wild Hunter without his wolf pack. And that pass is the pathway he takes in and out of this park. I'm going to trail him whether you want to or not. Goodbye Pete, I'll come back for you," and picking up my gun and other necessary traps, I prepared to start immediately upon my journey, for I felt that to follow this trail would not only get us out of our park prison but would lead me to the abode of the Wild Hunter, where perhaps I could talk with him and learn some of the things I was so eager to know about my parents.

Big Pete looked at me solemnly for a while, ran over the cartridges in his belt and went through all those familiar unconscious motions which betokened danger ahead, and said, "Le-loo, you are a quare critter; you're not afraid of all the werwolves, medicine ba'rs and ghosts in this world or the next, but tarnally afeared of live varmints like grizzly bars—one would think you had no religion, but, gosh all hemlock! If you can face a bear-man or a werwolf, even though all the Hy-as Ecutocks of the mountains show fight, I'll be cornfed if I don't stand by ye! Barring the Wild Hunter, I don't know as I ever ran agin a Ecutock yit; that is if he be a Ecutock. Maybe he's a Econe? Yes, I reckon that's what he is," continued Pete reflectively.

"Maybe he is a pine cone," I laughed. Then added, "Whatever he is, he knows the way out of this park of yours and I am going to follow him," I emphatically answered.

"That's howsomever!" exclaimed my guide approvingly; "but," he continued, "the mountains are kivered with snow, while it is still summer down here, so I reckon 'twould be the proper wrinkle for us to pull our things together, have a good feed and a good sleep before we start. White men start off hot-headed and I kinder like their grit, but Injuns stop and sot by the fire an' smoke an' think afore they start on a raid an' I kinder think they be wiser in this than we 'uns, so let's do as the Injuns would do. We can cache most of our stuff and turn the horses loose. Bighorn's mutton is powerful good, but tarnally shy and hung mighty high, an' billygoat is doggoned strong 'nless you know how to cook 'em. Yes, we'll eat an sleep fust an' then his for the land where the Bighorn pasture, the woolywhite goats sleep on the rocks, the whistling marmot blows his danger signal an' the pretty white ptarmigan hides hisself in the snow-banks, the home of the Ecutocks.

"What the thunder is a Ecutock, Pete?" I asked.

"An Injun devil, I reckon you'd call it; it's bad medicine," he answered soberly, and continuing in his former strain, he exclaimed:

"Whar critters like goats, sheeps and rock-chucks kin live, you bet your Hy-as muck-a-muck we kin live too!"

That night I rolled up into my blanket, filled with strange presentiments. Again the question came up: What is the source of the influence that this madman of the mountains, this wild hunter, this leader of the black wolf pack, had on me to impel me to trail him over the mountains? Was it mental telepathy? Could he really be my father? Somehow I felt convinced that soon I would be face to face with the riddle, soon I would know the facts and the truth about my parents. It seemed unthinkable that all these weeks of wilderness travel had been for naught and that the Wild Hunter was nothing but a strange, eccentric old fellow living alone in the mountains and of no interest to me whatsoever.



CHAPTER XI

We made our start at daylight, loaded with all the necessities for a climb over the mountains. The rest of our supplies and equipment we cached, and Big Pete turned our horses loose assuring me that in the spring he would come back and rope them.

The lower trail of the pass was quite well defined and we made famous progress, but the higher we climbed the more difficult the going became and more than once we were forced to pause on a ledge to rest and regain our breath.

On one ledge I got my first really close view of a bighorn sheep, and I became so excited that nothing would do but I must stalk him, despite Big Pete's assurance that the wily old ram would not let me get within gun shot of him in such an exposed area.

I crawled, and wriggled, and twisted over rock and boulders for what to me seemed miles, but always the sheep kept just out of accurate shooting distance ahead of me. It was an exasperating chase, but one cannot live in the mountains for any length of time without paying more or less attention to geology; the mountaineer soon learns that stratified rock, that is rock arranged like layer cake, resting in a horizontal position on its natural bed, makes travel over its top comparatively easy, but when by the subsidence or upheaval of the earth's crust huge masses of stone have been tilted up edgewise, it is an entirely different proposition.

In this latter case the erosion, or the wearing away, caused by trickling water, frost and snow, sharpens the edge of the rock, as a grindstone does the edge of an ax, and traveling along one of these ridges presents almost the same difficulties that travel along the edge of an upturned ax would do to a microscopic man.

But when a sportsman, for the first time in his life, has succeeded in creeping within range of a grand bighorn ram, and his bullet, speeding true, has badly wounded the game, hardships are forgotten, and if, on account of the miraculous vitality of the mountain sheep, there is danger of losing the quarry, all the inborn instinct of the predaceous beast in man's nature is aroused, and danger is a consideration not to be taken in account.

A hawk in pursuit of a barnyard fowl will follow it into the open door of the farmhouse; the hound in pursuit of the fox cares not for the approaching locomotive—being possessed by the instinct to kill—nothing is of importance to them but the capture of the game in sight. A man following a buck is governed by a like singleness of purpose.

For this reason I was scrambling along the knife-like edge of the ridge, with death in the steep treacherous slide rock on one side, death in the steep green glacier ice on the other side, and torture and wounds under my feet.

But the fever of the chase had possession of me. I had tasted blood and felt the fierce joy of the puma and the wild intoxication of a hunting wolf!

The cruel wounds inflicted by the sharp stones under my feet were unnoticed. Away ahead of me was a moving object; it could use but three legs, but that was one leg more than I had, and the ram had distanced me. After an age of time I reached the rugged, broader footing of the mountain side, and creeping up behind some sheltering rocks again fired at the fleeing ram. With the impact of the bullet the sheep fell headlong down a cliff to a projecting rock thirty feet below, where it lay apparently dead. A moment later it again arose, seemingly as able as ever, and ran along the face of the beetling rock where my eyes, aided by powerful field glasses, could perceive no foothold; then it gave a magnificent leap to a ledge on the opposite side of the narrow canyon and fell dead, out of my reach.

Spent with my long, rough run, I naturally selected the most comfortable seat in which to rest; this chanced to be a cushion of heather-like plants along the side of a fragment of rock which effectually concealed my body from view from the other side of the chasm. Here, on the verge of that impassable canyon, I sat panting and looking at the poor dead creature upon the opposite side; its right front leg was shattered at the shoulder, a bullet had pierced its lungs. Yet, with two fatal wounds and a useless leg, the plucky creature had scaled the face of a cliff which one would think a squirrel would find impossible to traverse and made leaps which might well be considered improbable for a perfectly sound animal. The ram was dead and food for the ravens, and a reaction had taken place in my mind; I felt like a bloody murderer, and hung my head with a sense of guilt.

Presently, becoming conscious of that peculiar guttural noise, used by Big Pete when desiring caution, and looking up I was amazed to see a splendid Indian youth climb down the face of the opposite cliff, throw his arms around the dead ram's neck and burst into deep but subdued lamentation. For the first time I now saw that what I had mistaken for a blood stain on the bighorn's neck was a red collar.

Cautiously producing my field glasses I examined the collar and discovered it to be made of stained porcupine quills cleverly worked on a buckskin band. The field glasses also told me that the boy's shirt was trimmed with the same material, while a duplicate of the sheep's collar formed a band which encircled his head, confining the long black hair and preventing it from falling over his face, but leaving it free to hang down his back to a point below the waist line.

So absorbed was I in this unique spectacle that I carelessly allowed my elbow to dislodge a loose fragment of stone which went clattering down the face of the precipice. This proved to be almost fatal carelessness, for, with a movement as quick as the stroke of a rattlesnake, the lad placed an arrow to the string of a bow and sent the barbed shaft with such force, promptitude and precision that it went through my fur cap, the arrow entangling a bunch of my hair, taking it along with it.

"Squat lower, Le-loo; arrows has been the death of many a man afore you," whispered Big Pete in my ear, but even as he spoke another arrow sang over our crouching bodies, shaving the protecting rock so closely that their plumed tips brushed the dust on our backs.

"Waugh! Good shootin', by gum! I never seed it beat; if he onct sots them black eyes on our hulking carcasses he'll get us yit," muttered my guide, enthusiastically. "He's mighty slender, quick and purty—but so also be a rattlesnake!" he exclaimed, as another arrow slit the sleeve of his wamus as cleanly as if it were cut with a knife.

"For God's sake, stop!" I shouted, in real alarm. The boy paused, but with an arrow still drawn to its head. His eyes flashing, head erect, one moccasined foot on the ram's body, the other braced against the cliff; his short fawn-colored skin shirt clung to his lithe body, and the fringed edges hung over the dreadful black chasm in front of him. It was a picture to take away one's breath. "Put down your weapon, and we will stand with our hands up," I cried. Slowly the bow was lowered and as slowly Big Pete and I arose, holding our empty hands aloft. "Now, young fellow, tell us your pleasure."

There are a few gray hairs showing at my temples which first made their appearance while I was crouching behind that stone on the edge of the chasm.

To my polite inquiry asking his pleasure, the wild boy made no reply but glanced at us with the utmost contempt when Big Pete went through some gestures in Indian sign language. The lad mutely pointed to the dead sheep, the sight of which seemed to enrage him again, for insensibly his fingers tightened on the bow and the wood began to curve after a manner which sent me ducking behind the sheltering stone again; but Big Pete only folded his arms across his broad chest and looked the boy straight in the eyes.

Never will I forget that picture, the cold, bleak, snow-covered mountains towering above them, the black abyss of Sheol between them; neither would hesitate to take life, neither possessed a fear of death; but with every muscle alert and every nerve alive these two wild things stood facing each other, mutually observing a truce because of—what? Because, in spite of the fighting instinct or, maybe, because of it they both secretly admired each other.



CHAPTER XII

The black chasm which separated us from the trail of the wild hunter was not as formidable a barrier as the unfathomable abyss which separates the reader from what he thinks he would have done had he been in my place, and what really would have been his plan of action.

There were a lot of burning questions which I had privately made up in my mind to propound to the Wild Hunter, or the even wilder medicine bear, upon the occasion of our next meeting. But when the lad was standing before me, with bended bow and flashing eyes, the burning importance of those questions did not appeal to me as forcibly as did the urgent necessity of sheltering my body behind the friendly stone. To be truthful, it must be admitted that the proposed inquiries were, for the time, entirely forgotten, and I even breathed a sigh of relief when the boy suddenly clambered up the face of the cliff, turned, gave us a fierce look of defiance, made some quick energetic gestures with his hand and disappeared.

He scaled that precipitous rock with the rapidity and self-confidence of a gray squirrel running up the trunk of a hickory tree, squirrel-like, taking advantage of every crack, cranny and projection that could be grasped by fingers or moccasin-covered toes.

Not until the Indian had disappeared down a dry coulee did I venture from the shelter of the protecting rock, or realize that my carefully planned interview must be indefinitely postponed.

With his arms folded across his chest, his blond hair sweeping his shoulders, his blue eyes fixed upon a rocky rib of the mountain behind which the boy had disappeared, Big Pete still stood like a statue. But gradually the statuesque pose resolved itself into a more commonplace posture, and the muscles of the face relaxed until the familiar twinkle hovered around the corners of his eyes. "What did he say when he made those motions, Pete?"

"Waugh! he said he was not afraid of any whitefaced coyote like us." And bringing forth his pipe, Pete filled it from the beaded tobacco pouch which hung on his breast, and by means of a horn of punk, a flint and steel, he soon had the pipe aglow and was puffing away as calmly as if nothing unusual had occurred. Presently he exclaimed, "Gol durn his daguerrotype, what good did it do him to throw that sheep down the gulch? Reckon Le-loo and me could find a better grave for mutton chops than that canyon bottom. The mountains didn't need the sheep an' we did. But, I reckon it was his own sheep you killed, 'cause it had a porcupine collar same pattern as the trimmings of his shirt."

Turning his great blue eyes full upon me, he suddenly shot this inquiry, "Be he bar, ecutock or werwolf?"

"He is the finest adjusted, easiest running, most exquisitely balanced, highest geared bit of human machinery I ever saw," I answered enthusiastically.

"Wall, maybe ye are right, Le-loo, an' maybe ye hain't; which is catamount to saying, maybe it is a man and maybe it tain't."

"Steady, Pete, old fellow, let us go slow; now tell me at what you're driving?" I pleaded.

"It looks to me this hea'-a-way," he explained. "I've seed his trail onct or twice, an' I've seed him onct, but I never yet seed his trail and the Wild Hunter's trail at the same time and place. 'Pears to me that a man who, when it's convenient, kin make a wolf of hisself, might likewise make a boy of hisself whenever he felt that way. Never heared tell on enny real laid who cud climb like a squtton and shoot a bow better nor a Robin Hood or Injun, and that's howsomever!"

"Well, it does look 'howsomever,' and no mistake," I admitted, "and what makes it worse, our dinner is at the bottom of this infernal gulch. Come, let us be moving; the breeze from the snowfields chills me. Let us hit his trail now while it is fresh."

This was a simple proposition to make, but a difficult one to carry into execution; for to all appearances that trail began upon the other side of the chasm, and there was no bridge in sight by which we could cross. Big Pete carefully put a cork-stopper in his pipe, extinguishing the fire without wasting the unconsumed contents; he then carefully put his briarwood away and began to uncoil a lariat from around his middle. As he loosened the braided rawhide from his waist his gaze was roaming over the opposite rocks. Presently he fixed his attention upon a pinnacle which reared its cube-like form above the top of the opposite side of the chasm; the latter was of itself much higher than the brink upon which we stood. Swinging the loop around his head he sent it whistling across the chasm, where it settled and encircled the projecting stone, the honda striking the face of the cliff with a sullen thud. The rope tightened, but when we both threw our weight on our end of the lariat to try it, the cube-like pinnacle moved on its base.

"I oughter knowed better than to try to lasso a piece of slide rock," said Pete in disgusted tones, as he cast the end of the braided rawhide loose and watched it for a moment dangling down the opposite side of the canyon.

"Now, Le-loo, we must get over this hole or lose the best lariat in the Rocky Mountains. We kin look for that boy's trail on this side, for even if he be an Ecutock, I'll bet my crooker bone 'gainst a lock of his hair that he can't jump th' hole, an' I'll wager my left ear that he's got a trail an' a bridge somewhar—'nless he turns bird and flops over things like this," he added, with a troubled look.

"Pete," said I, "never mind the bird business. I'll admit that there is a lot of explanation due us before we can rightly judge on the events of the past few weeks; still I think it may all be explained in a rational manner; but what if it cannot? We have but one trip to make through this world, and the more we see the more we will know at the end of the journey. I am as curious as a prong-horned antelope when there is a mystery, so put your nose to the ground, my good friend, and find the spot where this Mr. Werwolf, witch, or bear flies the canyon, and maybe, like the husband of 'The Witch of Fife,' we may find the 'black crook shell,' and with its aid fly out of this 'lum."

"I believe your judication is sound, Le-loo; stay where you be an' if he hain't a witch I'll bet my front tooth agin the string of his moccasin that I'll find the bridge, and I'll swear by my grandmother's hind leg that that little imp will pay for our sheep yit."

As Pete finished these remarks there was a sudden and astonishing change in his appearance. His head fell forward, his shoulders drooped, his back bowed and his knee bent. It was no longer the upright statuesque Pete the Mountaineer, but Peter the Trailer, all of whose faculties were concentrated upon the ground. With a swinging gait the human bloodhound traveled swiftly and silently along the edge of the crevasse, noting every bunch of moss, fragment of stone, drift of snow or bit of moist earth, reading the shorthand notes of Nature with facility which far excelled the ability of my own stenographer to read her own notes when the latter are a few hours old. But a short time had elapsed before I heard a shout, and, hurrying to the place where my big friend was seated, I inquired, "Any luck?"

"Tha's as you may call it. Here is wha' tha' boy jumped," he replied, pointing to some marks on the stone which were imperceptible to me, "an' tha's wha' he landed," he continued, pointing to a slight ledge upon the face of the opposite cliff at least twenty feet distant. "He's a jumper, an' no mistake—guess I might as well have my front tooth pulled, fur I've lost my bet," soliloquized the trailer, as he sat on the edge of the cliff, with his legs hanging over the frightful chasm.

The ledge indicated by Big Pete as the landing place of the phenomenal jumper might possibly have offered a foothold for a bighorn or goat, but I could not believe that any human being could jump twenty feet to a crumbling trifle of a ledge on the face of a precipice, and not only retain a foothold there, but run up the face of the rock like a fly on a window-pane. Yet I could see that something had worn the ledge at the point indicated and when I stood a little distance away from the trail I could plainly note a difference in color marking the course of the trail where it led over the flinty rocks to the jumping place.

"Wull, Le-loo! What's your opinion of the Ecutock now? Do he use wings or ride a barleycorn broom?" asked Pete, with a triumphant smile.



CHAPTER XIII

Apparently there was no possible way by which we might hope to cross the canyon, and I threw myself prone upon the top of the stony brink of the chasm and peered down the awful abyss at the silver thread, shining in the gloom of the shadows, which marked the course of a stream, and wondered what the Boy Scouts of Troop 6 of Marlborough would do under the circumstances.

I studied the face of the opposite cliff in a vain search for some hint to the solution of the problem before us, looking up and down from side to side as far as allowed by the range of my vision. At length my attention wandered to the perpendicular face of the cliff, on the top of which my body was sprawled; there was an upright crack in the face of the stone wall, and as I examined the fracture I saw that a piece of wood had lodged in the crack; a piece of wood in a crevice in a rock is not so unusual an occurrence as to excite remark; but when it occurred to me that we were then far above the timber line, my interest and curiosity were at once aroused.

The end of the stick was within a short distance from my hand, and reaching down I grasped the wood and brought forth, not a short club or stick, as I thought to be concealed there, but a very long pole. The result of my investigations was so unexpected that I came dangerously near allowing the thing to slide through my fingers and fall to the bottom of the canyon. It was a neatly-smoothed, slender piece of lodge-pole pine which was brought to view, and it had a crooked root nicely spliced to one end and bound tightly in place with rawhide thongs. Big Pete was wholly absorbed in the trail, the study of which he had resumed, and when I looked up he was down on all fours, minutely studying the ground. Presently he cried, "Le-loo, tha' pesky lad ha' been over wha' you be after sompen and he took it back tha' again afore he made his jump! If you're any good you'll find what the lad was after."

"He was after his barleycorn broomstick," I replied, proudly, "and here it is, although I must confess it is a pretty long one for a fellow of his size, and it looks more like a giant Bo-Peep's crook than a witch's broom."

Big Pete eagerly snatched the pole from my hands and examined it carefully. At length he said, "This hyer is the end used for the handle; one can see by the finger marks, an' this crook is used to scrape stone with, one kin see, with half an eye, by the way the end is sandpapered off. Over tha' air some marks on the stone which look almighty like as if they'd been made by the end of this yer hook slipping down the face of the rock.

"Now, I wonder wha' cud be up tha' on the top of the rock that the boy wanted," mused Big Pete, and for a moment or so he stood in silent thought; at length he exclaimed, "Why, bless my corn-shucking soul, if I don't believe he's got a lariat staked out tha' an' crosses this ditch same as we-uns aimed to do!" With that he began raking and scraping the top of the opposite rock with the shepherd's crook, and presently there came tumbling and twisting like a snake down the face of the cliff, a long braided rawhide rope with a loop at the bottom end.

"Waugh, Le-loo! tha's no witchcraft 'bout this 'cep the magic of common-sense; but we hain't through with him yit!" By this time Pete had the end of the rawhide rope in his hands and was testing the strength of its anchorage upon the opposite cliff. The point where it was fastened projected some distance over the ledge, where the supposed landing-place was located, thus making it possible for one to swing at the end of the rope from our side without danger of coming into too violent contact with the opposite cliff.

As soon as my big friend was satisfied that the rope was safe he grasped it with his two hands, and with one foot in the loop and the other free to use as a fender, he sailed across the abyss and landed safely upon the crumbling ledge opposite.

Holding fast to the rawhide rope with his hands and bracing his feet against the rock, Pete could walk up the face of the cliff by going hand-over-hand up the cable at the same time. He had almost reached the top when I was horror-stricken to see a small hand and brown arm reach over the precipice; but it was neither the grace nor the beauty of this shapely bit of anatomy which sent the blood surging to my heart, but the fact that the cold gray glint of a long-bladed knife caught my eyes and fascinated me with the fabled "charm" of a serpent. The power of speech forsook me, but with great effort I succeeded in giving utterance to the inarticulate noise people gurgle when confronted in their sleep by a shapeless horror. Big Pete heard the noise, but he was not unnerved when he saw the knife, neither did he show any nightmare symptoms, although he was dangling over the terrible abyss with a full knowledge that it needed but a touch of the keen blade of that knife to sever the straining lariat and dash him, a mangled mass, on the rocks below. The danger was too real to give Pete the nightmare; there was nothing spooky to him in the glittering knife blade, and only ghosts and the supernatural could give Big Pete the nightmare. Calmly he looked at the hand grasping the power of death with its strong tapering fingers. Suddenly and in a firm, commanding voice he gave the order, "Drap tha' knife!"

Ever since I had been in the company of this masterful forest companion I had obeyed his commands as a matter of course, and so was not surprised to see the fingers instantly relax their grasp and the knife go gyrating to the mysterious depths. In a few moments Big Pete was up and over the edge of the rock and hidden from my view.

Seizing the long-handled shepherd's crook, I caught the dangling end of the lariat, and was soon scrambling up the face of the cliff, leaving a trail which the veriest novice would not fail to notice and sending showers of the crumbling stones down the path taken by the knife; it was several minutes before I had clambered over the face of the projecting crag and was safe across the black chasm which lay athwart our trail.

If the Wild Hunter was indeed my father, he certainly was a woodcrafter and scout to bring pride to a fellow's heart, for I doubted not that the Indian boy was his retainer because the porcupine quill decorations on his buckskin shirt had the same peculiar pattern as that on the wamus of the Wild Hunter himself as well as on the collar of the pet sheep I had killed, and also on the buckskin bag of gold.



CHAPTER XIV

Only those persons who have made solitary trips over snow-capped mountain ridges can appreciate the overwhelming feeling of solitude that I felt on looking about me. To whatever point of view I turned my eyes were greeted with a tumbled sea composed of stupendous petrified billows.

The occasional fields of snow were the white froth of the stony waves and the turquoise colored glacial lakes between the crags rather added to the effect of an angry ocean than detracted from it.

On a closer examination, some of the rocks appeared to be rough bits of unfinished worlds still retaining the form they had when poured from the mighty blast furnaces of the Creator. It was God's workshop strewn with huge fragments, still bearing the marks of His mallet and chisel; yet these cold barren wastes were the pasture lands of the shaggy-coated white goats and the lithe-limbed bighorned sheep.

Suddenly a shrill whistle pierced the air and with a jump I instinctively looked for a vision of the Wild Hunter, but a moment later realized that the sound I heard was but the warning cry of a whistling marmot. Again the silence was broken, this time by a low rumbling sound which increased in volume until it roared like a broadside from an old forty-four-gun man-of-war, each crag and peak taking up the sound and hurling it against its neighbor, until the reverberating noise seemed to come from all points of the compass.

Away in the distance I could see a white stream pouring from the precipitous edge of an elevated glacier; this seeming mountain torrent I knew was not water, but ice, thousands of tons of which having cracked and broken from the edge of the glacier, were now being dashed over the hard face of the rock into minute fragments.

The white stream could be seen to decrease perceptibly in size, from a broad sheet to a wide band, a narrow ribbon, a line, a hair and then disappear altogether. While the distant mountains were still growling, mumbling and playing shuttlecock with the echoes a timid chief hare went hopping across a green half-acre of grass at the damp edge of a melting snow patch in my path. Overhead a golden eagle sailed with a small mammal in its talons; strange reddish-colored bumblebees busied themselves in a bunch of flowers growing in a crevice in the rocks at my feet.

But my eye could discern no larger creatures in this Alpine pasture land; not only could I see no sheep or goats, but not a sign of my friend. He had vanished from the face of the picture as completely as if the master artist had erased him with one mighty sweep of his paint brush.

When I viewed the lonely landscape with no human being in sight, I confess to experiencing a creepy sensation and a strong inclination to flee, but I knew not in what direction to run. I was in a rough basin-shaped depression among the mountain peaks, and I sat on a large rock with my back to a black chasm. From my elevated position I could see a long distance. Strange fancies creep into one's head on such occasions and play havoc with previous well-founded beliefs. To me, poor fool of a tenderfoot, Big Pete had melted into the thinnest of thin air, such as is only found in high altitudes, and somehow I wondered whether the Wild Hunter had had anything to do with it.

How could I tell that I myself was not invisible?

I hauled myself up short there for I realized that such folly was not good to have tumbling around in my brain. I figuratively pulled myself back to earth, and to steady my nerves reached into my pack and brought out several hard bits of bannock that I had stored there. I was dreadfully hungry and I munched these with enthusiasm, meanwhile keeping a sharp eye out for Big Pete, and between times making the acquaintance of the little chief hare who, as he scuttled about among the rocks, looked me over curiously.

A short distance to my left was a huge obsidian cliff, the glassy walls of which rose in a precipice to a considerable height. On account of its peculiar formation, this crag of natural glass had several times attracted my attention, and on any other occasion I would have been curious enough to give it closer inspection. Once, as I turned my head in that direction, I thought I heard a wild laugh and later concluded that it was only imagination on my part, but now, as I again faced the cliff, I unmistakably heard a shout and was considerably relieved to see silhouetted against the sky the figure of Big Pete.

"Hello, Le-loo," he shouted. "Through chasin' that 'ere spook Indian kid be you? It's about time. Gosh-all-hemlocks! I been breakin' my neck tryin' to keep up with you, doggone yore hide," shouted the big guide as he started to climb down toward me.

"Hello, Pete! You bet I'm through and I'm blamed near all in. Where are we, do you know?" I called to him.

"Top o' the world, my boy. Top o' the world, that's whar we be," he said with a grin.

I had seen no game since I had lost the bighorn, and the sunball was now hung low in the heavens. It appeared to me that there was every prospect for a supperless night, too. But Big Pete evidently had no such idea, and he "'lowed" that he would "mosey" 'round a bit and kill some varmints for grub.

There seemed to be plenty of mountain lion signs, and I was surprised that they should frequent such high altitudes, but Pete told me that they were up here after marmots, and were all sleek and fat on that diet. I would not have been surprised if my wild comrade had proposed a feast on these cats. But it was not long before Pete's revolvers could be heard barking and in a short time he returned with two braces of white ptarmigan, each with its head shattered by a pistol ball, and I confess these birds were more to my liking than cat meat. Up there 'mid the snow fields the ptarmigan apparently kept their winter plumage all year round, and their natural camouflage made them utterly invisible to me, but to Pete, a white ptarmigan on a white snowfield seemed to be as easy to detect as if the same bird had been perched on a heap of coal. I had not seen one of these grouse since we had been in the mountains and was not aware of their presence until my companion returned with the four dead birds.

Without wasting time, Pete began to prepare them for cooking. He soon built a fire of some sticks which he gleaned from one or two twisted and gnarled evergreens that had wandered above timber line and cooked the birds over the embers. He gave a brace to me, and sitting on a boulder with our feet hanging over the edge we ate our evening meal without salt or pepper, and then each of us curled up like a grey wolf under the shelter of a stone and slept as safely as if we were in our bed rolls down in the genial atmosphere of the park in place of being in the bitingly cold air of the bleak mountain tops.

I, at least, slept soundly, and, thanks to the clothes Pete had so kindly made for me, I do not remember feeling cold. When I awoke again it was daylight and I could scarcely believe that I had been asleep more than five minutes since my friend bade me good-night. Big Pete was up before me, of course, and when I opened my eyes I found him cooking breakfast and making tea in a tin cup over those economical fires he so loved to build even when we were in the park where there was fuel enough for a roaring bonfire. It's queer how difficult it is to make water boil on a mountain top.

"Well, now fer the witch-b'ar track agin," said Big Pete, wiping his mouth.

"Witch-bear!" I exclaimed. "Oh—yes—you don't mean to tell me you kept following the track of that two-legged bear this far, Pete?" I exclaimed, suddenly recalling that we had started out following a mysterious moccasin trail that had later turned into bear tracks.

"Sartin' sure. Didn't you figger out that that tha' b'ar war the Injun or tha' Wild Hunter who put on moccasins made o' b'ar feet when he thought we'd foller him?" asked Pete.

"Yes, I did, but I forgot—maybe that ram was the Wild Hunter himself—blame it. Nothing will astonish me in this country."

"Yes, you fergot everything, even yore head when you started to foller that tha' ram yesterday. But I didn't. I jest kept peggin' away at them tha' rumswattel b'ar tracks and I followed 'em right up to yonder cliff. They go on from tha', but I left 'em last night to come over by you. Come on, we'll pick 'em up agin." And off he started.

It was soon evident that it was an exceedingly active bear which we were following for it could climb over green glacier ice like a Swiss guide and over rocks like a goat. It led us a wild, wild chase over crevasses, friable and treacherous stones covered with "verglass," over dangerous couloirs and all the other things talked of in the Alps but forgotten in the Rockies, to high elevations, where frozen snow combed over the beetling crags, and the avalanches roared and thundered down the rocks, dashing the fragments of stone over the lower ice fields. We were not roped together like mountain climbers in the Swiss or Tyrolean Alps; we got the real thrills by using our own hands and feet without ice pick, staff or hobnailed shoes.

But Big Pete never hesitated and I followed him without a word, and when the trail led along the edge of a dizzy height I could look at the middle of Big Pete's broad back and then my head would not swim. It required quick and good judgment to tell just how much of a slant made a loose stone unsafe to step upon. It was exciting and exhilarating work, and the violent exercise kept me so warm that I carried most of my clothes in a bundle on my back. Presently our path led us into a goat trail, one of those century old paths made by shaggy white Alpine animals, and used by them as regular highways. There were plenty of fresh goat signs, and the broad path led us over a saddle mountain to the verge of a cliff, beyond which it seemed impossible for anything but birds to pursue the trail. Here we sat down to rest and to make a cup of tea over a tiny fire, although wood was plentiful at this place, it being in the timber line.

Below us lay a valley, into which numerous small glaciers emptied their everlasting supply of ice and blocks of stone, and horse-tail falls poured from the melting snow fields. It might have presented enchanting prospects to an iceman or a bighorn, or a Rocky Mountain goat, but for two tired men it was a gloomy, dangerous and desolate place and I felt certain that even a witch-bear would not choose such a dangerous place as a camping ground. We had finished our tea and I was feeling somewhat refreshed when I noticed a peculiar stinging sensation about my face; I felt as if I had been attacked by some peculiar form of insect. But there were none in sight.

Pete, at this time, was some distance away prospecting the "lay of the land." I saw him suddenly pull the cape of his wamus over his face, and reasoned that he also had been attacked by these invisible insects.

To my surprise, the big fellow seemed very much alarmed, and every time I shouted to him it greatly excited him. As he was hurrying to me as rapidly as possible, I desisted from further inquiry. When Big Pete reached my side he pulled a handkerchief from around my neck and put it over my mouth, making signs which I did not comprehend. At last he put his muffled mouth to my ear and shouted through the cape of his wamus. "Shut yer meat-trap or you're food for the coyotes. It is the WHITE DEATH!"



CHAPTER XV

Clothes and stage trappings can neither add nor detract from our respect for death. He is the same grim old gentleman, be his mouldy bones naked, or clothed in robes of the most gaudy or brilliant hues. A blue death, a red death or a yellow death is just as grizzly and awe-inspiring as one of any shade of gray. Even a black death excites no emotions not touched by the first name, for it is the dread messenger himself whom we respect and not his fanciful robes of office.

As far as I am personally concerned, I confess that Big Pete's painful suggestion about the coyotes had more to do with keeping my mouth shut than any terror inspired by the lily-like purity of the garments of the white death; what made my bones ache was the thought of the wolves gnawing them.

Overhead the sun shone with an unusual brilliancy, and the atmosphere had that peculiar crystalline transparency which kills space and brings distant objects close to one's feet. Where then was the terrible white messenger? Why must my head be muffled like a mummy? Why must I keep my mouth shut, while the curiosity mill within me was working overtime grinding out questions I should dearly love to ask?

Again and again I looked around me to see where this ghostly white terror might lurk, and now, as I gazed at the mountains, I was surprised and annoyed to discover that the distant peaks were gradually disappearing, being blotted out of the landscape before my eyes; a ghost-like mantle was creeping over and enshrouding the mountains.

Like Big Pete, the witch-bear, the ptarmigan and the stinging insects, the mountains themselves had joined in the weird game and were donning their fernseed caps of invisibility. Now the air around and about me seemed to be filled with powdered dust of mica that glinted, sparkled and scintillated in the sunshine. The breeze which was tossing about the bright atoms loosened the handkerchief which swathed my nose and mouth, and I was seized with a violent fit of coughing.

It was no gentle hand which Big Pete laid on my shoulder before he again bound the handkerchief around my face and motioned for me to follow him.

Evidently my guide had been making good use of his time while I was engaged in idle speculation, for he led me to a point about fifty yards from the goat trail where there was a possible place to descend the cliff to a ledge fifty feet below. By this time I had become enough of a mountaineer to follow my guide over trails which a few weeks previous would have seemed to me impossible to traverse, and after a hasty and daring descent we reached the ledge, where I discovered the black mouth of a cavern; into this hole Pete thrust me and led me back some twenty yards into the darkness, ordered me to disrobe to the waist, then he began a most vigorous and irritating slapping and rubbing of my chest; so insistent and persevering was he that I really thought my skin would be peeled from shoulders to waist. At last he desisted and ordered me to put on all my clothes.

"Are you mad, Pete? Has the rarefied air of the mountains upset your brain? If not, will you kindly tell me what on earth all this means and why we are hiding in this gloomy hole?" I asked as soon as I got the breath back in my body.

"Le-loo, you be a baby, and need a keeper to prevent you from committing susancide several times a day. Tenderfoot? Well, I should say so. No one but a short-horn from the East would keep his mouth open gulping in the frozen fog, filling his warm lungs with quarts of fine ice. I reckon it would be healthier to breathe pounded glass, fur it hain't sharper nor half as cold. Why, Le-loo, tha' be a dose of fever and lung inflammation in every mouthful of this frozen fog."

He held my face between his two strong hands so that the faint light that filtered through the murky darkness from the cavern's mouth dimly illuminated my countenance, and as he watched the streams of perspiration falling in drops from the end of my nose his frown relaxed and a broad grin spread over his handsome features.

"You're all right this time," he added "I calculate that I've melted all the ice in your bellows, so just creep up tha' and sweat a bit more to make it slick and sartin that we've beat the White Death this trip." I did as he said, not because I wanted to sweat but because habit made me obey the commands of my guide.

Evidently this cavern had been in constant use by some sort of animals as a sort of stable for many, many years, and I have had sweeter couches, but by this time my rough life had transformed me into something of a wild animal myself, and it was not long before I was comfortably dozing. During the time that I slept I was dimly conscious of being surrounded by a crowd of people; as the absurdity of this forced itself through my sleep-befuddled brain and I opened wide my eyes, what I saw made me open my eyes still wider.

I was about to start to my feet when I felt Big Pete's restraining hand on my shoulder, and not until then did I realize that the cave was crowded with the shaggy white Rocky Mountain goats, and not weird, white-bearded old men. Few persons can truly say that they have been within arm's length of a flock of these timid and almost unapproachable animals; but we had invaded their secret place of refuge, and they had not, as yet, taken alarm at our presence in their castle. It may be that the frozen fog had driven the goats to the cavern for shelter, and it is possible that never having been hunted by man, these animals feared the White Death more than they did human beings, and did not realize the dangerous character of their present visitors; whatever the cause of their temerity, the fact remains that men and goats slept that night in the cavern together.

I did not awake next morning until after the departure of the goats and opened my eyes to find myself alone in the cavern.

Having all my clothes on, no time was wasted at my toilet, but I made my way directly to the doorway and was gratified to discover that Big Pete was roasting some kid chops over the hot embers of a fire.

After breakfasting on the remains of the kid, Big Pete arose and scanned the sky, the horizon and the mountain tops, and turning to me said, "Now, Le-loo, that Wild Hunter-b'ar-wolf man has fooled us by doubling on his trail an' as it hain't him we're after now but the trail out of the mountains, I mean to go by sens-see-ation, but you must keep yer meat-trap shut and not speak, 'cause soon as I know I'm a man I hain't got no more sense than a man. I must say to myself, 'Now, Pete, you're a varmint and varmints know their way even in a new country.' Then I just sense things and trots along 'til I come out all right."

I had often heard of this wonderful instinct of direction, the homing instinct of the pigeon, which some Indians, Africans, Australian black boys and a few white men still possess; I say still possess because it is evident that it was once our common heritage, a sort of sixth sense which has been lost by disuse. That Big Pete possessed this sixth sense I little doubted, and it was with absorbing interest that I watched the man work himself into the proper state of mind.

For quite a time he stood sniffing the air and looking around him while his body swayed with a slow motion. Then suddenly, as if he had seen something or as if answering the call of something, he started off almost at right angles to our trail, acting very much like a hound on an old scent, but keeping up a pace that tried my endurance.

It was truly wonderful the way this man, in a trance-like state, was guided by an invisible power over the most dangerous ground, but no one, after a careful survey, could have selected a better trail than that chosen by Big Pete. On and on we went, scrambling over rock-skirting precipices and crumbling ledges. A dense fog settled around us, making each step hazardous, but with an instinct as true and apparently identical with that of our four-footed brothers, my guide kept the same rapid pace for hours, and then, all of a sudden, came to an abrupt stop.

For several seconds he stood in his tracks, his body keeping the same swaying motion, but after a short while he crept cautiously forward in the fog, with me at his heels, and we found ourselves at the edge of a giant fault, similar to the one in Darlinkel Park, but there was apparently no pass to let us down the towering precipices to the valley below.

"Well, that was a wonderful trip," I cried.

"Shut up!" shouted Pete savagely, but I had spoken and the spell was broken; reason, not instinct, must now lead us.

Vapor and clouds concealed the low grounds from our view; however, we were determined not to spend another night in the mountains, so while I rested and regained my breath, Big Pete went on to explore the ledges.

Presently my guide hove in sight and motioned me to follow him; he led me to a place where another goat trail went over the edge of the precipice, this time not in ten and fifteen feet jumps, but by a steep diagonal path. Down the treacherous trail we slipped and slid with a wall of rocks on one side and death in the form of a bluish white space on the other side.

As we were clambering carefully around the face of a big rock Pete suddenly whispered that he smelt a "Painter," and upon peering around the corner we found ourselves face to face with a large cat; the animal was crouching upon a flat-topped projecting stone immediately in our path. That it was not the puma of the low-lands, its reddish-colored coat and great size proclaimed. It was a so-called mountain lion and a grand specimen of its kind.

The cat's small head lay between its muscular forepaws, its hair adhered closely to its body, its long tail was full and round and waved slowly from side to side, while its eyes gleamed like electric sparks.

We were in a most awkward position; our guns were swung by straps over our backs, so that we might use our hands, and we were clinging to the face of the big rock while our toes were seeking foothold in the treacherous shale of the trail. To loosen our hands was to fall backwards into the bluish white sea of unknown depths, and to retrace our steps was out of the question.

Pete often expressed the opinion that no predaceous creature, from a spider up to a cougar, will attack its prey while the latter is immovable.

As a corollary to this proposition he said that when a person is suddenly confronted by a dangerous wild beast, the safest plan to pursue is to remain perfectly quiet, or, as he quaintly put it, "to peetrify yourself in the wink of an eye."

Truth to tell, on this occasion I found no difficulty in following his directions. I was "peetrified" by fear; my feet were cold and numb, chills in wavelets washed up and down my spine, a sudden rash seemed to be breaking out all over my body and the skin on my back felt as if it had been converted into goose-flesh.

Had we been able to travel a few feet further we would have both found a comparatively safe footing and had our arms free and a fighting chance with the big catamount in place of hanging suspended to the face of the rock like two big, helpless, terrified bats.



CHAPTER XVI

With an imperceptible movement, as steady and almost as slow as that of a glacier, my guide twisted his neck until his face was turned from the puma and the side of the mouth pressed against the flat surface of his rock. I was crowded up against Big Pete, who occupied a position but slightly in advance and a little above me. My agony of fear having somewhat subsided I ventured to steal a momentary glance at my comrade's face. To my unutterable surprise I discovered a whimsical twinkling at the corners of his eyes and a mirthful expression of mischief in his countenance. This was incomprehensible to me, for I could imagine no more awe-inspiring position than the one we then occupied.

While my thoughts were still busy trying to fathom the cause of Pete's untimely mirth, the long-drawn howl of the big timber wolf floated over the valley and sent a new lot of shivers down my back. It was the rallying call used by the wolves to call the band together when game is in sight. The sound increased in volume until it reverberated among the crags like the voice of a winter's storm, and then it gradually died away. Big Pete was not only a good mimic but he proved himself to be a ventriloquist of no mean ability; by the help of the rock against which his cheek was pressed he had been able to throw his voice off into space in such a manner that it baffled me for several moments.

The gray wolves are old and inveterate enemies of the panther or cougar, hunting the cats on all occasions. Consequently all panthers know the meaning of that wild lonesome howl, the assembling call, as well as the oldest wolf in the pack, and its effect upon the lion in our path was instantaneous. The hair, which had a moment before been as slick as if it were oiled, now rose upright until the fuzzy hide gave the animal's body the appearance of being twice its original size.

Scarcely had the big cat vacated the path before we scrambled to the firm foothold and I breathed a great sigh of relief when it was reached. But Big Pete was convulsed with suppressed laughter at the practical joke he had played on the mountain lion.

"Gosh darn my magnolia breath! That painter went as if he had a ball of hot rorrum tied to his tail," cried my guide.

It was difficult for me to realize that it was Big Pete himself who had given vent to that shuddering howl, and now the danger was over I pleaded with him to give another exhibition of his skill in wolf calls.

The good-natured fellow at first seemed reluctant to repeat his performance, but at length consented and put his hands to his mouth, forming a trumpet, then bent forward his body, stooping so low that his face was was below his waist, after which he began again that wild cry which so closely resembles in sentiment and tone the shriek of the wind. As the sound increased in volume the man waved his head from side to side; continuing the movement he gradually assumed an upright pose, and ended by making a low obeisance as the sound died away.

The imitation was perfect and I was expressing my delight and appreciation when my ear caught a distant sound which put a sudden stop to our conversation.

Was it the wind which I now heard? No! there was not a breath of air stirring, neither was it an echo. There could be no doubt about it, the long-drawn sepulchral howl which filled and permeated the shivering air was an answering cry to Big Pete's call.

Scarcely had the sound waves faded away when in the mysterious distance came another and another answer, until it seemed as if a troop of lost souls were vocalizing their misery. I unslung my gun and loosened my revolvers in their fringed holsters, but Big Pete only shrugged his shoulders and said,

"Come, let's be moseying. 'Taint nothin' but wolves." A fact of which I was as well aware of as Pete, but I, tenderfoot that I was, could not treat howling of wolves with the same unconcern as did my guide.

We soon reached a point where the goat trail turned again up the mountain and we forsook that ancient path for a diagonal fracture very similar to the one by which we had ascended, which led down the face of the precipice "slantendicularwise," Big Pete said, and soon plunged into the bluish gray sea which filled the valley. We were now enveloped in a dense fog, which added materially to the dangers of the journey. I had had so many thrills in the last few moments that my nerves were becoming dull and failed to vibrate on this occasion, so that descending the cliff in a fog by a diagonal fracture in the rock became only an incident of our journey; this trail, however, was wider than the one by which we ascended.

The Rocky Mountains are full of new sensations and I got a new one when I discovered that the fog through which we had been traveling was in reality a cloud, and, all unexpectedly, we emerged into the clear mellow light below the floating vapor. It was an enchanting scene which met our eyes; below us stretched a beautiful valley.

For the first time in months I saw a human habitation. The blue smoke from the chimney ascended slowly in a tall column and then floated horizontally in stratified layers. There were fields of ripe grain, orchards, groves, pasture lands and a winding stream fringed with poplars, which flowed in a tortuous course across the valley. As I feasted my eyes on the peaceful scene a great longing took possession of my soul.

Big Pete, too, was lost in thought, conjured up by the scene below us. He stood leaning on his rifle with his eyes fixed on the enchanting picture; so full of unconscious dignity was his pose, so immovable stood the mountain man that he looked like a grand statue done by a master hand.

But what thoughts were conjured up in the guide's brain by the unexpected sight of this ranch could not be interpreted from the expression of his countenance, for that showed no more trace of emotion than an American Indian at the torture stake, or the marble face of a Greek god. Presently he shifted his pose, threw back his head, and Big Pete's eyes were fixed on the valley in front of us, as with distended nostrils he sniffed the mountain air, his brows contracted to a frown, his eyes lost their gentle angelic look and seemed to change from China blue to a cold steel color, and his tightly closed mouth had a stern expression about the corners which appeared altogether out of keeping with the occasion.

"Rot my hide!" he exclaimed, "if I hain't had a neighbor all these years and never knowed it. Waugh! Some emigrant—terrification seize him!—has found another park an' squatted, t'ain't more'n eight miles as a crow flies from mine, nuther, Le-loo." He looked at the sun and muttered. "Hang me, but 'tis t'other end of my own park," then he paused a moment and added fiercely, "if these geysers know when they are well off, they'll steer shy of Darlinkel Park. If I catch 'em scoutin' 'round my claim, I'll send 'em a-hoppin'."

"Bless me, you are neighborly," exclaimed a voice in smooth, even tones.

"What!" said Pete, looking sternly at me. "Did you speak?"

"I said nothing," I replied.

Big Pete's countenance changed and he ran his hands over the cartridges in his belt in the old familiar manner, and with a motion quicker than I can describe it, whipped out his revolvers and wheeled about face, at the same time snapping out the words, "Throw up your hands!"



CHAPTER XVII

We were standing on the surface of a flat table-rock, which jutted out from the face of the towering cliff and overhung the valley that was spread out like a map beneath us. About twenty feet back from the edge of the rock was a pile of debris heaped up against the face of the cliff; but the remaining surface of the stone was clean bare and weather-beaten. The talus against the cliff was composed of loose fragments of stone and other products of wash and erosion. This was overgrown with a thicket of stunted shrubs, wry-necked goblin thistles and murderous devil's clubs. These bludgeon-shaped plants, thickly covered with sharp thorns, reared aloft their weapons as if in menace to all living things; the unstable ground and thorny thicket formed the only shelter where we could be ambushed in the rear, and it was not a likely spot to be chosen for such a purpose by man or beast.

When Big Pete wheeled about face with his trusty revolvers in hand, I quickly followed his example, and our mutual surprise may be imagined when we found ourselves gazing in the faces of a semicircle of gigantic wolves. The animals were squatting on their haunches at the foot of the talus, their wicked slant eyes fixed upon us and their red tongues lolling out from their cavernous mouths.

I cannot tell why, whether it was the state of my nerves or the effect of the rare air of the high altitude, or what, but I felt no fear at facing this strange wolf pack. Indeed, to me they appeared all to be laughing and their red tongues lolled from their open mouths in a very humorous fashion.

The whole scene appeared to me to be exceedingly funny and, in a spirit of utter reckless bravado, I doffed my fur cap, with exaggerated politeness made a low bow, and, addressing the largest and most devilish-looking wolf in the pack, exclaimed,

"Ah! this is Monsieur Loup-Garou, I believe. Pardon me, Monsieur, but did you speak a moment since?"

But Big Pete Darlinkel looked at the wolves, and great beads of sweat stood on his forehead. It was his turn to have the shivers. There was no more color in his face than in a peeled turnip. His gun shook in his left hand like a aspen, while the spangled gun in his right hand dropped its muzzle towards earth and there was scarcely strength enough in his nerveless fingers to have pulled a hair-trigger.

Pete's great baby-blue eyes turned helplessly to me; but it was now my innings, and with a cheery voice I cried,

"Why, Pete, old fellow, what ails you?" Then meanly quoting his own words, I added, "They hain't nothing but wolves!"

There is not a shadow of a doubt that Pete expected the wolves to answer me with human voice, and I am willing to confess that, even to me, there seemed to be no other alternative for the slant-eyed bandits to pursue. But for the present they appeared to prefer to maintain a solemn silence.

The middle wolf had been looking intently at us for some time before a well-modulated voice said,

"I have answered your call, gentlemen; how can I serve you?"

I was more than half expecting some such answer, but if it had not been so evident that Big Pete was badly frightened and had lost all his self-possession, I should have thought he was again practising his art as ventriloquist.

Of course I deceived myself. The wolves had no more power of speech than a house-dog. But I really thought the wolves were doing the talking until I caught sight of a tall man of handsome and distinguished appearance seated among the weird goblin-thistles just above the wolves. The stranger appeared to be a man of almost any age; he might be young but, if old, he was wonderfully well preserved. He was clad in a light-colored buckskin suit of clothes, edged and trimmed with fur, a fur cap on his head and moccasins on his feet. And I noticed, with a start, that he had that same red porcupine quill ornament on his hunting shirt that the young Indian wore.

When I saw how his dress blended perfectly with his surroundings I excused myself for not sooner detecting him. I could not help but admire his easy grace and the sense of reserved strength in his strong figure. The calmness and repose forcibly reminded me of the mountain lion we had lately encountered.

"You kin hackle me and card my sinews, if it hain't the Wild Hunter himself an' his pack," said Big Pete under his breath.

The color now began to return to his face and at the recollection of his late rude words the big fellow blushed like a school girl. Gradually he recovered his self-possession, and, doffing his cap, made a low bow as graceful and as courtly as that of any polished courtier. This was an entirely new side to my friend's character and I listened with interest when he said,

"Sir, whether you be loup-garou, werwolf, witch-b'ar or all them to onct, I do not care. What I want ter say is ef that tha' ranch yander be your'n, you may hamstring me ef I hain't proud to have such a man for a neighbor. Whatever else you be yore no shavetail or shorthorn, an' that's howsomever. I don't mind sayin' that yore a better shot an' all around hunter an' mountain man than Daniel Boone, Simon Kenton, Davy Crockett, Kit Carson, Bison McClean and Jim Baker all rolled in one. Yore the slickest woodsman on the divide. I'm powerful proud of you as a neighbor and would be still prouder ef I might call you my friend."

Our strange visitor displayed a beautiful white set of teeth as a frank smile played over his smooth face. But his only answer at that moment was an inclination of his head and a muttered command to the wolves, which they instantly obeyed by silently disappearing in the underbrush.

After a pause the tall stranger came forward, and, removing his own cap, made a bow even more courtly than that of Big Pete, as he thus replied: "Sir, I feel highly honored at this flattering expression of commendation. I can honestly say that it is the greatest compliment I have ever received from a stranger, and," he added with another winning smile, "you are the first stranger with whom I have held converse in nearly twenty years. That I am not unfriendly I have already proved by some trifling services, but the honor of the acquaintance is mine."

After the formalities of our meeting were over the stranger stood for a few moments with his chin resting on his breast. He was evidently thinking over some serious subject. His head was bare, his fur cap being in his hands, and his hands locked behind his back. A mass of light colored hair fell over his forehead and shoulders.

Presently he looked at us again, with that same grave smile on his face, and said that if we would consent to be blindfolded and trust ourselves implicitly to his care, he would be glad to take us to his home and would feel honored if we should choose to visit him.

"You can proceed no further on this trail for it ends here, and not even a goat can go beyond the rock on which we stand, therefore we must retrace our steps a few hundred yards," he explained, as he apologized for his strange proposition. He securely bandaged our eyes with our own handkerchiefs, and after turning us around until I at least had lost all sense of direction, he placed thongs in our hands, and then we discovered that we were to be led by some sort of animals, presumably wolves. Whatever else they were, they proved to be careful and sagacious leaders.

After a short distance of rough climbing where we constantly needed the personal help of our mysterious host, we began to descend and soon our feet told us that we were traveling on a comparatively smooth though steep trail. Now and again our guide would speak to warn us of stones or other obstructions in our path, but, with the exception of these necessary words of caution and brief words expressing approval or reproof to the animals, we made the journey in silence and in due time reached the bottom, and our feet told us that we were walking on a level shale-covered path.

At this point the creatures leading us were dismissed and we could hear them scrambling back over the trail. We heard the bleating of sheep, the lowing of cattle and all the multiplicity of noises so familiar on a well-stocked farm, and we could easily detect the different odors as familiar and characteristic as the noises. We enjoyed to its fullest extent the novelty of the homely sensations aroused by the smell of new-mown hay and the familiar medley of sounds peculiar to the farm.

In due time we found ourselves at the foot of a couple of wooden steps, which we ascended, and, crossing a broad veranda, entered a doorway. Here we stood awaiting further commands in utter ignorance of our surroundings. Of course, we surmised we were in the ranch house which we saw from the table rock, but this was only a surmise.

"Gentlemen," said the strange old man, "you are welcome to my home, and allow me to add that you are the only white men who have ever crossed the threshold of this house."

As he ceased speaking he removed the bandages from our eyes.



CHAPTER XVIII

It was a strange place, indeed, in which I found myself. Our eyes were unbandaged after we entered the portal of the ranch house, and when Big Pete and I turned toward our guide, we were facing in a direction that gave us a sweeping view of the entire ranch. And what we saw made us marvel.

This farm, between the towering, almost insurmountable mountains, had evidently been wrenched from what two decades before had been as much of a wilderness as the Darlinkel Park across the divide. Timber clothed the mountains on either hand but the fertile valley bottom was as rural as a district of the middle west. On one hand stretched acres and acres of ripened grain. Beyond was pasture land dotted with strange whitefaced animals, which later proved to be hybrid buffalos, a strange cross between wild and domestic cattle.[3] In other pastures and on the hillsides I could see goats and sheep, and these too were evidently a cross breed of wild and domestic stock, the goats having a very strange resemblance to the fleet-footed shaggy old fellows we had seen on the mountains, while the sheep closely resembled usual domestic sheep.

[Footnote 3: Since that time the late Buffalo Jones has bred buffalo and domestic cattle and called the offspring "catelow."]

There were stables, too, and corrals, all made of logs, as was the ranch house, but what seemed very strange to me was the fact that there were no horses in sight. All of the animals at work in the fields were those strange hybrid buffalo-oxen, all save one, a single, lame and apparently almost blind burro that I saw lying in the sun. From his grayness about the head I had little doubt that he was of great age.

There were hordes of strange poultry too,—strange to me at least, for never had I expected to find flocking together wild turkeys, Canadian geese, black ducks, wood ducks, and mallards (all with wings clipped so that they never again could fly), sage hens, quail, spruce-grouse, partridge, ptarmigan and western mountain quail. All seemed perfectly at home and comfortably domesticated.

Beyond the poultry houses was still another outhouse, a long, low, log building before which was a lawn. On the lawn were all manner of perches and roosts and on these, sunning themselves and preening their feathers, were several types of predaceous birds, ranging from huge and powerful female eagles to smaller hawks and true falcons. This evidently was the Wild Hunter's falconry.

Another thing that made an instant impression upon me was the number of men at work about the place. The workmen were all, without an exception, Indians, and as they moved about silently, their stoic, almost expressionless faces held a decided look of contentment, a few of them turned toward the porch with a frank, honest stare. There was no evidence of fear or restraint in their actions but they always gave the wolf dogs plenty of room as they passed them. These black beasts were ugly, snarling things that showed no love for anyone; on the least provocation menacing growls rumbled in their throats.

What manner of place was this that we had permitted ourselves to be led into? Indeed, what manner of man was this strange host of ours? I shot a sidelong glance at him and it seemed to me as if I caught a strange, hunted look in his eyes, and a sad smile on his handsome but grim countenance. A slight feeling of fear crept into my heart. Could this strange man be my father? For some reason he certainly did attract me and excite my sympathy, yet I stood in awe of him. The strangeness of my surroundings, too, settled upon me. I turned toward Pete and I had a premonition of evil. I could see that he too was affected the same way. The valley was an earthly paradise, the Wild Hunter a kindly gentleman, what then was it that gave me an uncomfortable and uneasy feeling? I was eager to be alone with Pete for I knew that he would have some interesting observations to make.

"I am disappointed, gentlemen, you say nothing. Isn't my ranch interesting to you?" demanded the Wild Hunter, with a smile. In a low smooth voice he gave some orders to a young Indian who was walking toward the stables. The Indian instantly snapped into action and hurried away as if one of the black wolf dogs were snapping at his heels, and I felt certain that it was the youth whom we had been trailing.

A hurried and very unpleasant thought flashed through my mind: What was the source of the power the Wild Hunter held over these Indians? They were not slaves in this mountain-surrounded prison; this grim, forceful but kindly wild man did not hold them through fear. He always smiled when he greeted them, but he never smiled at his wolves; when giving them orders or even looking at them, the expression of his face was stern and almost fierce. But the man had asked a question. He was expecting an answer.

"It is a wonderful place," I managed to stammer; "who could conceive of such a remarkable ranch buried here in the heart of the wilderness?"

"It's a ring-tailed snorter, hamstring me if it hain't," said Big Pete in an attempt to be enthusiastic.

The man's face glowed with pleasure.

"You are the first white men to see it. I think I have achieved something here in the wilds, thanks a great deal to Pluto and his strain."

"Eh, what?" exclaimed Big Pete in alarm.

"To—to—whom," I gasped, for to have the man actually confess an alliance with Satan rather startled me also.

The Wild Hunter chuckled in an amused manner.

"Thanks to Pluto, I said. But Pluto is that black wolf-dog over there, nevertheless. I think that the name 'Pluto' fits his character to a nicety."

He pointed to the massive, deep-chested, long-haired, long-limbed, vicious looking leader of his black wolf pack where it was chained to a post. The great animal glared at his master when his name was mentioned. He crouched twenty feet away with his slanting green eyes fixed constantly on his master's face and in them ever flared a fierce, wicked fire.

"Yes, you son of Satan, you and your hybrid whelps have helped me do all this in spite of the fact that you hate me, and would love to tear me limb from limb. You splendid, ugly brute, you are insensible to kindness!"

I noticed that whenever he looked the wolf in the face his own countenance became grim and his eyes exceedingly fierce and not unlike the wolf itself in expression.



"He hates me," he continued, turning to us, "because of his ancestors. In him is the blood of a Great Dane noted for its strength, size and ferocity, a fierce brute which I brought over the mountains with me many years ago. Pluto's mother was a pure black wolf of a mean disposition, and his father the half-breed son of a Great Dane and a she-wolf. He is the fiercest and most bloodthirsty beast in the whole pack, he hates me with the intense hatred of his wolfish nature, he hates me because he knows that I am the master of the pack, the real leader, and he is jealous. Since his puppy days he has watched for a chance to kill me; twice he nearly succeeded—the time will no doubt come when it will be his life or mine. Yet because of his wonderful strength, endurance and sagacity, I could almost love him.

"His breed does not want to recognize any master. But I am his master!" cried the Wild Hunter as his eyes flashed and he struck himself on his chest, "and he knows it. The only way, however, that I keep my power over him and his pack is by forcing myself to think every time I speak to them, now I am going to kill you, and brutes though they are they can read my mind and fear me. Besides which self-interest helps a little towards their loyalty. With me for a leader there is always a kill at the end of the hunt, and they know that they come in for a share of the food.

"Sometimes I fear the wolves will break loose and attack my Indians, which I would very much regret, for the Redmen are faithful fellows and we form a happy community. The Indians look upon me as Big Medicine because I can control these medicine wolves."

Big Pete looked at the man with open admiration, a man who by the sheer power of his will could control a band of wolves, any one of which was powerful enough to kill an ox, certainly was a man to please the wild nature of Big Pete. "But," said Pete, "you say Pluto has helped you. How?" he asked.

"How," exclaimed the Wild Hunter, "why, gentlemen, by governing the pack as savage as himself. The pack is the secret of my whole success; my power over them first won the allegiance of the Indians, won their admiration and their respect. They know that I could turn those wolves upon them at any moment, but they also know that I would not think of doing such an act and they are human and love me; the wolves are brutes and not susceptible to kindness. The wolves hate the Redmen as they hate me, but they supplied us all with food, they secured for us our winter meat while the men worked to build houses and clear the land, and thus made it possible for us to start this settlement. They even acted as pack animals for us, each of them carrying as much as seventy pounds in weight on their backs. But be on your guard, gentlemen, be on your guard! Remember that you are strangers to the wolves and they will not hesitate, if the opportunity offers, to rend you and even devour you."

A moment later his expression changed.

"Enough of this," he exclaimed in pleasanter tones, "come, dinner is served," and turning, he led the way through the broad doorway of the log ranch house into an almost sumptuously furnished dining room where two silent, soft-footed Indians began immediately to serve a truly remarkable meal.

"He may be lo-coed," whispered Pete to me as we took our places at the table, "but I'll tell the folks, he is a master looney alright. He knows how to make Injuns love him and varmints fear him, he kin pack all his duffle in my bag, he need not cough up eny money when he's with me. Reckon we be alright here, but waugh! we've gotter watch tha' black wolf pack!—yes and also that young Indian whose ram you shot; it seems he looks after the wolves and sees to it that they are fastened up in their corral. I wouldn't want him to be sort of careless, you know."



CHAPTER XIX

What a dining room that was! All of logs, high ceilinged, with smoked rafters stained like an old meerschaum pipe. It reminded me of a wealthy man's hunting lodge in Maine, perhaps, rather than the abode of a wild man. There was a huge yawning fireplace at one end, above which was the finest specimen of an elk's head I have ever seen. There were other heads, too, prong-horned antelope, beautiful bison heads, remarkable specimens of bighorn sheep and mountain goats, there were buffalo robes and wolf robes strewn over the floor, and there were abundant well stocked gun cases on every hand.

But conspicuous among the collection of firearms was one, kept apart, polished and cleaned, and on a rack made of elk horns handily placed just above the big mantle. It was beautifully though not elaborately made, with a fine damascus barrel of tremendous length, a lock and set trigger that showed expert handicraft, and stock of beautifully polished birds-eye maple. An expert would have known immediately that it was a first-water product of an expert gunsmith.

Big Pete noticed it as soon as I did and he could not keep his eyes from roving to it occasionally during the meal.

"You may scalp me, stranger, fer sayin' it, but I'd like mightily well to heft that tha' shooting iron o' your'n and examine it when we git through with chuck," he said.

Our strange host looked up at the rifle, then searchingly at Big Pete.

"I don't mind showing it to you, but you must not touch it," he said finally.

"I reckon I wouldn't hurt it none. I've handled guns before," said Big Pete shortly, and I could see that he was piqued at the man's attitude.

"Guess you wouldn't, but I've made it a rule never to let strange hands touch that rifle," said the strange man, and there was a grimness about his tone that forbade quibbling.

"Huh, well I can't say as perhaps yore not right about yore shootin' hardware at that," said Pete. Then after glancing at it again, he added, "a hunter's gun and a woodsman's ax should never be trusted in strange hands. Bet a ten spot it's a Patrick Mullen. Hain't it?"

The name of my kinsman, the famous gunsmith, brought a sudden realization that Mullen was my own family name.

The mention of the gunsmith seemed also to have a curious effect on the old man. His face grew red under the tan and his brow wrinkled and I could see his cold blue eyes scrutinizing Big Pete closely. Finally he said bluntly,

"It is, and it's worth a thousand dollars."

"A thousand dollars!" I exclaimed, "a thousand dollars?"

"Yes," cried the old man almost fiercely, "yes, yes, and it is my gun. He gave it to me, he did—to me and not to Donald. He—"

He stood up suddenly as if he intended to stride over and seize the gun, to protect it from us but as quickly sat down again and buried his face in his hands, and I could see him biting his lips as if he were attempting to control his feeling.

As for me, quite suddenly a great light seemed to dawn. This strange old man was mentioning names that were familiar—that meant worlds to me. I leaned toward him eagerly. Big Pete stood quietly listening, a silent but interested spectator.

"Did you know Donald Mullen, a brother to the famous gunsmith? Tell me, did you know him? I have come all the way—"

I stopped in wonder. Never in all my life do I ever expect to witness such a pitiful expression of anguish pictured so vividly on the human countenance as it was on the face of the Wild Hunter.

"What," he whispered, "did you know him?"

"He was my father," I answered simply.

For a moment the Wild Hunter looked at me intently, then said, "I believe you, you favor him somewhat." He then came forward as if to shake my hand, but changed his mind and sat down with a forced and wan smile.

"Did I know Don Mullen? Did I? He was my partner, my bunkee for many years and on many prospecting trips, a better bunkee no man ever had, but he is dead now, dead! dead! dead! been dead for a dozen years. He was killed by an avalanche. A better partner no man ever had," he murmured and relaxed into silence.

My efforts to get more information of my parents were of no avail. The Wild Hunter turned the conversation in other directions.

Of course, the knowledge that my real father was dead, had been dead a long time, caused me a feeling of sadness, yet strangely enough the little knowledge that I had gleaned from this strange old man brought a sense of relief to me. I think that it must have been a certain sense of satisfaction to know that this queer man was not my father.

But if he was not Donald Mullen, who was he? That question kept me pondering and for the rest of the meal I was silent, speculating on this strange situation, nor did I have an opportunity to note, as Big Pete did, the tearful, kindly glances that the Wild Hunter shot at me now and then.

Still, for all, he was sociable, extremely sociable, and talkative, too, but I fancy now as I recall it, he was simply keeping the conversation in safe channels, for it was very apparent that the rifle and his former mining partner were painful subjects.

Dinner over, we all went out onto the porch of the ranch house, where we talked while the twilight lasted. At least Big Pete and the Wild Hunter talked as they smoked two of those mysterious long cigars, but I was still silent because of the many strange thoughts that were romping through my mind.

Soon darkness settled down and Big Pete began to yawn. I also was heavy-eyed, and presently the Wild Hunter clapped his hands and summoned a leather-skinned old Indian to whom he gave brief low command in the Mewan Indian tongue, as I was afterwards informed by Big Pete, then turning to us he said in his fascinating soft voice:

"It will probably be a novelty for both of you gentlemen to again sleep in a bed between sheets and under a roof. I doubt whether you will enjoy it even though the sheets are clean linen which were spun and woven by my noble Indians. Moose Ear, here, will conduct you to your rooms and I will take a turn about the place before retiring to see that all is well, and also to see that my black wolf pack is securely confined within the wolf corral. This is a precaution, gentlemen, which I take every night, because a wolf is a wolf no matter how well trained he may be upon the surface, and night is the time wolves delight to run. These beasts are especially dangerous to strangers and it is for that reason I am putting you in the house in place of allowing you to camp outdoors, as I know you would prefer to do. Good-night, gentlemen, see that the doors are closed. Pleasant dreams."

As we said good-night to him I wondered vaguely if the wolf pen was securely built, for it seemed to me that I detected a suggestion of doubt in the mind of the Wild Hunter himself. I little realized, however, the horrors the darkness had in store for us.



CHAPTER XX

Moose Ear, the silent, wrinkled old Indian, with lighted candles made of buffalo tallow, guided Big Pete and me up the broad skilfully built puncheon stairway to the upper story of the surprisingly large ranch house, where he showed us to our rooms, rooms which were a joy to look upon. Each was furnished with a heavy, hand-made four-posted bedstead, which in spite of the massiveness was beautifully made, and I wondered at the patience of the Wild Hunter in teaching the Indians their craftmanship.

The other furniture in the room was also hand wrought, as were the fiber rugs on the floor and the checked homespun blankets on the beds. There was a harmonious and pleasing effect; the rooms were cheerful, abounding in evidences of Indian handicraft. Beadwork and embroidery of dyed porcupine quills were prevalent, even the tester which roofed the four-post bedstead was ornamented with fringes of buckskin and designs made of beads and porcupine quills. The chairs and floors were plentifully supplied with fur rugs, and the quaint, old-fashioned appearance of the room in nowise detracted from its comfort or even luxury.

If it had not been for the uncomfortable thought of that pack of black wolves outside, I am sure I would have been supremely happy at the prospect of once more spending a night between clean and cool sheets and a real feather pillow on which to rest my head. Eagerly and almost excitedly I threw off my clothes and donned the long, linen nightshirt with which old Moose Ear had provided me. Then I put the buckhorn extinguisher over the candle and dove into the feather bed as gleefully as a child on Christmas Eve.

I expected to immediately fall asleep, but there is where I made a mistake; my mind would not cease working, the wheels in my head kept buzzing and would not stop. I was as wide awake as a codfish; the bed was comfortable, too comfortable, but tired though I was I felt no inclination to sleep. I thought it was the strangeness of my surroundings which kept me tossing from side to side, but I soon realized that the trouble was to be found in the fact that for months I had only had the sky for my roof, never using our tents or open faced shack except in bad weather; but here, the ornamented tester of the bed and the ceiling itself seemed to be resting on my chest; in spite of the wide open windows the room seemed stuffy and oppressive. I felt as if I would suffocate.

Twice I got up and sat by the open window and gazed out at the black landscape. The sky was cloudy and there were no stars; this combined with the pine trees about the ranch house made the darkness so black and thick that it seemed as if one might cut it in chunks, with a knife. The air felt good to breathe but I did not propose to sit by the window all night so at last I arose, put moccasins on my feet and, taking my blankets with me, stole stealthily down the stairs, opened the front door and made my bed on the floor of the broad piazza. I had not forgotten the warning to keep indoors, but I thought I would rather risk the wolves than to smother all night.