So it was on this occasion. Utterly unsuspicious of attack, both boys were taken at a disadvantage. Bob was floundering in the water before he had time to realise the assault, while Alf was equally unprepared as the Indian sprang towards him.

The claw-like fingers missed their intended grip upon the boy's throat, but the arms managed to grapple the lad in a tight embrace. Alf struggled well, but he was no match for the muscles of the giant Dacotah.

"I'm coming! I'll be with you in a second!" called Bob from the water, striking out strongly for the shore as soon as he had recovered breath.

The Indian looked hastily around him without releasing the bearlike hug. He saw the swimmer quickly approaching, and he gave a cry of fury as he thought that he would be baulked of his purpose of revenge, for he rightly thought that he would stand a poor chance against two active lads. He might succeed in injuring the one, but there was little chance of his escaping.

Suddenly he released Alf. Feeling himself free for the moment, the boy jumped back in readiness for another attack. But once again the unexpected had him at a vantage. The boy anticipated no other attack now but that of fists or a knife at the utmost. These were the only contingencies that his inexperience could imagine. But before he had time to conjecture other possibilities, Red Fox had slipped off his blanket, flung it around the lad just as the ancient gladiator was wont to entangle his opponent in the deadly net, and before Arnold had reached the river bank the Indian had wound the blanket tightly round his captive, picked him up in his arms, and commenced running towards the tent.

Bob gave a cry of dismay and rushed on in pursuit.

But the redskin had the start, and ran straight towards the picketed horse, still carrying the lad, who was half stifled by the thick cloak, and practically helpless, owing to the tightness with which the bond was twined.

It would have been an easy matter then for Red Fox to have killed his captive and yet escape the other boy. But that was not his purpose. In his thirst to revenge the insult of Alf's words, he had quite forgotten Thunder-maker's commission and the coveted ermine robe. These were nothing to him now. He had listened to sneers with patience. The time had now come to repay the taunts with interest. He ran towards the pack-horse. A slash with his hunting-knife severed the rope within two or three feet of the halter. Alf was then thrown roughly across the animal's back, while the Indian was himself astride an instant afterwards. A vicious dig of the heels, and the horse sprang forward.

And the last that Bob saw as he reached the tent was an ugly face grinning at him and an arm waving tauntingly as horse, rider, and burden disappeared into the woods.

Arnold was aghast!

He rushed into the tent and snatched up his repeating rifle, which was already loaded; by the time he emerged again he could only hear the distant sound of the fugitive rider pressing the branches through the bush track.

He ran forwards at top speed, but he knew well that unless some accident befell the horse he stood a poor chance of being able to aid his chum. The Indian would know the bush as well as his namesake fox. He would not be likely to take any risk that would imperil his safety or blight any evil purpose that he might harbour.

The boy followed the track, which was well marked. It was the same course that had been taken by Mackintosh and Haggis earlier in the day. For a time it led through an avenue of trees. Then it branched off to the left, where the ground was hard-packed and dry, having been stripped of vegetation by a bush fire earlier in the year. Here the tracks were less easy to follow, for a steady breeze was blowing, and the imprints of the hoofs were covered almost as quickly as they were made.

It was heart-breaking to have to slacken speed at such a time, when every second might mean disaster to his chum. But what else could he do? And when ultimately the tracks led him to the border of a vast marshland, the lad was obliged to halt in what was almost despair.

"What is to be done now?" he exclaimed to himself. "Poor old Alf! What a fool I was not to be prepared for such a rascal, when once my suspicions were so roused!"

But it was no use sitting down in hopelessness. Such weakness would have nothing to gain and everything to lose. So Bob pulled himself together, as the apt saying has it, and racked his brains to meet the occasion.

Not a sound could he now hear to indicate which way the fugitive had taken. Moreover, the tracks completely disappeared from sight when the boy had taken a few paces into the shallow water and spongy moss.

Plainly the only course was to mark a starting-point with a stake, and then follow round the margin of the swamp until he discovered the spot where the rider had crossed.

It was a tedious process, but apparently there was no option. So he resumed the weary tour with such hope as he could summon.

Arnold found the tracks after more than two hours' patient searching, as the dusk was beginning to creep over the forest. The footprints were more distinct now than they had been at the other side of the marsh, so the boy was able to make some rapid progress. But, as the darkness fell the work became more difficult. He had to stoop low in order to see the tracks at all, and ultimately he could only follow them on hands and knees—feeling the footprints with his fingers, just as a blind man feels the letters in his book.

He was becoming thoroughly exhausted. Still he plodded on with dogged perseverance. His knees were grazed and his back was aching, especially where the rifle was strapped; and at times he even stumbled and fell in a heap, from which each time he found it more difficult to rise than on the former occasion.

It was indeed a trial that would have taxed the strength and nerves of the strongest. When we remember what the boy had already undergone that day, we have reason to wonder that he endured so long. Still he persevered. Inch by inch he felt his path in the pitch darkness, crawling through the bush with only hooting owls and whining wolves for company, until at last, worn out and dizzy, his muscles gave way, and he floundered unconscious upon the earth.



CHAPTER XVI

A NIGHT'S TERROR

When Bob reopened his eyes, it was to awake suddenly with the horrible feeling that he was being watched by some hidden foe.

He started, and as he did so he was conscious of the sound of many pattering feet—soft, muffled sounds, yet loud enough for him to hear. He even thought, as he turned over and flung out his arm, that his hand had touched something that was warm and furry.

He sat up and gripped his rifle as he stared around him.

In the semi-darkness of the rising moon he could see dark figures moving restlessly all around him, while a score or more of eyes kept twinkling like stars to indicate how he was being watched.

Just then a wild, long-drawn wail rent the night air beside him. The boy's blood seemed to run cold at the sound, for he knew that he was surrounded by a horde of timber wolves who had thought him dead, and come too soon.

Too soon? Yes. But how long would their moment be delayed?

Bob staggered to his feet and held his rifle in readiness. But the ghouls of the night kept at some distance, though he could still see them stirring here and there, as if they were discussing plans among themselves.

The boy waited—it seemed hours—each moment expecting a dash from the black spectres. Still they hung back, until Bob actually began to long for the attack to begin, that the strain of waiting might be broken.

Then something moved behind him. He wheeled about and swung his rifle like a club, at random. The butt met a soft substance, and a wild howl followed, as a wolf that had been creeping upon him from the rear now sprang back among his lurking comrades. Instantly the forest rang with wails and howls and snarling, as the wolves sprang upon their wounded comrade (as is the way of many wild animals) and tore him to pieces.

Yet Arnold dared not leave the spot. If he ran, the wolves would soon be upon him, for a fleeing prey is more closely pressed than one that stands at bay. Moreover, he was in the centre of a clearing. If he were to enter the woods, there would be many quarters from which he would be open to attack and unable to defend himself freely.

The night wore on, and the moon crept up into the arc of the sky. His enemies could be plainly seen now, though the shadows prevented him from determining how great was their number. Probably the uncertain light deceived him and multiplied the actual score. One thing—they were in sufficient numbers to be a formidable danger, and it would need sharp watching to ward off the attack effectively.

So long as there was a remnant of their comrade's flesh to fight and snarl over, Bob was left in peace. But presently the strife became less and the noise sank, and by such signs he knew that he had again become the object of their unwelcome attentions.

He stood his guard with every nerve strained to catch the first sight and sound of danger.

Then he saw two large forms creeping towards him from the front. They came slowly, creeping low like dogs stalking game in the grass.

Bob waited until they drew near. He was reluctant to exhaust a cartridge unless it was an absolute necessity. His wish was to exercise the force of his muscle on these as he had done with their predecessor.

But, as the wolves came within a few yards, they stopped and eyed him cautiously, and in this position the furred enemies and the boy stood watching each other, just as wrestlers watch each other's eyes to discover the vantage moment for a deadly grip.

The time passed, yet neither side moved. Then, to Bob's dismay, he discovered that the whole mass of wolves had gathered together, and were slowly creeping upon him in the wake of these two leaders.

And with the knowledge, the boy seemed to go mad for the time. He could delay the fight no longer. His blood rushed hot to his head. He fired one shot at the foremost wolves. Then he gripped his weapon by the muzzle and sprang straight for the pack.

"Come on, you brutes!" he yelled, as he laid about him right and left. "If it's got to be a fight, the sooner we begin, the sooner it'll be over!"

Wild with passion, the boy fought with the false strength that is always the accompaniment of delirium. As the blows told, the wolves howled and shrieked and leapt for him with a rage that was equally frantic to his. Fortunately they kept to one side—that was the side from which the moon shone. They could see him plainer thus. Otherwise the light would be in their eyes, and he but a black figure that they could not understand.

How he fought that night!

Strange to say, all fatigue had left the lad's body. He had the endurance of three normal boys—at least it seemed thus, though we never know our real strength, muscular or mental, until we are in the straits of desperation.

More than once he received a nasty little snap in the arm. But these were unnoticed in the heat of the combat. His eyes were "seeing red," as the Westerners say. He had no nerves to feel with; only muscles to fight with. And all the time the impromptu club was in action—sometimes swinging like a flail, at other times being gripped for a no less effective thrust with the butt.

But gradually the attack became perceptibly easier, as the wolves were beaten back or slain by the ceaseless swing of the rifle. Bob recognised the weakening of the assault, and the spirit of the conqueror fired his blood to renewed energy.

Baulked of his prey, a great timber dog sprang forward with determination to vindicate the honour of his kind.

Crash went the weapon, a single howl escaped from the savage creature, then he fell back, quivering and lifeless, upon the ground.

That was the end of the conflict. Their last leader slain, the others turned tail and fled.

Arnold stood firm on the defensive. His hair was soaked in sweat, his clothes were torn in many places, and he could feel the sharp sting of a wound in his shoulder. It was some time before he could believe that the fight was indeed over. The change from storm to calm had been sudden; and it was only when he understood that strength was no longer needed that he began to feel the evidences of fatigue. His limbs began to tremble with the reaction as the unnatural strength that had buoyed him so well now commenced to ebb. He looked around him. The signs of his conquest were visible in the moonlight as dark lumps lying here and there. Then his keen eyes began to haze and his head to swim. And for the second time that night he sank to the ground in a state of unconscious fatigue.

It was bright daylight when Bob regained his normal faculties. The morning had considerably advanced while he had lain oblivious to the passage of time.

The boy sat up. He was stiff and sore. But he was no puny schoolboy. He had a sturdy frame that healthy athletics had trained to meet fatigue without injury, and Nature's needed rest had rapidly restored normal strength, though, as we said, his muscles were not free from certain little aches to remind him of late events.

At first his thought was that the previous adventure had been nothing more than a bad dream. But as his eyes scanned the surroundings, and he saw no fewer than seven carcases of timber wolves lying unpleasantly close to him, he was quickly convinced that there had been no ill vision but terrible reality.

Next he called to mind the quest on which he had started from the camp.

That thought was sufficient to banish the last sensation of drowsiness, and he immediately rose up and examined his rifle, to see if it had suffered from the adventure. The weapon had stood the test well. Beyond a few dents on the butt (which would be so many trophies of the combat) it was otherwise uninjured. The scratches on his own flesh were not serious, though they nipped a little at first movement. So, altogether, Bob was satisfied that he had come through the ordeal in a manner that demanded thankfulness to a protecting Providence.

The next move was towards the bush, where the Saskatoon berries were hanging in inviting clusters like myriad bunches of purple grapes in miniature. These, together with a draught from an adjacent spring, had to suffice for breakfast. Then he turned once more to take up the tracks that he had been forced to forego on the previous night.

It was not long before the boy rediscovered the trail, and with a thousand misgivings for the unavoidable delay in going to his chum's assistance he started on the track at a rapid pace.

It was a winding path that he followed; but in order to ride swiftly Red Fox had been obliged to keep more or less to the open way through the woods, relying upon speed more than strategy to outreach pursuit. He had a plan in his mind that he meant to carry out when at a safe distance. After that was accomplished, he did not care how soon the searchers might reach the spot. He would be far away. And the boy—well, they would be welcome to find him then.

Doggedly determined to find his chum at all costs, Bob pressed on, seldom taking his eyes from the ground, where the imprints showed how heavy hoofs had thrashed the trail.

What had happened to his chum? Had the savage merely stolen him for some wild purpose—perhaps to await a ransom? Or could the worst have happened, and Alf be even now—— No, no. Bob could not bear that thought, and he put it from him, struggling manfully to retain hope as well as strength.

And then suddenly—when it was about noon—he came upon the Scotsman's pack-horse quietly grazing beneath the trees, and at a little distance Alf sitting on the ground with Red Fox prostrate, resting his head on the lad's lap.



CHAPTER XVII

THE FATE OF RED FOX

It may seem a little surprising that Alf did not make a better resistance when he found himself being carried away on horseback. It is no easy matter for even an Indian to carry a person lying in front of him on a bare-backed broncho when the person is helpless and still. It is a yet less easy matter—if not an impossibility—to do the same thing with a struggling captive.

Of course we know that Holden was at a disadvantage. He was powerless to use his arms, which were held close to his sides by the wrappings, and it was with difficulty that he breathed. But his legs were comparatively free, and it would not have required much energy to make such resistance as would have considerably hampered Red Fox in his purpose.

The reason for the lad's passive demeanour is not difficult to understand.

Alf was no fool. Indeed, he possessed a more than usual degree of common sense, together with a gift for rapid reasoning. He quickly decided that, for the time being at least, he was at the Indian's mercy. His instinct told him that, for some unknown reason, he must have incurred the native's wrath; and, even though he might have struggled with a measure of success, the Indian was both powerful and passionate enough to murder him then and there.

No person, even in the direst straits, is anxious to incur a violent death. Holden was no exception to that rule, so he deemed it best to make pretence of fainting, on the chance that time might release him from his plight. It would only be a needless exhaustion to struggle now, when he would be easily overpowered. Moreover, a show of resistance might mean the sudden plunge of a hunting-knife.

So he lay still, and the Indian laughed aloud, believing the lad to be unconscious through fright.

"Huh! White dog laugh at Red Fox? He say Red Fox face hideous?" the redskin exclaimed jeeringly, as he pressed the horse to the race. "'Tis well. Red Fox face bad—very bad; but white boy worse when Indian hand have used knife!"

Then the boy understood the mystery. His careless words had been understood, as Bob had suggested. And his fate was to be vengeance of a like mutilation of his own fair cheeks!

Not if he knew it!

It was little wonder if the lad felt his blood run cold as he listened to the Indian's vaunt, and it is little wonder that his head swam until he was near in reality to the very faintness that he had assumed.

But real pluck is never subdued for long. The very threat was enough to rouse a strong determination to thwart the brutal intention, and his mental decision was that which we have just recorded in the third person: "Not if I know it!"

Red Fox had quite forgotten about the ermine robe. That was quite Indian-like. The object of the moment was all that he cared about. To gain that aim he would have sacrificed a thousand robes of costliest fur—nay, even life itself, if he could have the satisfaction of vengeance first.

Guiding the broncho by the swaying of his body and the occasional use of a halter-rope, the redskin did not permit the animal to slacken speed for an instant.

Once, owing to the stillness of his burden, he drew aside a portion of the blanket to look at the boy's face.

He saw that the eyes were closed, and a fear came into his heart that perhaps he was to be robbed of his pleasure after all.

But the lips trembled, and, on bending down the Indian could hear the sound of breathing.

"Huh!" he laughed, as he replaced the cloth. "That good! Pale-face—he sleep, but he wake soon when Red Fox make sign of totem. Then white boy laugh not again at Indian. Red Fox, he laugh at hideous white boy."

A peal of harsh, savage laughter rang through the woods at this delicious humour, and startled the horse so that it strained harder in the gallop.

Through the woods, the burnt clearing, across the marsh where Bob had tracked so steadily, the broncho passed in the mad race. It was rough riding for the boy as he lay on his back—half across the Indian's knee, with his head partly free of the blanket; but he set his teeth, determined to bear the ordeal without a whimper, that he might be more ready for the later critical moment.

Then something (he never knew what) startled the horse. It sprang sideways from the path right into the bush, where a heavy branch caught Red Fox right in the forehead.

One cry the Indian gave. Next moment both the riders were thrown violently to the ground, while the broncho went off wildly and riderless.

The folds of the blanket considerably lessened the shock of Alf's fall, and as soon as he had collected his rudely scattered senses he did not take long to emerge from his chrysalis-like state.

He sprang to his feet, prepared to be instantly on the defensive.

To his surprise he was unaccosted, and on turning he saw the Indian lying face downwards upon the ground, while a red stream was making a ghastly pool around his head.

Holden was by his enemy's side in an instant. He knelt down and turned the man on his back. The movement was answered by a groan, but apparently the Dacotah was unconscious, for he did not attempt to move, and his eyes were closed.

A spring was close at hand. Alf tore off the scarf that he wore round his throat in bushman fashion, soaked it in the water, and mopped the redman's brow. Still there was no sign of returning senses, and the lad was now grievously distressed at his enemy's disaster. He would have been rejoiced to have vanquished the man, had the adventure terminated in an unavoidable encounter. But now that Red Fox was in distress, all hard feelings and resentment had left the lad's heart. He was all sympathy for misfortune. That is the way of the truly brave.

Seeing that recovery was tardy, Alf tore the scarf in two pieces. With one strip he bound the ugly wound that gaped in the Indian's forehead; with the other he resumed his attentions by moistening his lips and temples.

And by and by the redman opened his eyes. He looked up vacantly before him, not seeming to understand what had taken place.

"That's good!" remarked Alf cheerfully. "You feel better now, don't you?"

Red Fox looked straight into the boy's face, but without appearing to recognise him. Then he muttered a few words in Indian and closed his eyes again.

For some time he lay with his head resting against his nurse, while Alf's thoughts began to wander to his absent father and the chum whom he had left in such strange fashion.

Then he looked down again, and saw that the Indian was regarding him with eyes wide open—looking at him in a peculiar wondering fashion, as if he saw for the first time a being of some strange creation.

Holden smiled encouragingly as he touched the man's brow with the damp cloth.

"How does the head feel now?" he asked. "Does the cut pain you much?"

Red Fox did not answer immediately, but continued to stare at the lad with the same open-eyed wonder.

"Pale-face kind," he said at length, in quiet tones. "He touch Red Fox like wing of a dove. Why is the white boy so good?"

"Nonsense," returned Alf. "It's nothing at all. You don't think that Englishmen would leave a fellow to bleed to death, do you?"

"No—English boy good," said the redskin. Then he added, with a sort of wistfulness: "But Indian would leave pale-face——"

"Rot!" was the sharp interruption. "If I had been hurt as you have been, you would do just the same. Now lie quiet for a while. You'll feel better soon, and then you can go back to your people."

The Indian shook his head slowly.

"Red Fox understand. Red Fox know English tongue good. But—he no' go back to people. He go—Manito—Happy Hunting-ground—soon."

Alf was silent. He had never been in the presence of death, and never before in the presence of the dying. The thought awed him.

"Yes—white papoose good," the redskin went on falteringly. "He kind to hand—that would have cut face for revenge. Ugh! Red Fox bad Indian, but—he sorry—now. Can brave white boy forgive poor Indian?"

"Of course," returned Alf huskily. "You did not understand. English people speak words that they do not mean to hurt. It is I who should ask forgiveness for what I said about you. I, too, am sorry."

"Then—white and red are—brothers. They bury the hatchet and—my white brother will stay with Red Fox while he go Happy Hunting-ground?"

"Yes, yes," the boy assented readily. "I won't leave you. Don't you be afraid of that."

"It is well, for Red Fox would speak before he go. He would speak true words to the pale-face. He spoke forked words like serpent tongue when he say that white man sent Red Fox to bring papooses to Indian camp. But he speak well now when he say white men with Mighty Hand now——"

"Safe?" exclaimed Holden, as the information came to him with sudden joy and sudden dread.

And the answer was at once a relief and double anxiety.

"White men safe—now. But before another sun they—they die——"

"Die?" was the exclamation of horror that greeted this announcement.

"Yes," the Indian answered. "Dacotahs foolish. They say white men spirits that brought great trouble of water to Indian. They say that serpent totem call them to Pleasant Valley, and there they burn unless serpent appear to save them from fire." Here the Indian seemed to gather strength, for, without allowing the horrified boy time for utterance, he slightly raised himself and spoke with a flash of energy.

"But white boy brave—white boy good. He kind to Red Fox who would have used cruel knife. But Red Fox no' papoose now. He know that white boy too brave to suffer; Red Fox too bad to live. And he would save the pale-face man—

"Go, my brother—go to the village of the Dacotahs and find Thunder-maker, the Medicine Man. Tell him that Red Fox die sorry that he made bad promise—that before he die he bid Thunder-maker speak true to foolish Dacotahs, and tell that white men no' spirits. Thunder-maker know. Thunder-maker can save white men, and——"

The last word choked in the Indian's throat. He gave a gasp, fell back into Alf's arms, while his eyes looked up hungrily into the lad's face.

"Be brave!" whispered the boy. "Be brave, Red Fox. Manito waits for you. I have forgiven you; He has forgiven you. All will be well."

"Red Fox understand. He—happy——" were the last words that the poor misguided redman spoke, as he died gazing lovingly in his young friend's tear-clouded eyes.

And it was thus that Bob found his chum—tenderly holding his red brother in his arms while the great journey was taken to Manito's happy land for the sorrowful.



CHAPTER XVIII

HOT ON THE TRAIL

It was a happy meeting for the two chums after the exciting events that each had experienced. But it was rather sad, all the same; for even in their joy at finding how both had come through their trials with but little damage, they could not but regret the tragic end to poor Red Fox.

"He was a high-tempered chap," said Arnold, when he had listened to his friend's story. "All the same, he must have had some good in him, since he was so completely changed at the end."

"He seemed sorry enough," Alf rejoined. "And I must say that I feel wretchedly sorry about the whole thing. In a way it was my fault—making the remarks that I did. It never occurred to me that he would understand a word——"

"As apparently he did. However, it can't be helped now. No doubt he had some evil purpose all along, or he wouldn't have come to us with that lie about being sent by your father and mine."

"At the same time it has taught me a lesson," said Alf. "I guess I'll keep my opinions to myself next time, when they are so uncomplimentary."

"Just as well," Bob agreed seriously. Then, turning to the dead Indian: "We've got to lay that poor redskin to rest. I wonder how we are to manage it!"

"We can't dig——"

"And we can't leave the body uncovered. The wolves would work mischief in no time."

"How would it be if we were to lay him in that little hollow and cover him with big stones?" suggested Holden. "There are plenty of boulders about, and we could easily cover him with branches first, with stones on the top, to keep off the animals."

"Right," Bob said; and together the lads gently raised the Indian's body and placed it in a little flower-scented hollow that, after all, was a fitting bed to receive the royal dead—quite as fitting as a dark pit. Then they cast maple branches over it, and carried boulders until a substantial mound was raised.

And when all was completed as well as they were able to do it, instinctively both lads knelt beside the grave and prayed for a few minutes in silence. And the birds overhead sang their hymns to unite in the service—happy songs of gladness they sang, that seemed to convey to the boys' hearts the grand lesson of all funeral services—that death is not all sadness, for we know of the joy that follows.

There was nothing more to be done now but to return to camp. Mackintosh had probably returned by this time, and he or Haggis would be able to guide to the Dacotah village on the urgent errand. So the broncho was caught. It had never wandered far after the recovery from its fright, which was probably due to the sudden appearance of a wolf in the scrub; and before long the chums were on the home trail, taking it in turn to ride the horse.

Camp was reached about noon, and the boys were greeted at the tent by the Scot.

"Where in the world have you two laddies been?" he immediately questioned. "Here's Haggis and me (to say no' a word about Bannock) returned at breakfast-time to find no' a single body at the camp. No' that time has been wasted, for we would have rested till dinner in any case. But it's foolish tiring yoursels like this when there's hard work before you. Pleasure is all very well——"

"We've been on no pleasure trip," interrupted Alf, with a sad smile. "It has been anything but pleasure to Arnold and me."

Thereupon Holden immediately launched into the story of his adventure and his chum's—a tale that was listened to with silent surprise both by Mackintosh and the half-breed, who had come out from the tent and stood attentively apart.

"Well, well," the Scotsman commented at the close, "these are stirring times for you boys. There's no' a bit o' doot aboot that." Then he added seriously: "But I'm thinking we'll no' be able to wait here ower long. We must set oot at once. I ken something o' this Indian legend o' water-spirits, and I ken something o' Indian ways as well. There's evil things that will be doing if we canna stop them."

"Did you find out anything while you were away with Haggis?" questioned Bob.

"A bit. We found the tracks o' boots as well as moccasins, and we followed far enough to learn that they had gone to the Dacotah village. Then we came back to fetch you laddies. And I found four grand specimens for my collection! Real fine they are—such as will make my brither entomologists in Edinburgh open their eyes as big as Duddingston Loch when they see them. But there—I must be daft to be thinkin' o' moths at such a time. See, Haggis! Hurry on wi' the denner! We'll be striking the camp, for we must mak' straight for Pleasant Valley wi'oot delay."

The speaker was all bustle and hurry now, and as the boys followed to render assistance, Bob asked—

"Pleasant Valley? But did you not say that they were at the Dacotah village?"

"Of course I did. But I said were, not are. Did you no' attend to what your freend said—that Red Fox told him that Mighty Hand would leave for Pleasant Valley by another sun? That's the day."

"Oh, I see. Then you mean to go there direct?"

"Exactly. I ken something o' that Pleasant Valley. There's no' a verra pleasant look aboot it noo—a desert o' a place—all crags and sand, wi' just a pickle o' trees. It's a branch arm o' the Athabasca, and has been a torrent at some flood-time—the time that probably started the legend. But there's no' been ony stream flowing there in the recollection o' living man. But"—and the naturalist was predominant for the instant—"there are rare kinds o' hawk moth to be found in that same desert! You'll be seeing the value o' my phosphorus invention before another couple of nights are out."

The boys laughed as the man's enthusiasm came suddenly uppermost, to the exclusion of (to their minds) a subject of more vital importance.

"I do believe, Skipper, that you would sooner capture a rare beetle than be a Napoleon!" laughed Bob, to which the naturalist replied with scorn, as he indicated the lads to take the opposite end of the tent to roll—

"Beetle? What do you take me for—a coleopterist? Ma conscience, laddie, these insects are no interest to me. I wouldn't touch one with a pair o' tongs. It's moths and butterflies for Skipper Mackintosh—the dainty fluttering things that are like bits o' sunshine and beams o' the moonlight. Beetle? Speak not to me the name o' thae things o' darkness!"

The tent was rolled and most of the other adjuncts to the camp were collected and deftly stowed on the back of the pack-horse with the neatness of expert campers. Then a hasty cold meal was taken while Mackintosh delivered his plans.

"Now, boys, listen to me. I've got to be your captain in this journey, for you'll admit that I know best. Well, I've prepared food enough for three of us for two days. Each will carry his own. Then you've got a pair o' guns and a rifle between you. That's all that you'll need. I've got my own rifle and a revolver, in case o' accidents, though I'm hoping there'll be no need for the like o' that. Now we'll start off at once. There's no straight road from here for Pleasant Valley, but it's through bog and bush where the horse canna get wi' its burden. But it'll make four or five hours' difference to us other than by the round-about way. So Haggis'll take the pack-horse. Ay, he'll be better o' Bannock, too. Dogs are often useless creatures in an expedition that might mean creeping and hiding. Bannock's no' that bad-mannered; but he loves hunting, and a wolf might tempt him."

"How far is it to this Pleasant Valley, as it is called?" asked Holden.

"Aboot fifteen mile as we will travel, twenty at the least by the path Haggis'll follow. Oh, ay, Haggis'll be all right. There's no fear o' him not turning up aboot midnight. He's no' quite ceevilised yet, for he canna mind a' the words o' 'Auld Lang Syne' and 'Rule Britannia.' But he's ceevilised enough to be dependable. You wait at the Old Crossing till we turn up, Haggis!"

"Right, boss," answered the half-breed, who seldom spoke more than two words at a time if he could avoid doing so, and he immediately rose up to make the final arrangements for his departure.

"Then there's no more to be said," the Scotsman concluded. "It's start right away; keep a brave heart and a steady foot foremost, and we'll no' be that far from our friends come nightfall."

Skipper Mackintosh had spoken nothing but the truth when he said that the direct trail was not one that a laden pack-horse could travel with ease, far less speed.

The earlier portion of the march was easy enough. But after about an hour's walking through the bush the travellers reached a mile of bogland, across which a path could only be found by stepping cautiously from one grassy hummock to another. Even then the surface of the moss shivered for yards around, and the mud between the tufts oozed, as if its mouth were watering to swallow up the trio.

"Feel for every step before you put your weight on it!" the naturalist instructed. He, of course, had taken the foremost position of leader. "If you want to disappear quicker than you did in yon muskeg, Master Bob, you can set the tip o' your big toe in yon mud, and you'll travel as quick as electricity."

This part of the journey was certainly fatiguing, but the travellers kept up good hearts by pleasant banter and dogged determination.

Reaching solid ground again, there was another easier spell of bush tramping. Then the trail began the ascent of a hill—a rocky, loose-bouldered slope that could only be traversed by a narrow path that somewhat resembled a strip of ribbon on the side of a house.

Up they went, higher and higher each step, with the sharp slope to the left and a sheer declivity of loose stones at the right.

Once Alf slipped, and the stone against which he tripped went leaping down the slope without stopping, until it was lost to sight some three hundred feet or more below.

"Which of you two laddies is the one that's danced down the hillside?" questioned Mackintosh, without seeming to look round. His voice was pleasant, but he had taken a quick glance backwards all the same, and his face had paled a little. That was but his kindly way of cheering the boys and helping them to keep their nerves in hand.

After a time the climbing ceased. It was now a level path, though it was none the less ready to trap the unwary, as it twisted round spurs and crossed little ravines. Then suddenly the travellers became aware of a sound like that of a small cataract.

Mackintosh stopped, and as they listened they were able to tell that the sound was one that proceeded from the continuous rolling of innumerable stones that were being propelled down the hillside at no great distance.

"What on earth is it?" questioned Alf, and at the same moment the man pointed towards a cloud of dust that had rounded a spur ahead of them—a cloud that was advancing rapidly in their direction to the accompaniment of loud bleating.

"A herd of mountain sheep on the stampede," was the Skipper's immediate verdict.

"Sheep? Coming towards us?" exclaimed Bob, and as the words were spoken there could be seen amid the dust a lot of woolly animals tearing frantically along the narrow path, throwing the stones from beneath their feet, while now and then one would stumble and roll down the slope as though it had been shot from a cannon.

The noise was bewildering as it echoed among the barren hills and rocks.

"See! There's a black animal chasing them!" exclaimed Holden excitedly.

"A bear," said Mackintosh with grim calmness, as he rapidly slung his repeating rifle into readiness, an example that the boys quickly followed.

"What's to be done?" Bob questioned. Frankly he had not the remotest notion how to meet such an emergency, for it was impossible to climb upwards, as it was equally impossible to descend, while to retire along the path would only be to postpone the threatening disaster for a few minutes.

"Come! Follow me quickly; but be careful," Mackintosh suddenly ordered, he himself hastening forward as the boys followed.

At this position the side of the hill bent to the left in the form of a horseshoe, so that it was quite easy from where the three adventurers stood to throw a stone across the intervening chasm to the path at the other side.

Mackintosh led the way until he had reached the first spur; then he told the boys to wait.

"Keep your hands steady and your guns ready, boys," he said. "I'm going along a bit to shoot down the leaders, if it may be; you empty your rifle and a round or two o' shot into yon bear. They'll all be opposite us on the other side in a few minutes. A steady nerve will do it; so, if ever you were cool in your born days, this is the day to be coolest."

Without waiting for further remark from either side, the man then hastened some yards along the path and took up a position where he could kneel and steady his gun arm on a boulder, and hardly had the several positions been taken up when with roar and clatter and cloud the stampede rounded the opposite hill-spur.

Crack! went the Scotsman's repeater. Crack! crack! And down tumbled three sheep, two of which rolled over the slope, leaving one to bar the way in the path. The others took the downward plunge. Crack! crack! crack! The rifle spoke rapidly and surely, as each bullet found a billet in a different animal.

The race was checked, but not yet effectually, though the Skipper had now more time to pick off the leaders as they scrambled over their brethren—only to fall victims to the sharp-shooter and help to build up a barrier to impede the others.

It was now a terrible sight of animals in desperation.

There were a hundred mountain sheep at least, and they were scrambling in a dense mass, trying vainly to advance—fighting, struggling, tumbling down the slope in mad confusion. Now and then one would have a momentary success and almost cross the barrier; then the deadly rifle would again send its message—and the barrier would be raised by one victim more.

Meantime, faithful to their charge, the boys kept their attention to the rear of the herd, but the dust was so dense that they could barely discern the hindmost animals.

Then Bob suddenly exclaimed—

"Look out!"

But Alf had been equally ready. A rifle and a gun darted up to each boy's shoulder at the same instant; a simultaneous explosion came like one from both weapons. Then followed a roar like a miniature thunder-peal, and a brown grizzly was seen to shoot down the declivity in pursuit of the poor sheep that he had driven to destruction in such numbers.

"Bravo!" shouted Mackintosh, letting go his feelings in a wild whoop of exultation. "A grand shot, lads!"

"I guess his day's work is done," returned Alf quietly, though he was none the less delighted with his own and his chum's success.

Finding that the fierce pursuit had ceased, the few remaining sheep turned on the retreat, since they found it impossible to advance farther. Then the adventurers proceeded on their way, though they, in their turn, found it impossible to pass the barrier, and some time had to be expended in carefully tumbling the carcases down the slope. But soon the work was successfully accomplished, and the path once more clear to permit the three comrades to pursue their urgent course.



CHAPTER XIX

THUNDER-MAKER'S DOWNFALL

During the rest of the journey through the hills and along Trapper's Pass, no further accidents occurred to hinder progress, and once free of the hills the trail was level and across a stretch of prairie.

Towards night the Pleasant Valley was reached, and the three travellers descended to the part of the river known to trappers as the Old Crossing, though it was a ford where no water flowed.

On reaching this camp-ground there were evidences of the recent presence of strangers. Moreover, these strangers were not travelling in any secret way, since they had taken no pains to conceal their tracks, and the ashes of trampled-out fires were still warm.

Mackintosh carefully examined the surroundings, and came to the decision, from certain signs, that it had been an Indian camp.

"To my mind the best thing for us to do is to rest here for an hour or two," the man said.

"I shan't be sorry," said Bob. "We pressed on rather rapidly, and, to tell you the truth, I'm rather fagged."

"But what of the others—your father and mine?" questioned Alf. "They may need help——"

"Not yet," Mackintosh interrupted. "It's no' possible for them to reach Flood Creek before morning, and the—the ceremony must take place at moonlight. Oh yes, I ken fine how you are both feeling. You're wanting to be off until you break down with weariness. But that's no' the way to do things in the backwoods. Work until you are out-and-out weary, then rest, and you'll be able to work again. But to keep on slaving till you're worked out—that's nothing but a gowk's game, and can bring no good."

"I suppose you are right," said Holden slowly.

"Of course I am. Don't you fear, laddie. I'll no' be too late. I know the ways o' the Indian, and I know the Dacotahs. Depend upon it, your faithers are being kindly treated, as best the redskins know how to treat friends. The Dacotahs are firm in their superstition, but they're kindly folk all the same."

So the boys resigned themselves to the ruling of their guide, though it was irksome to be idle when each was longing to be up and doing. And now that they were so near to the achievement of their quest, it was even more galling to be inactive than it had been when there was distance as an excuse.

It was a dreary place. The valley was deep, and there was a river-bed where once—before the memory of living man—water had flowed in a swift and wide flood, but where now there was nothing but dust. Not a tree was within sight. There was hardly any grass. Only a few cacti appeared to thrive on the barren soil. The rest was rocks, sand, and bordering precipices.

The boys shuddered as they looked around.

"It's a terrible spot," Bob commented, as he viewed the dreary scene. "It feels like being in prison."

"There's a well with the finest of cool water about six feet away," was Mackintosh's remark. It was his quiet way of forcing home the truth that there is a bright speck in everything, if we only take the trouble to look for it.

A meal was made from the supplies with which each had been provided, and an hour or two later Haggis turned up with the pack-horse.

It was not considered necessary to pitch the tent that night, as a very early start was proposed to be taken at the streak of dawn. So each lay down as he was, with a sand-heap for a pillow, and soon the little camp was fast asleep. They needed no rocking. Sleep came almost with the closing of eyes.

As morning broke, Mackintosh was the first to waken. He quickly roused the others, and a swift "eve-of-battle" meal was served out. The business being ended, the pack-horse was once more loaded, and the journey resumed toward Flood Creek, which was now only about five miles distant.

The Dacotah camp was sighted some way off, and it may be imagined how excited the lads felt when they found themselves practically at the end of their journey.

But once there, what would be the result?

That was the question that was exercising the minds of both; and when Bob gave it voice, the Scotsman smiled grimly.

"What'll happen? Well, no one can foresee the future, but I can imagine it."

"And what do you imagine?" asked Bob.

"That there will be a pickle o' bother before all comes out right. Superstition is no' that easy baulked; but if we ever have to fight for it, don't think that the ancient Highland blood of the Mackintosh is water in the veins of the clan."

"I hope it won't come to that," remarked Alf quietly, and the Highlander rejoined—

"That's my hope too. But there's no telling. We've got to conquer——"

"And conquer we shall!" added Bob, with determination.

On reaching the camp, the rescuers were met by a host of Indians, who were all filled with curiosity regarding the strangers. The white men looked around them, but no signs could they see of the captives.

Then Mackintosh recognised a friend in Swift Arrow.

"Ha, Nitchie!" he exclaimed, holding out his hand for the Indian to grasp.

"It is pleasant for the eyes of Swift Arrow to see the Black Bear in the camp of the Dacotahs," said the redskin as he returned the greeting.

"And it's good for him to look upon the face o a friend," said the Scotsman. "I wish to speak with Mighty Hand. Where is he?"

"The chief of the Dacotahs is here," replied a voice from the crowd, and the great man himself stepped forward.

"H'm. That's good. Saves a deal of seeking when folk come of themselves." Then the speaker launched straight into the subject of their quest.

"Now then, Mighty Hand, you and me are old friends, and we can talk freely. You're wondering the noo what has brought us here, and you may ken without palaver. We have come for your captives."

"Captives?" The chief looked puzzled as he repeated the word.

"Ay, captives," emphasised Mackintosh. "Perhaps you don't know the meaning of the word."

"Mighty Hand knows the language of the pale-face. But there are no captives in the Dacotah camp."

At this the boys felt their hearts sink. Could it be that, after all, Mackintosh had been mistaken, or that Red Fox had deluded them? Could it be that they had come too late?

But Mackintosh did not share these doubts. He understood the working of the native mind too well.

"That is good," he resumed. "If the Dacotahs have no captives, then the white men are free. They will travel back with me to their camp now!"

Instantly a stern change came over the face of the chief, and such of the other Indians as understood English began to murmur with ominous disapproval.

"My white brother speak not wise words," said Mighty Hand firmly. "The fiery totem call that water-spirits suffer. What the totem call must be answered. Only great medicine can bid the fire sleep now."

"Idiots! Fools!" exclaimed Mackintosh, for once allowing his irritation to betray him. "Do you think that we are going to allow our own people to suffer at the service of a lie? I tell you that we will take those white men from your hands whether you wish it or not!"

The Indian was unmoved by the Scotsman's outburst.

"My white brother speak hot words. It saddens heart of Mighty Hand to see anger in face of his brother. But he is wrong. The call of the totem shall be answered when the moon is round—to-night."

How this strain of argument might have progressed it is hard to say, but it was cut short by a cry like that of a wild beast, as Thunder-maker sprang through the crowd, dressed in all the hideous regalia of his profession.

"Dogs!" he cried furiously. "Do the pale-faces come to insult the great chief of Dacotahs and say that the fiery totem lie? Ugh! Spit upon them, Mighty Hand! Chase these dogs from the camp!"

Mackintosh had resumed his temper by now, and he turned to greet the newcomer with a look of feigned amusement.

"Who's this?" he asked pleasantly. "Is it a monkey that Mighty Hand has caught to please him, or is it maybe a little dancing-bear tricked out in feathers for the braves and warriors to laugh at?"

Thunder-maker well understood the jibe, and he flung himself about with passion.

"Ma conscience! Don't go making all that noise," was the quiet reproof. "And if you'll take my advice, you'll go home and put on warmer clothes. You've little enough on to keep you cosy when the wind blows chill."

Poor Thunder-maker! He had never been treated with such scant respect. Even the young papooses were putting "tongue in cheek" towards him, and some of the women could be seen pointing their fingers at his discomfited self.

Blind with passion the Indian threw himself upon the Scotsman. Instantly the boys had their guns ready to protect their friend. But the next moment they could not have pulled a trigger if it had been necessary to save their lives thereby, for they and the whole concourse of Indians were shaking themselves with laughter at what was taking place.

What was it?

Well, merely that Thunder-maker had not reckoned with the enormous strength that was latent in the Scotsman, nor the peculiar sense of his humour; for, no sooner had the Indian charged, than he found himself gripped by powerful hands, turned face downwards on a bent knee, and smacked in good old homely style of punishment, which the medicine man's scanty attire rendered exceedingly suitable.

Thunder-maker yelled and kicked, but he was held as if in a vice, while the slaps rang out in rapid succession and the valley echoed with laughter.

At last Mackintosh released the delinquent, and the poor man slunk away amid jeers and laughter. His day was over, and from that hour our white friends saw him no more.

When the hum had subsided, Mackintosh once more appealed to the chief, but without success.

"We must obey the totem," was reiterated doggedly, though it was plain that the chief was sorry to be at enmity with the strangers.

"But how do you know that you are obeying the totem?" questioned Bob, who could remain silent no longer.

At this question Mighty Hand turned to the boy with an indulgent smile.

"White spirits come from waters that are silver when moon round. By this we know. But if redmen foolish, totem wise. Totem will not let redmen do wrong. Totem will appear serpent of fire to warn redmen no' light flames."

"We can do nothing more at present," said Mackintosh, as he turned to the lads. "We'll pitch our camp over yonder and talk things over."

After the camp was pitched and food partaken, Mackintosh decided to pay a visit to Swift Arrow, to see if he could not manage to argue that old man into a state of reason, so as to support another appeal to Mighty Hand. It had not been considered advisable to press for an interview with the captives, lest they might be too closely watched, and any future attempt at rescue be thus frustrated.

"I'll just go by mysel'," the man explained. "Swift Arrow is an old friend o' mine, and no' a bad creature in many ways. Haggis is away cracking with some o' his friends also. You'll not mind being left alone for a time? I'll no' be long."

"We don't mind," said Bob. "Anything to see light in this difficulty. We'll be all right."

"Very well. I'll be back as soon as I can, and I'll hope to have good news for you."

Left to themselves, the lads did not speak much, for their hearts were very heavy, knowing that if some plan of rescue was not thought of within a few hours it would be too late.

For a considerable time they were absolutely silent, lying within the tent, surrounded by stores and the various tins and boxes of the naturalist's outfit.

Then Bob's mind began to wander over all the events that led up to the present day, and, in wondering at the blind ignorance that could yield so much to a mere legend, he recalled the chiefs last words—

"'The totem will not let the redmen do wrong,'" he quoted mentally. "Fools! As if a serpent could tell them to do anything in the first place! How can any reasoning person be so—— Alf!"

Bob had suddenly sprung to his feet as he uttered the exclamation, and Holden started to look at his friend, as if he had suddenly lost his senses.

"Why, what's the matter, old man?" he exclaimed. "Have you been asleep?"

"Asleep? No! Never was wider awake in all my life. Why, I've got it. They are saved! They are saved!" And the boy laughed for very joy at the thought.

"What do you mean?" questioned Holden anxiously. It was little wonder that he believed for the moment that anxiety had brought his chum to a fever.

"Mean?" the elder boy echoed. "Simply this—that our fathers shall be saved, and you and I will do it. It's all so simple. We must have been fools not to think of it before!"



CHAPTER XX

THE FIERY TOTEM

The two men—Arnold and Holden—were sitting alone in the teepee that had been assigned for their use. Neither was speaking, for the day was drawing to a close, and they were almost hopeless of seeing any avenue of escape from the fate that the Indian superstition had ordained for them.

We said "almost hopeless." Of course it was necessary to make that proviso, for no one is ever hopeless in extremity, so long as he retains faith in Providence. But every scheme that they had planned had been proved void on consideration. Though free to a certain extent, they were well watched. Escape was impossible, and their only remaining hope was that when they were led forth for the sacrifice they might be able to take advantage of some opportunity to make a last stand for freedom.

"It would not matter so much for ourselves, if it were not for the boys," Arnold said at last. "Their position is too terrible."

"Of course they will be able to find their way back to Edmonton, when they see that there is no hope of our returning——"

"No hope?" repeated Arnold. "Don't say that. I don't want to give up hope until the very last moment. Something may turn up, and in any case I intend to make a good fight for freedom."

"I suppose I do, too, when I think about it," returned Holden, with a short forced laugh. "We both mean to kick up a bit of a dust when the exciting moment comes——"

"And you may bet it will be exciting for the first redskin who comes against my fist. I promised myself to have a go at that skunk Thunder-maker, before I make my bow to the world. But for him, I believe this trouble would never have gone so far."

"He certainly did his best to pile it on," agreed the younger man. "I imagine that he was rather in hot water this morning, for I thought I heard him yelling. There's no mistaking that harsh voice of his. And there were sounds, too, for all the world as if some person were getting a jolly good spanking. You were dozing at the time, so I didn't disturb you. But I know I nearly waked you with laughing at the thought of Thunder-maker receiving a good old-fashioned correction."

"It would take more than that to do him good," said Arnold, with a frown. "The man is a cheat and a scoundrel of the worst sort. He showed us what he was worth when he told us, two nights ago, that he had the tribe by the nose. Even now, after telling us that he knew better, I suppose he's working up the people for to-night's show."

Holden grunted contemptuously.

"He seems bad to the core. In my opinion it has been he who has kept Mighty Hand away. The chief was ready to reason, but I expect Thunder-maker's boast that he could lead the tribe was a true one."

"The old case of kings being ruled by their subjects," commented Arnold.

After this conversation again flagged. Having little to say of an encouraging nature, the men deemed that silence was best, and each sat engrossed with his own thoughts while the daylight waned and the shadows began to creep over the valley that a joking fate had called "Pleasant."

As time went on the Englishmen seemed to become aware of a sort of disturbance in the camp. Feet were hurrying here and there, and voices were speaking rapidly in low tones. Now and then, as some one passed the teepee, the words "fiery totem" could be heard by those within, so naturally the Englishmen attributed the excitement to matters relating to the approaching sacrifice.

But presently the excitement seemed to grow more intense, and the voices were raised to a higher pitch.

Unable to restrain curiosity any longer, the men went to look out from the door of the teepee, and as they reached the opening a strange sight presented itself before them.

Gathered in many groups were all the Indians of the tribe, including all the squaws and papooses, while the tall figure of Mighty Hand could be seen through the gloaming, standing erect upon a hillock at a little distance to one side.

All had their backs turned towards the Englishmen.

They were facing the towering blackness of a mighty cliff, while with a sudden wave of silence they stood doubly transfixed, with eyes directed to one portion of the dark wall, where a sort of light was dimly glimmering.

What could it be that had such a power to fascinate the whole tribe?

The Englishmen looked in the same direction, but the object seemed to be nothing more than an irregular line of light that might have been some reflection caused by the setting sun.

Still all watched in silence.

And, as the darkness deepened so did the light become clear. From an irregular line about ten feet long it seemed to take form gradually, while it undoubtedly intensified in brightness. Clearer and still more plainly was the outline revealed, until at last—when the sun had quite vanished—there stood out against the black wall the shape of a snake of fire, poised in the very act to strike, just as it was outlined on the breast of Mighty Hand!

Arnold and Holden were astounded at what they surmised to be some fresh trick on the part of Thunder-maker, or some special form of the impending ceremony. And at the same moment a loud cry broke from the throats of the watching multitude.

"The fiery totem! The fiery totem!"

Then the Indians fell face downwards to the ground with fear.

Surely such a prodigy had never been seen before?

The sacred totem of the tribe had itself appeared, to warn the Dacotahs that the fire was not to burn that night; that the two prisoners were men, not evil spirits.

While the two men were standing watching the prostrate Indians, three figures crept round an adjacent tent—two of whom then darted forward, while the third followed at more dignified leisure.

"Bob!"

"Alf!"

These were the exclamations that burst from the lips of the captives as two boys launched themselves forward to receiving arms. Then came the dignified Skipper Mackintosh.

"You are saved, good sirs," he said, without waiting for an introduction. "My good phosphorus paint and the brains o' these fine laddies has called up the fiery totem. I'm thinking that there will be no sacrifice to superstition the—night, and that you'll a' be on your way back to Crane Creek the morn."

* * * * *

And when next day the time came for departure, and the fathers and sons had made their arrangements with the good wishes and help of Mighty Hand, Swift Arrow, and a host of eager redmen, it was Bob who was first to notice that Skipper Mackintosh and the half-breed seemed in no haste to accompany the party.

"Are you not coming with us?" the boy asked.

The Scot smiled and shook his head.

"No. I'm thinking to bide here for a few days, to hunt for yon hawk moth that I told you aboot. Besides, when you're safe out of the way, I mean to have a serious talk with Mighty Hand and his folk. I wouldn't have them think that yon was a real fiery serpent. That would be idolatry. We had to cheat them to save life, but—well, I'll no' leave the Dacotahs until I've ceevilised them into believin' that the legend of the fiery totem is false, and that there's better ways o' living than by believin' such gowk's nonsense."

THE END

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY MORRISON AND GIBB LIMITED, EDINBURGH



[Transcriber's Note:

The following corrections and changes were made:

*Passages in italics are indicated by underscores.

*Illustrations have been moved closer to the relevant paragraphs.

*In the text version, the footnotes have been moved to the end of the relevant chapter.

*In the html version, the footnotes have been moved to the end of the book.

*p. 30: Added missing period to end of "I guess the best thing we can do is to turn in"

*p. 64: Added missing hyphen to "Thunder maker" in "Thus speaking, Thunder maker dived a hand"

*p. 218: Added missing period after "returned Holden, with a short forced laugh"]