THE BLACK WOLF PACK

 BY

 DAN BEARD

 NATIONAL SCOUT COMMISSIONER, B. S. A. 

 ILLUSTRATED

 CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS NEW YORK

[Illustration: It was a shadowy figure yet it moved]

COPYRIGHT, 1922, BYCHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY BOYS’ LIFE

Printed in the United States of America

_All rights reserved. No part of this bookmay be reproduced in any form withoutthe permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons_

 DEDICATED TO

 BELMORE AND FRED (BELMORE BROWNE) (FREDERICK K. VREELAND)

 NO BETTER WILDERNESS MEN EVER WORE MOCCASINS

PREFACE

After numerous visits to a number of remote and unfrequented places inthe Rocky Mountains, from Wyoming to Alberta, the writer was deeplyimpressed with the awesome mystery of the wilderness and the weirdlegends he heard around the camp fires, while the bigness of the thingshe saw was photographed on his brain so distinctly and permanently as toact as a compelling force causing him, aye, almost forcing him to writeabout it. 

When the spell came upon him, like the Ancient Mariner, he needs musttell the story, and thus the tale of the Black Wolf Pack was writtenwith no thought, at the time, of publishing the narrative, but primarilyfor the real enjoyment the author derived from writing it, and also forthe entertainment of the author’s family and intimate friends. 

The tale, however, pleased the members of the Editorial Board of the BoyScouts of America, and Mr. Franklin K. Mathiews, Chief Scout Librarian, asked permission to have it edited for the Scout Magazine, which requestwas cheerfully granted. 

The author hereby freely and cheerfully acknowledges the useful changesand practical suggestions injected into the story by his friend andassociate, Mr. Irving Crump, Editor of Boys’ Life, in which magazine theBlack Wolf Pack, in somewhat abbreviated form, first appeared. 

DAN BEARD. 

Flushing, June 1st, 1922. 

ILLUSTRATIONS

It was a shadowy figure yet it moved _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGEThe eagle screamed, descended like a thunderbolt. .. And struck the bull 36

More than once while I clung to the chance projection. .. I regretted making the fool-hardy attempt 92

“I think the name ‘Pluto’ fits his character to anicety” 192

The Black Wolf Pack

CHAPTER I

It was a terrible shock to me (said the Scoutmaster as he fingered abeaded buckskin bag). Old Blink Broosmore was responsible. It was amalicious thing for him to do. He meant it to be mean, too, —wanted tohurt me, —to wound my feelings and make me ashamed. And all because henursed a grudge against dad—I mean Mr. Crawford. 

It started because of that defective spark-plug in the engine of theroadster. Strange what a tiny thing such as a crack in a porcelainjacket around an old spark-plug can do in the way of changing the courseof a fellow’s whole life. 

My last period in the afternoon at high school was a study period and Icut it because I had several things to do down town. I hurried home andtook the roadster, and on my way out mother—I mean Mrs. Crawford—gaveme an armful of books to return to the library and a list of errands shewanted me to do. While motoring down town I noticed that one cylinderwas missing occasionally and I told myself I would change thatspark-plug as soon as I got home. 

I made all the stops I had planned and even drove around to the churchbecause I wanted to look in at the parish house where some of my scouts(I was the assistant scoutmaster of Troop 6, of Marlborough) wereputting up decorations for the very first Fathers and Sons dinner evergiven which we were to have on Washington’s birthday. That was in 1911. 

As I was leaving I looked at my new wrist watch and discovered that itwas a quarter of five. 

“Just in time to catch dad and drive him home from the office, ” I saidto myself, for I knew that he left the office of his big paper-milldown at the docks at five o’clock. 

I jumped into the car and bowled along down Spring Street and the FrontStreet hill and arrived at the mill office at exactly five. Dad wasn’tin sight so I decided to turn around and wait for him at the curb. Thatis how the trouble started. I got part way around on the hill when thatcylinder began missing a lot and next thing I knew the motor stalled andthere was I with my car crosswise on the hill, blocking traffic—andtraffic is heavy on Front Street hill about five o’clock, because allthe mills are rushing their trucks down to the piers with the last loadsof merchandise before the down-river boats leave, at six o’clock. 

In about two minutes I was holding up a line of trucks a block long andthose drivers were saying a lot of things that were not verycomplimentary to me and not printed in Sunday-school papers. And oldBlink Broosmore was right up at the head of the line with a truck loadof cases from the box factory and the look on his face was about as uglyas a mud turtle’s. Then, to make matters worse, my starter wouldn’t workat the critical moment, and I had to get out to crank the engine. What ahowl of indignation went up from those stalled truck drivers! I feltlike a bad two-cent piece in a drawer full of five-dollar gold pieces. Guess my face was red behind my ears. 

And then old Blink made the unkindest remark of all—no, he didn’t makeit to me; he just yelled it out to a couple of other truck-drivers. 

“That’s what happens with these make-believe dudes, ” he shouted. “That’sthe kid old Skin Flint Crawford took out of an orphan asylum. He’s a kidthat old Crawford took up with because he was too mean t’ have t’ Lordbless him with one o’ his own. That’s straight, fellers. I wasCrawford’s gardener when it happened an’—”

Old Blink stopped and got red and then white, and I could see the othertruck men looking uncomfortable. I looked up and there was Dad Crawfordon the curb boring holes into Blink with those cold gray eyes of his andlooking as white as marble. No one said a word. It seemed as if thewhole street became hushed and silent. I got the car around to the curbsomehow and dad got in and the line of trucks trundled by with everydriver looking straight ahead and some of them grinning nervously andapparently feeling mighty uncomfortable. 

But that wasn’t a patch to the way I felt, and I could see by the lackof color and set expression of dad’s face and the way he stared straightahead of him without saying a word that he was feeling very unhappyabout it too. There was something behind it all—something that raisedin my mind vague doubts and very unpleasant thoughts. 

Dad never spoke a word all the way home, and, needless to say, I did noteither—I couldn’t; my whole world seemed to have been turned upsidedown in the space of half an hour. Was it true that I was not DonaldCrawford? Was it possible that Alexander Crawford, this fine, big, broad-shouldered, kindly man beside me was not my real father? Was it afact that that noble, generous, happy woman whom I called mamma was notmy mother at all? Each of those questions took shape in my mind and eachwas like a stab in the heart, for Blink Broosmore had answered them all, and Alexander Crawford, though he must know how anxious I was to haveBlink denied, did not speak to refute him. 

We rolled up the drive and dad stepped out, still silent, but he didsmile wistfully at me as he closed the car door. 

“Put it away, Don, and hurry in for dinner, ” he said and I felt certainI detected a break in his voice. I felt sorry—sorry for him and sorryfor myself, and as I put the car in the garage, I had a hard time tryingto see things clearly; my eyes would get blurred and a lump would getinto my throat in spite of me. 

As I dressed for dinner I felt half dazed. I hardly realized what I wasdoing, and I had to stop and pull myself together before I starteddownstairs to the dining room, for I knew if I did not have myself wellin hand I would blubber like a big chump. 

Mother and dad were waiting for me and I could see by mother’s sadexpression and the troubled look in her eyes that dad had told her ofthe whole occurrence. And that only added to my unhappiness because Ifelt for a certainty that all that Blink Broosmore had shouted must betrue. 

For the first time in my memory dad forgot to say grace, and none of usate with any apparent relish and none of us tried to make conversation. It was a painful sort of a meal and I wanted to have it over with assoon as I could. It seemed hours before Nora cleared the table andserved dad’s demi-tasse. 

I guess I then looked him full in the eyes for the first time since theoccurrence on Front Street. 

“That was a very unkind thing for Blink Broosmore to do, ” said dad, andI knew by the firmness and evenness of his voice that he had gained fullcontrol of his feelings. 

“Is—is—oh, did he tell the truth, dad?” I gulped helplessly and forthe life of me I could not keep back the tears. 

“Unfortunately, Donald, there is just enough truth in it to make ithurt, ” said dad and I could see mother wince as if she had been struck, and turn away her face. 

“They why—why? Oh! who am I?” I cried, for the whole thing hadcompletely unnerved me. 

“Don dear, we do not know to a certainty, ” said mother struggling withher emotions. 

“But now that you are partly aware of the situation, I think there is away you can find out, at least as much as we know, ” said dad, getting upand going into the library. 

Through the doorway I could see him fumbling at the safe that he keptthere beside the desk. Presently he drew out a battered and dented redtin box and a bundle of papers. These he brought into the dining roomand laid on the table. Then he drew up a chair, cleared his throat, rather loudly it seemed to me, and began. 

“Don, we always wanted a child, and why the Lord never blessed us withone of our own we do not know. Anyway, we wanted one so badly that wedecided to adopt one. That was seventeen years ago, wasn’t it, mother?”

Mother nodded. 

“Doctor Raymond, the physician at the county institution, knew ourdesires and, being an old friend of the family, he volunteered to findus a good healthy baby that we could adopt and call our own. Not a weeklater you appeared on the scene. Dr. Raymond told us that a wagon drawnby a raw-boned horse, and loaded with household goods, drew up to theorphanage and a tired and worn-out looking old lady got out with a lustyyear old child in one arm and this box and these papers under theother. 

“At the office of the asylum she explained how she and her husband weremoving from a Connecticut town to a little farm they had bought inPennsylvania. Somewhere at a crossroad near Derby, Connecticut, they hadfound the baby and this box and bundle of papers in a basket under abush with a card attached to the basket requesting that the finder adoptand take care of the baby. 

“Of course, they could not pass the infant by, but the woman explainedthat they were too poor and too old to adopt the child so they had gonemiles out of their way to find an orphanage and leave the baby there, along with the box and papers. 

“When Dr. Raymond heard the story and saw you, for you were the baby, hegot me on the telephone and told me all about you. And that night hebrought you here, and you were such a chubby, bright, interesting littlefellow that mother and I fell in love with you immediately and decidedto adopt you, which we did according to law. So you are our legalchild, Don, and all that, although we are not your real parents. ”

Somehow that made me feel a little happier. Dad and mother did have aclaim on me at least. That was something. 

“It was not until after Dr. Raymond had left, ” went on father, “thatmother and I examined the box and papers that had come with you. Herethey are. ”

Dad took up a worn and age-yellowed envelope addressed in a bold hand:

 To the Finder

Inside was the following brief message:

 TO THE FINDER:—

 The mother of this child, Donald Mullen, is dead. I, his father, cannot give him the care he should have. Will you, the finder, adopt him, care for him, and bring him up to be an honest, trustworthy man, and win the eternal gratitude of his dead mother and

 DONALD MULLEN, his father. 

“Then my name is—or was Mullen, ” I exclaimed. 

“According to that, ” said dad softly, “but when you became our son wekept your first name and discarded the family name of course. ”

“But—but what has become of my father, Donald Mullen?” I asked. 

“My boy, we have tried both for your sake and for our own to find out. We have followed up and searched every possible clue and—but wait, hereare other papers of interest and after you have read them I will tellyou all we have done to locate your real father and afterwards we willtalk the whole situation over. ” As dad was speaking he passed over thebattered tin box. On the lid was inscribed the simple lines—

 The contents of this box belong to the boy. If you are honest you will see that it comes into his hands at the proper time. If you are dishonest, then God help the boy and God help you!

 D. MULLEN. 

It was some time before I could make up my mind to force the lid. When Idid the first thing that my eyes fell upon was this buckskin bag ofunmistakable Indian design, beautifully decorated with bead work andhighly colored porcupine quills cunningly worked into a good luckdesign. As I picked up the bag I saw that it was sealed with wax and toit was attached a card on which was penned:

 To my son:—

 Here is all the wealth I possess. It isn’t much. The bag with its contents was sent to me by my brother, Fay, who is out in the Rockies. He gave it to me to pay my expenses out there to join him. I am leaving it for you. It may help you over some rocky places if it ever gets into your hands, and I trust the good Lord that it does. 

 Lovingly, YOUR FATHER. 

The bag gave forth the unmistakable clink of gold coins as I dropped iton the table. 

That message from my father, whom I had never seen, made my heart heavyand again that lump gathered in my throat, for I could feel theheartaches that the writing of that note must have caused him. I had notthe courage to break the seal of the bag and examine its contents. Ipushed it aside and took from the box another time-yellowed envelopeaddressed to

 MY SON DONALD

Inside I found the following:

 Dear Boy:—

 I cannot determine whether I am giving you a mean deal or whether this is all for your good. Your mother, Barbara Parker Mullen, is dead, God bless her! She has been dead now six months. It seems to me like eternity. I have tried to take care of you as she would have cared for you but I am afraid I have lost heart, and my courage, and I am afraid my faith has slipped from me. I fear that I am a broken-spirited failure. The passing of your mother has taken everything from me. I am no longer fit or able to care for you and I must pass you on to someone else and trust your welfare to God. For neither your mother nor I have any relatives left who are able to take care of you. 

 What will become of you I cannot guess. I can only hope for the best. But by the time you are old enough to read and understand this message you will, I hope, have forgiven me or praised me for my effort to find you a home. 

 What will become of me I do not know. I have one brother left in the world, Fay Mullen, and he is out in Piute Pass in the Rockies grubbing for gold. I am going out to join him for I know the only way I can forget my grief and get hold of myself once more is to bury myself in the wilderness. 

 Fay has sent me a bag of double eagles to pay my expenses west. That is all the money I have in the world. I am not going to use it. I will work my way west and leave the gold for you. It is the least and probably the last that I can do for you. 

 If, when you read this you have any desires to know who you really are, I will leave you the following information:

 Your mother, a wonderful woman, was Barbara Parker of Litchfield, Connecticut, daughter of Judge Arnold Parker of Litchfield, now deceased. I am Donald Mullen, the eldest of three brothers; Fay Mullen is the next of age and Patrick Mullen, the gunsmith of Maiden Lane, New York, is the youngest. We were born in Byron Bridge, Ireland, and we three came to this country after our parents died. You come of an honest, worthwhile people on my side, and of the best American blood on your mother’s, Donald, and I ask only that you live an honest, honorable life and have faith in your country and your God, and He will be with you to the end. 

 Good-bye, boy. 

 Lovingly, YOUR FATHER. 

I read the letter aloud but I confess that my voice broke toward the endand I choked up until reading was difficult. 

For some time after I finished, we three sat in silence. The thoughtsand mental pictures of that broken man parting with his baby sonseventeen years before made me most unhappy. 

Dad broke the silence. 

“Well, now you are acquainted with the whole situation, what do youthink?”

“I scarcely know what to think, ” said I. “It does not appear natural fora man to abandon his own son in the manner he did. It seems heartlessand cruel. I cannot understand it; yet I wish I could see my poorfather. I wonder if he is still alive. Certainly with the information athand it should not be impossible for me to trace him or some relativesof my mother. Don’t you think so?”

“That is what I thought, Don, for when you were three years old I beganto wonder about your father’s whereabouts. I wanted to meet him andperhaps help him if I could. Do not think that your poor father wascruel, for it is evident that the man was suffering from a nervousbreakdown and consequently more or less irresponsible; I think he actedwonderfully well under the circumstances. In order to help him I began asearch and for ten years I have had detectives and private individualsfollowing up every possible lead. Yet, with all my efforts, the searchhas amounted to nothing. Your father’s trail ended at a Spokaneoutfitting store. I could not locate anyone nearer to you than an oldmaiden great-aunt of your mother’s although I have had every clueinvestigated. 

“The only relative of your father’s that I could get any informationabout was his youngest brother, Patrick Mullen, your uncle and a famousgunsmith of Maiden Lane, New York. He is dead now but his reputation formaking an exceptionally fine hand-forged gun lives on even to-day. Patrick Mullen died just before I began my search for your father, butin digging around for facts about him, I learned that he had made alimited number of very fine guns, on each of which he had stamped hisfull name, ‘Patrick Mullen. ’ Other guns of an inferior quality that hemade bore the simple stamp of ‘P. Mullen. ’ The old man was very proud ofeach ‘Patrick Mullen’ that he turned out and like the true artist thathe was he kept track of each one, sold them only to men he knew and whenthe owner died he bought the gun back himself so that he always knew itswhereabouts. 

“In that way all of the 101 ‘Patrick Mullen’s’ he made came back to him, save one. There is one of the complete number still missing and no oneseems to know where it is. This is more remarkable because the missinggun is a flint-lock rifle of the style of seventy years ago. That gunhas always struck me as being a valuable clue in our search, because itis the only rifle ever made by the old gunsmith and I have a feelingthat that missing ‘Patrick Mullen’ may have been given to your father bythe brother, and that may account for the fact that among the papers ofPatrick Mullen there is no record of its whereabouts; this is in ameasure confirmed by the report that the man outfitting at Spokane had along old-fashioned rifle, and collectors say there used to be an expertin antique arms by the name of Mullen. ”

The suggestion made me tremendously excited. Beyond a doubt in my mindthat missing “Patrick Mullen” was my father’s gun. I imagined himparting with everything else save the unique gun his famous brother hadmade for him. Why he should wish for a flint-lock rifle was anunanswerable question, but someone wanted that sort of a gun or it wouldnot have been made, and my father’s letters showed him to be a man ofsentiment, and impractical, just the sort of fellow to use a flint-lockwhen he might just as well have had a modern breech-loading high-powerrifle. 

“I believe you’ve hit it, dad. Hot dog!” I exclaimed. “Bet a cookie thatthat gun does belong to my father and if we can find it we will probablyfind him too—would not that be bully?”

“I feel the same way too, Don. But finding that missing gun will be asdifficult as finding your father. I have searched the country over forit and made a wonderful collection of flint-lock guns, as you see bylooking at yonder gun-rack; I have had dozens of arms collectors anddetectives looking for guns of that description, but no Patrick Mullenrifle has turned up anywhere. There have, of course, been many falseclues and many queer rifles offered to me and I have put a great manythousands of dollars into the search, and my collection of flint-locksis the best in the land, Don. But so far nothing but failures seem tohave rewarded my search—no, I’m wrong, there is one man out west—outin the little jerk-water town of Grave Stone, who insists that there isa wild man living in a lonely, almost inaccessible valley in themountains, who shoots a gun which looks like the one for which I amsearching. For a number of years this man of mystery, it seems, has beenappearing and reappearing, according to Big Pete Darlinkel, myinformant, but even Pete has never got in personal touch with thiseccentric hermit. Neither have several detectives I have sent out therefor that purpose. The detectives seem to be all right in towns or citiesand are undoubtedly brave men, but something out there appears tofrighten them and they lose interest the moment they cut the trail ofthe wild hunter. I begin to think this wild man is a myth, too. Strange, though, that just a week ago I received another letter fromPete Darlinkel. Wait, I’ll find it. ”

He returned from the library presently with a letter which he opened andpassed over to me. It read:

 DEAR MR. CRAWFORD:—

 Maybe you hain’t interested no more but thet tha’ ole Dopped ganger, the Wild Hunter, the spooky old critter, has been seen agin. I wuz on the top of the painted Butte yesterday squinten one i in the valley look’n for elk and look’n up with tother i for Big horn on the mountain, when i staged the old duffer snoop’en along in one of the parks an’ he had the same long hair and long rifle he uster have. He sure is a ghost or else he’s a nut or an old timer gone locoed. He sends the chills down my backbone every time i sots my eyes on him. 

 Your obedients sarvent, BIG PETE. 

There was something about that crude letter that stirred me deeply. 

Could this strange freak that Big Pete saw from the top of the paintedButte possess that Patrick Mullen rifle? If so did he know anythingabout the whereabouts of my father? It is not uncommon for peoplesuffering from a mental breakdown to flee to the country or wildernessand there live the life of a recluse, and from my father’s last letterit was evident that he had had a nervous breakdown from anxiety andbrooding over the loss of my mother, to whom he evidently was devotedlyattached. It might, therefore, be possible that this strange, wild manhimself was my father, an unpleasant possibility. At any rate, I feltthat I could not rest, at least until I discovered to a certainty thename of the maker of the long rifle said to be carried by the wildhunter and I told dad just how I felt about it. 

“I knew you would feel that way, son, ” said he. “I have often wanted togo west for the very same purpose and I knew that when I told youeverything you would want to go too. I intended to lay all the factsbefore you when you were twenty-one but now that Blink Broosmore hastaken it upon himself to inform you and his truck-driving friends of themystery surrounding your real parentage, I guess it is best you know allthere is to be known about the situation. The rest I’ll leave to you. Infact, it would please me a great deal if you would run down this lastvague clue to see if your father really is still alive. Go, Donald, andGod bless you, and take that bag of gold with you, unopened, for it maynow stand your father in good stead, and if you do find him, bring himhere and I promise you he will never want for a thing, nor will you, myson, for you are still my boy whatever your real parentage may be. ”

CHAPTER II

The stage pulled up in front of a typical western saloon, post officeand general store. There was the usual crowd of prospectors, gamblers, cow punchers and trappers assembled to meet the incoming stage. When Iscrambled off the top of the old-fashioned coach, and before I had timeto shake the alkali dust from my clothes, or moisten my dry and crackedlips, a typical western bully approached me roaring the verses of a songwith which he evidently intended to terrify me, “He blowed into Lanigan swinging a gun A new one, A blue one, A colt’s forty-one, An’ swearing Declaring Red Rivers ’ud run Down Alkali Valley, An’ oceans of gore ’ud wash sudden death On the sage brush shore, An’ he shot a big hole—”

He got no further with the song. Another man stepped out from the crowd, a very tall, powerful man who would have attracted attention in any garbin any place by his distinguished appearance, who with little ceremonyrudely brushed the roughneck to one side, and my instinct told me thehandsome stranger could be no other than Big Pete Darlinkel. 

My! my! what a man he was! Looked as if he just stepped out of one ofFred Remington’s pictures, or Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, or slippedfrom between the leaves of a volume of Captain Mayne Reid’s “ScalpHunters”—Big Pete was evidently a hold-over from another age. He wouldhave fitted perfectly and with nicety in a picture of Davy Crockett’smen down in old Texas. He seemed, however, perfectly at home in thisborder town, and I noted that the most hard-boiled and toughest men inthe crowd treated him with marked respect and deference. 

Pete was a wilderness fop and a dandy, and evidently was as careful ofhis clothes as a West Point cadet. In dress he affected theold-fashioned picturesque garb of the mountains. His appearance filledme with wonder and admiration; he stood six feet two or three inches inhis moccasins, straight as an arrow and lithe as a cat. 

His costume consisted of a tunic of dressed deer skin, smoked to thesoftness of the finest flannels. He wore it belted in at the waist, butopen at the breast and throat where it fell back like a sailor’s collarinto a short cape covering the shoulders. Underneath was the undershirtof dressed fawn skin; his leggins and moccasins were of the samematerial as his hunting shirt, and on his head he wore a fox skin cap;the fox’s head adorned with glass eyes ornamented the front and the tailhung like a drooping plume over the left shoulder. 

Big Pete Darlinkel was a blonde, and his golden hair hung in sunny curlsupon his massive shoulders; a light mustache, soft yellow beard, with apair of the deepest, clearest, most innocent baby-like blue eyes, allmade a face such as an angel might have after years of exposure to sunand wind. 

Not only are Big Pete’s revolvers gold mounted, but the shaft of hiskeen-edged knife is rich with figures, rings, and stars filed from goldcoins and set in the horn. The very stock of his long, single-barreledrifle is inlaid like an Arab’s gun, and, as for his buckskin huntingsuit, it is a mass of embroidery and colored quills from his beadedmoccasins to the fringed cape of his shirt. 

Big Pete was a dandy, fond of color, fond of display; yet in spite ofall this he wore absolutely nothing for decoration alone, but everyarticle of use about his person was ornamented to an oriental degree. Gaudy and rich as his costume was when viewed in detail, as a whole itharmonized not only with Pete, his hair, his complexion, his weapons, but with whatever natural objects surrounded him. 

Big Pete also seemed to know me instinctively and approached with agraceful and swinging step; holding out his hand he greeted me in a low, soft, well-modulated voice with, “Howdy, kid; yes, I’m Big Pete andallow you are the tenderfoot dude from New York what wants to shoot biggame, an’ reckon you’d like to meet the wild mountain man? Well, he’s aqueer one, I tell you. He’s got us all buffaloed out this-a-way, most ofus don’t care to meet him close up and we give him wide range when wecut his trail. ”

That was Big Pete’s greeting. Of course, I had not told him of my realinterest in this mysterious man of the mountains, only suggesting that Iwould like to do some big game shooting and see the spooky hunter. 

“Well, ” I answered, “I would like to get a record elk head to take hometo dad. As for the mountain wildman, I wish you’d tell me more abouthim, he is awfully interesting. ”

“Tell you more? Well, sho, I reckon I can tell you more than most peopleround these parts for he makes my game park his stampin’ grounds everyonct in a while, an’ let me tell you he hunts some peculiar, he do, he’shalf man and half wolf—but shucks, I won’t spoil the show, you will seehow he hunts for yourself if you stay here long. Glory be, but he’s gotme some bashful and shy. But mosey along and I’ll hist yore stuff onthis here cayuse while you let them tha’ dogs out of their chicken coopboxes. You can cache your dude duds in the Emporium general store overyonder next to Squinty Quinn’s saloon, an’ then we’re off for the hills. I’ll yarn about this Wild Hunter while we hit the trail. ”

An hour spent in Grave Stone gave me an opportunity to wash myself andchange my clothes for some that would be more substantial forout-of-door wear, start several letters east telling of my safe arrival, buy the things I had overlooked, store my surplus clothes with thepostmaster at the general store, and repack my kit for pony travel. Then, after watching Big Pete skilfully throw the diamond hitch, we wereoff for the hills and our first camp. I hoped that I was on my way tofind my real father and unravel the mystery that surrounded my strangebabyhood. But I little guessed what adventures I was to have or thestrange things I was to see before my quest was ended. 

We traveled fast all the remaining portion of the afternoon and towardevening we made camp and for the first time in my life I slept under thesky. At the end of the fifth day we reached the secret and narrowopening of a big valley or “park” in the midst of a wild tumble ofmountains. Big Pete said we would pitch our tent in the park. 

“Tha’s plenty of signs ’round too an’ if we loosen t’ dogs p’raps we kinstir up a mountain lion or collar some fresh meat t’ start camp with, ”said he as he slid off his horse and took the leashes off the dogs. 

It took us but a short time to arrange our camp, then Big Pete followedby the frisking dogs slipped silently into the woods. He was gonescarcely a quarter of an hour when he reappeared again without the dogs, motioned for me to get my gun and follow him. 

“Tha’s elk signs all bout, ” he said, “an’ the muts broke away on a freshtrail. Now you an’ me’ll climb through that draw yonder and hide out onthe runway till they drive an elk in gun shot. Come along. ”

I followed eagerly and presently we had climbed through a thickly grownpoplar grove and found a suitable hiding place among the small poplars. We had the wind right and a clear view of most of the open park. BigPete stooped down and motioned for me to do likewise. 

I quietly crouched beside him and waited—waited until my legs werecramped, waited until the dampness from the moss struck through theheavy soles of my tenderfoot shoes and chilled my feet; waited until myarm was so numb that it felt like a piece of lead—then, in spite of thedanger of incurring Big Pete’s displeasure and in spite of my dread ofbeing thought a dude tenderfoot, I changed my position, rubbed life intomy arm and assumed an easier pose. 

In front of us was a small lake, deep, dark and unruffled. All aroundthe edge was a natural wharf formed from the gigantic trunks of treeswhich had fallen for ages into the lake and been washed by wind andwaves and forced by winter ice into such regular order and positionalong the shore that their arrangement looked like the work of men. Backof this wharf and all about was the wilderness of silent wood; awilderness enclosed by a wall of mountains, whose lofty heads wereuplifted far above the soft white clouds that floated in the blue skyoverhead and were mirrored in the lake below. An eagle, on apparentlyimmovable wings, soared over the lake in spiral course. As I watched thebird its wings seemed suddenly endowed with life. At the same instant myguide gave a low grunt of warning. 

“What is it?” I asked in a whisper, for there was a strange expressionin my companion’s eyes. 

“It’s—it’s him, so help me!—Keep yer ears open and yer meat-trapshut!” growled Pete. 

I did so. The trained ear of the hunter had detected the sound ofcrackling twigs and swishing branches made by some animals in rapidmotion. 

“Ah!” I exclaimed, “the dogs. You startled me; I thought it wasIndians. ”

“I wish it was nothing wuss, ” muttered my guide, as he examined hisweapons with a critical eye and loosened the cartridges for hisrevolvers in his belt to make sure that they would be easy to pluck out. 

“Those hain’t our dogs, mister, ” he remarked after he had examined hiswhole arsenal. 

As I again fixed my attention on the noise, in place of the resonantvoice of the hounds, I heard nothing but the crackling of branches, withan occasional half-suppressed wolf-like yelp. 

Big Pete turned pale and muttered, “It’s them for sartin; it’s themagin! And I hain’t been drinkin’, nuther!”

Big Pete Darlinkel remained crouching in exactly the same pose he hadfirst assumed, but his face looked sallow and worn. I marveled. Was thisbig westerner really awed by the situation we were facing? What disasterimpended?

My guide’s eyes were fixed upon an opening in the woods and I knew thatsomething would soon bound from that spot. I could hear the crashing ofbrush and half-suppressed wolf-like yelps, followed by a pause, then arushing noise, and out leaped as beautiful a bull elk as I had everseen—in fact the first I had ever seen at close range in his nativewilderness. I had only time to take note of his muscular neck, clean cutlimbs, his grand branching antlers, and—not my dogs but a pack of_immense black wolves_ at his heels before I instinctively brought mygun to my shoulder. But before I could draw a bead Big Pete struck it, knocking the muzzle up. 

“Hist!” he exclaimed, pointing to the bird. 

The eagle screamed, descended like a thunderbolt and skilfully avoidingthe branching antlers, struck the bull, driving one talon into the neckand the other into the back, flapping its huge wings as it tore with itsbeak at the body of the elk like a trained “_bear coote_. ”

I was thunderstruck. The evident partnership of the wolves and birdneeded explanation and it was not long in coming. A shrill whistlepierced the air, the black wolves immediately ceased to worry the elk, the eagle soared overhead, and for an instant the elk stood confused, then leaped high in the air and fell dead. The next moment I heard thecrack of a rifle and saw a puff of blue smoke across the lake. 

“That’s no ghost, ” I said, when partly recovered from my astonishment. 

“Wait, ” said Pete laconically. 

[Illustration: The eagle screamed, descended like a thunderbolt . .. Andstruck the bull]

Not long afterward there was a movement among the wolves and, noiselessly as a panther the figure of a man lithe and youthful in everymovement slipped to the side of the dead elk. He made no noise, utteredno word to the fierce black animals that sat with their red tongueshanging from their panting jaws, but without a moment’s hesitationwhipped out a knife and with a dexterity and skill that brought thecolor to Big Pete’s face, proceeded to take the coat off the wapiti, while the great eagle perched upon the branching antlers. The skin wasremoved and with equal dexterity all the best parts of the meat wereskilfully detached and packed in the green hide, after which, removing alarge slice of red flesh, the strange hunter held up one finger. One ofthe wolves gravely walked up to him, received the morsel, gulped it downand retired. Each in turn was fed, then the great bird flopped on hisshoulder and was fed from his hand, and before I could realize what hadhappened the man, the wolves and the eagle had disappeared, leavingnothing but the dismembered carcass of the elk to remind us of thestrange episode. 

CHAPTER III

To say that the whole spectacle that I had just witnessed startled mewould be stating it mildly indeed. The strange appearance of this big, powerful, smooth shaven man in a buckskin hunting costume with a retinueof black wolves and a trained eagle, the mysterious manner of hishunting and his coming and going, aroused in me great interest andcuriosity and I could realize the effect it evidently had upon BigPete’s superstitious mind in spite of the fact that the big fellow wasaccustomed to facing almost any sort of danger. As for me, I could notmyself prevent the creeping chills from running down my spine whenever Ithought of the wild man. 

Could it be possible that this strange, half-wild man of the mountains, this killer, this master of a wolf pack, could be in any way connectedwith my father? I wondered, and as I wondered I found that a vague fearof this mad man who despite his reputed age seemed as youthful and asagile as a man in his thirties, was gripping me. Perhaps the strangenessof the wilderness park added to my awe, for certainly one could expectalmost anything supernatural to happen in the twilight of the forest ofgiant trees, whose interlacing branches overhead shut out the light ofheaven. 

Recovering somewhat from my astonishment and surprise, I realized thatwhat I had witnessed, strange though it appeared, was not a supernaturaloccurrence. I knew that it was a real gun I had heard, real smoke I hadseen, real man, real bird, real elk, and real wolves. 

“But, Pete, ” I exclaimed, as a sudden thought struck me, “what’s becomeof our dogs?”

“Better ask them black fiends up the mountains. I reckon you won’t seethem tha’ hounds of yours agin. ”

And I never did, but having hunted the wolf with cowboys and having beena witness to their extraordinary biting power, I knew the fate that mustnecessarily befall a couple of ordinary hounds when overtaken by half adozen full-grown wolves. On such occasions we do not spend much time ingrief over a loss of any kind, “it taint according to mountain law, ”Pete would say. 

“Reckon we had better swipe some of that elk before the coyotes get atit, ” growled Pete. “The wild mountainman knows the good parts, but anelk is an elk, and one wild man, even if he is a giant, can’t carry offall the good meat, not by a long shot. ”

“He may come back, ” I suggested. 

“Not he, ” said Pete. “He’s too stuck up for that. When he wants more, them tha’ black demons and that voodoo bird of his’n will get ’em forhim, and he’s a hanging his long legs off’ner a rock some whar smoking along cigar. ”

“Dod rot him, ” growled Pete. “Why couldn’t he leave a piece of hide tocarry the meat in and the stomach to cook it in? That’s the fust time Iever stayed long ’nough to see him collar his meat, though they say hedo eat the game raw, but I reckon that’s a lie, leastwise he didn’t do’tthis time. ”

With a good square meal of the locoed hunter’s elk under our belts and arousing camp fire before which to toast our shins, both the bigwesterner and I felt a little more natural and comfortable, but ourconversation turned again to this wild hunter of the mountains. 

I could see that the mysterious old man with his wolf pack and eaglearoused almost every possible form of superstition in Big Pete and Iconfess that I was not free from some of it myself. The guide wascertain that the man was either a ghost or a reincarnated devil, and hedisplayed no uncertain signs of awe. 

“I tell you, ” said Pete, “he’s a devil. He’s over a hundred years old, for my dad says he seed him, an’ an Injun before dad’s time told himabout him. They are all skeered t’ death o’ him. An’ I don’t blame ’em. He’s a shore enough hant and them tha’ houn’s o’ his’n is devils in wolfskins. Jumping Gehoosaphats, ef they shed ever cut my trail I reckon I’djust lay right down an’ die, ” and Big Pete actually shuddered at thepossibility. 

“Why, young feller, ” he went on, “that ol’ man shoots gold bullets outo’ a real Patrick Mullen gun. ”

“A Mullen gun, Pete?” I cried, “how do you know, man; speak for goodnesssake!”

“I don’t know it’s a Patrick Mullen and guess it tain’t one ’cause aPatrick Mullen rifle would cost a thousand or more. But the old Injun, Beaver Tail, says, someone told his father and his father told him thatet is a Patrick Mullen gun an’ is a special make inlaid with gold andsilver, an’ all ornamented up, an’ built for an ol’ muzzle-loadin’flint-lock. Now Mullen never made no flint-lock rifles that I hear’ntell of, his specialty be shotguns an’ if he made this rifle I’mganderplucked if I cud tell how this spook got it. ”

“Unless the wild Hunter might be a relative of old Patrick Mullen, ” Isaid, thinking aloud, and gasping at the thought, for the description ofthe rifle somehow impressed me again with the possibility that this wildman of the mountains might himself be Donald Mullen, and _my ownfather!_

“Why do you say that, kid?” asked Big Pete with a queer look in hiseyes. 

“Oh, I don’t know, I was just wondering to myself. But what makes youthink he’s a supernatural being, and, Pete, does this wild loony hunterlook at all like me?”

“Super what? Say when did you swallow a dictionary?—Oh, you mean whatmakes me think he’s a devil. No, he don’t favor you none, ” he added witha grin, “he’s a _handsome_ devil, although he’s done terrified everywhite man, an’ Injun, in these parts half t’ death, so most of ’emsafeared to come back here at all. Men have gone in the park jest to getthis wild man’s scalp, but they’ve done come back scared yaller an’ theyain’t opened their trap much about him since nuther. They do say hespits fire an’ chaws his meat offen the bone an’ then cracks the boneslike a dog an’ swallers it all. They do say, too, that he roars likeforty devils with their tails cut off when he gits mad an’ some say aswhen he wants t’ git som wha’ in a hurry he jest grabs aholt o’ the feeto’ tha’ there thunder bird and she flies off with him and draps himanywha’ he asks her to—Nope, I hain’t seen none of these things myselfbut others say they has, an’ believe me, I’m plumb cautious whentravelin’ these parts alone. Howsomever, he hain’t yet skeered me ’noughto make my ha’r come out by the roots, ” said Pete with a yawn. “There, kick that back log over so’s the fire can lick at t’other side; nowlet’s turn in. ”

CHAPTER IV

Big Pete and I spent several weeks in our charming little camp at thelower end of the park, for my guide decided that despite the recentpresence of the wild hunter, here would be a good place to get a shot atsome black-tail deer. In fact we saw signs of those animals all aboutand my guide was only looking for fresh indication to start out on ourlast hunt before we made our way deeper into the wilderness. 

On the third day of our stay I was returning to camp with my shotgunover my shoulder and a brace of sage grouse in my hand, when I came uponBig Pete in a swail about a mile from camp. He was bending low andexamining fresh signs when he saw me. 

“Howdy, kid, here’s some doin’s. Shall we foller him?”

“Of course, Pete; what are we here for, the mountain air?” I answered. 

“No, ” answered Pete, in his deep, low voice, “we’re here for game, ” andoff he started, but slowly and with great caution. I felt impatient, butrestrained myself, saying nothing and continued to follow my big guidewho now moved with the most painstaking care. Not a twig broke beneathhis moccasins as with panther-like step and crouching form he led methrough a lot of young trees over a rocky place until we struck a smallspring with a soft muddy margin. Here Pete came to a sudden halt. Iasked him why he did not go on, and he pointed to a ledge of rock thatran up the mountain side diagonally with a flat, natural roadbed on top, graded like a stage road but unlike a traveled road, ending in a bunchof underwood and brush about a hundred yards ahead. 

Above the ledge of the rocks was a steep declivity of loose shalesprinkled over with large and small boulders of radically differentformations, and in no manner resembling the friable, uncertain bed uponwhich they rested. 

These boulders undoubtedly showed the result of the grinding andpolishing of an ancient, slow-moving glacier, but some other force haddeposited them in the present position. 

“He’s in tha’, ” whispered Pete. 

“Who, the wild mountain man?” I asked. 

“No, ” answered my guide, “th’ grizzly. ”

“The what?” I almost shouted. 

“Th’ grizzly, ” answered Pete; “what do you think we’ve been following?”

“Black-tailed deer, ” I said softly, with my eyes glued on the thicket. 

“Well, tenderfoot, here’s the trail of that tha’ _deer_, and he hain’tbeen gone by here mor’n nor a week ago, nuther. ”

I looked and there in the soft mud was the print of a foot, ahuman-looking foot, but for the evenness in the length of the toes andthe sharpness and length of the toe nails. Yes, there was anotherdifference, and that was the size. It was the footprint of a savageHercules, the track of an enormous grizzly bear, and the soft mud thathad dripped from the big foot was still undried on the leaves and grasswhen Pete pointed it out to me. 

“Well, Pete, don’t forget your promise that I am to have first shot atall big game, ” I whispered with my best effort at coolness, but my heartwas thumping against my ribs at a terrific rate. 

“But—why, bless you old man!” I whispered excitedly as I looked at mygun, “I am armed only with a shotgun. ”

“Tha’s all right, ” replied the big trapper complacently; then, with aquick motion, he whipped out his keen-edged knife and snatching one ofmy cartridges he severed the shell neatly between the two wads whichseparated the powder and shot; that is, a wad in each piece of thecartridge was exposed by the cut. 

Guided by the faint longitudinal seam where the edges of the coloredpaper join on the shell, Big Pete carefully fitted the two parts of thecartridge together exactly as they were before being cut apart. Breakingmy gun, he slipped the mutilated ammunition into the unchoked barrel. 

“Tha’, ” he grunted, “tha’s better than a bullet at short range, an’lltar a hole in old Ephraim big enough to put your arm through. ”

He cut two more in the same manner, saying, “Be darned kerful not to getexcited and put them in your choke barl, or tha’ may be trouble. ”

Hunting a grizzly with a shotgun and bird shot was not my idea of safesport, but I was too much of a moral coward to acknowledge to Pete thatI was frightened. Pete examined his gun, ran his finger over thecartridges in his belt, and went through all the familiar motions whichto him were unconscious but always foretold danger ahead. 

“You drap on your prayer hinges behind that tha’ nigger head, ” saidPete, “and you will have a dead shot at the brute, an’ I’ll go up androll a stone down the mountain side and follow it as fast as I kin, soas to be ready to help you if you need it; but you ought to drap him atfirst shot at short range. Yer must drap him, yer must or I allow tha’llbe a right smart of a scrap here, and don’t yer forget it!”

“This is no Christmas turkey shooting, young feller, so look sharp, ” andwith a noiseless tread Pete vanished in the wood, while I with beatingheart and bulging eyes watched the thicket at the end of the ledge. Ihad not long to wait before I heard a blood-curdling yell and thencrash! crash! crash! came a big boulder tearing down the mountain side. It reached a point just over the thicket, struck a small pine tree, broke the tree and leaped high into the air, then crashed into themiddle of the brush. 

Following with giant leaps came Big Pete Darlinkel down the rockydeclivity, but I only looked that way for one instant, then my eyes wereagain fixed on the thicket, and in my excitement I arose to a standingposition. There was but a momentary silence after the fall of theboulder before I heard the rustling of sticks and leaves, saw the top ofthe bushes sway as some heavy body moved beneath, then there appeared ahead, and what a head it was! Bigger than all outdoors! I aimed my gun, but my body swayed and the end of my shotgun described a large circle inthe air. I knew that my position was serious, but my nerves played mefalse. 

I had never before faced a grizzly. I heard Big Pete’s voice calling tome to drop behind the rock, but I only stood there with a doggedstupidity, trying to aim my gun at a mark which seemed to me as bigalmost as a barn-door. 

I heard Pete give a sudden cry then there was a rattle of stones anddirt on the ledge in front of the mountain of brownish hair that wasadvancing in sort of side leaps or bounds like a big ball. 

The bear came to a sudden stop, and to my horror I saw the form of myfriend shoot over the edge of the overhanging rock right in the path ofthe grizzly. It all flashed through my mind in a moment. Pete in hishaste to reach me had lost control of himself and slid with the rollingstones and dirt over the mountain side, a fall of at least twenty-fivefeet!

Instantly my nerve returned and I rushed madly up the incline to rescuemy companion. I bounded between the branches of some stout saplings, they parted as my body struck them but sprung together again before myleg had cleared the V-shaped opening. 

My foot was imprisoned and I fell with a heavy thud on my face. For aninstant I was dazed, but even in my dazed state I was fully conscious ofPete’s impending peril, and I kicked and struggled blindly to freemyself. My gun had been flung from my hand in my fall and was out of myreach. Then to my horror I heard the howl the wolf gives when game is insight, and even half blind as I was I saw dark, dog-like forms sweep byme; I heard the scream of an eagle; I heard a snarling and yelping, thesounds of a struggle—I ceased to kick, wiped the blood from my eyes andlooked ahead. 

There lay Big Pete Darlinkel, dead or unconscious, and within ten feetof him stood the giant bear surrounded by a vicious pack of gauntred-mouthed wolves. The bear made a rush and a shadow passed over theground; I heard the sound of a large body rushing swiftly through theair, and an immense eagle struck the bear like a thunderbolt; at thesame instant the wolves attacked him from all sides; then there was awhistle keen and clear; the wolves retreated; the bird again soaredaloft; the bear made several passes in the air in search of the bird, fell forward again on all fours, rose on its hind legs and killed a wolfwith one sweep of its great paw. 

The bear now made a dash at the giant leader of the pack, only to fallforward, dead, with its ugly nose across Big Pete’s chest. 

Then I remembered hearing the crack of a rifle, and knew that the WildMountain Man had saved our lives. I tried to rise but found my ankle sobadly sprained that I could not stand on it. 

Suddenly a low voice with a hint of an Irish accent said, “Sit down, stranger, while I look to your mate, ” and I saw the tall lithe figure ofa man clothed in buckskin bending over Pete. 

“Only stunned, friend, ” said he, and I heard no more. The blow on myhead, combined with the pain from my ankle was too much for me, and nowthat the danger was over it was a good time to faint, and I tookadvantage of it. 

How long I remained unconscious I do not know, but when my eyes openedagain it was night; through the interlacing boughs overhead the starswere shining brightly, my head was neatly bandaged and so was my footand ankle. I could hear our horses cropping grass near by. I raised myhead and there lay Pete; he was alive I knew by his snores that issuedfrom his nose, and we were in our own camp; but—what are those animalsby our camp fire? Wolves! gaunt, shaggy wolves!

I hastily arose to a sitting posture, but my alarm subsided when in thedim light of the fire I could trace the outline of another man’s figure, and on a stick close to the stranger’s head roosted a giant bird. 

Could it be that this wild man of the mountain—possibly my ownfather—was camping with us?

CHAPTER V

“Moseyed, by gum! I’ll be tarnally tarnashuned if that terri-fa-ca-ciousspook hain’t pulled out!” was the exclamation that awakened me themorning after our adventure with the bear. 

Lazily opening my eyes I gazed a moment at the sun just peeping over themountain, then closed them again; but when I attempted to change myposition a sharp pain in my ankle thoroughly awakened me. Still I layquiet because it was some time before I could collect my scatteredsenses and separate in my mind the real incident and the dreamphantasms. 

The pain in my ankle, the swelled and irritated condition of my noseplainly proved to me that there was no dream about my injuries, but Idiscovered that my head and leg were neatly bandaged with strips of finelinen. I sat for a while busily collecting the incidents of the pasttwenty-four hours, arranging them in my mind in their proper order andplace. I cut out the dream portion from the realities with very littletrouble until I reached the part where I had awakened in the night andhad seen the wolves, the eagle and the Wild Hunter. I could not be surewhether that was a dream or reality. Had I seen this strange old manwith his eagle and his wolf pack beside our camp fire or had I dreamedit? Had this hobgoblin man, who might be my own father, rescued me fromdeath at the claws of the grizzly and bound my wounds for me, or wasthat but a dream too? Had not Big Pete saved me perhaps and cared for meafterward?

“Pete, old fellow, ” I said presently, rising to my elbow, “who broughtme to camp? Who killed that bear? Who saved our lives?”

“The Wild Hunter, ” replied Pete gravely. “He bathed my head with somesort of good smelling stuff and, though I am as heavy as a deadbuffaler, toted me to camp; he ’lowed that I was all sort of shuk up anda little hazy; he fixed my blanket, then he fotched you in on hisshoulders just as if you was a dead antelope, fixed you up with bandagestorn from handkerchiefs in your pocket, gave you a drink which youdidn’t seem to appreciate, but just swallowed like you were asleep, thenhe laid you out. I had my eye peeled on him but he said nary a word, an’when we wuz both all comfortable he pulled out a long cigar, sot down bythe fire and was smoking tha’ with his bird and his wolves around himwhen I went to sleep. 

“He cut his bullets out, as he allus does, ” muttered Pete a little whilelater. 

“Who cut what bullets?” I asked. 

“Whomsoever cud I mean but th’ Wild Hunter, and wha’s tha’ been anybullets lately but in th’ b’ar?” queried my companion. 

“Yes, of course, ” I admitted, “but why do you suppose he cut out thebullets?”

“Wal, I reckon tha’ might be right scarce and he haster be kindersparing with them. I calculate you’d like to have a hatful of themballs, leastwise most folks would; cause the Wild Hunter don’t use nocommon low-flung lead for his bullets, no-sir-ree bob-horsefly! Tain’tgood ’nuff for a high-cock-alorum like him—_he shoots balls of virgingold!_”

But I was more interested in what had become of this strange man than inthe sort of projectiles rumor said that he used in his gun and sodismissed the subject with a request for further information about ourrescuer. 

“This morning when I opened my peepers, ” Pete continued, “I t’oughtmaybe the Wild Hunter had only gone off on a tramp; but he’s done claredout for good, and tuk his wolves and bird with him. I’m some glad hetook th’ wolves, I don’t sorter like the look of their mean eyes; theydo say that he is a wolf himself and the head of the pack. ”

“What’s that, Pete? Steady, old man, now let’s go slow. ”

“All right; tha’s wha’ I mean ter do. ’Cause it hain’t a varmint natur’to help men folks, and he done helped us, and no mistake, and left usthe bulk of the b’ar too, —only took the claws, teeth and tenderloin ortwo for himself and pack; that is, if he be a wolf. But we will settlethat if your foot will let you walk a bit. ”

“How far?” I asked. 

“Only over yan way to the first piece of wet ground, and the trail leadsdown to tha’ spring tha’, and tha’ is quite a right smart bit of muddyswail beyont. ”

“All right, I’ll try it, ” I exclaimed. But I could not touch my foot onthe ground, and it was not until my guide had made me a crutch of aforked branch, padded with a piece of fur, that I was able to go limpingalong after Big Pete. 

We followed the trail left by the Wild Hunter to the spring. The trailafter that was plain, even to my inexperienced eyes; and when we reachedthe muddy spot the print of the moccasined feet and the dog-like tracksof the wolves were distinctly visible. 

But look at Big Pete!

As motionless as a statue, with a solemn face he stoops with a rigidfigure pointing to the trail! I hastened to his side and saw that themoccasin prints ceased in the middle of an open, bare, muddy place andbeyond were nothing but the dog-like tracks of the wolves. 

I looked up and all around; there were no overhanging branches that aman could swing himself upon, no stones that he could leap upon—nothingbut the straggling bunches of ferns; but here in this open spot the WildHunter vanished. 

We walked back in silence, for I had nothing to say, and Pete did notvolunteer any further information. 

CHAPTER VI

To have one’s nose all but broken, both eyes blackened and a twistedankle is a sad misfortune wherever it occurs, but when such a thinghappens to a fellow many weary miles from the nearest human habitationand in a howling wilderness it might be considered anything butpleasant. Yet, strange as it may appear, among the most pleasant andprecious memories I have stored away in my mind, only to be tapped uponspecial occasions, is the memory of the glorious days spent nursing mybruises and lolling around that far-away camp. Sometimes I listened tothe quaint yarns of my unique and interesting guide or idly watched thechanging colors and effects which the sun and the atmosphere produced onthe snow-capped mountains of Darlinkel’s Park. I made friends with ourlittle neighbors the rock-chuck, whose home was in the base of the cliffback of the spring, and became intimate with the golden chipmunk and itspretty little black and white cousin, the four-striped chipmunk, both ofwhich were common and remarkably tame about camp. 

Back of the camp in the dark shade of the evergreens there was a barkmound composed entirely of the fragments of the conifera cones, whichPete said was the squirrel’s dining room. This mound contained at leastfour good cart-loads of fragments and all of it was the work of theimpudent little blunt-nosed red squirrels, which were plentiful in thewoods. 

How long it took these small rodents to heap such a mass of materialtogether I was unable to calculate, but the mound was as large as someof the shell heaps made by the ancient oyster-eating men and left bythem along our coast from Florida to Maine. 

The numerous magpies seemed to be conscious of my admiration of theirbeautiful piebald plumage and to take every opportunity to show off itsiridescent hues to the best advantage in the sunlight. 

Pete evidently thought I was a chap of very low taste, with a great lackof discrimination in the choice of my friends among the forest folk, andhe could see no reason for my intimacy with “all th’ outlaws and mostrascally varmints of the park. ”

Truth compels me to admit that the pranks of some of my little friendswere often mischievous and annoying, but they were also humorous andentertaining and I laughed when the “tallow-head” jay swooped down andsnatched a tid-bit from Pete’s plate just as he was about to eat it, andwhen the irate trapper threw his plate at the camp robber it was acharming sight to see a number of birds flutter down to feast upon thescattered food. 

The loud-mouthed, self-asserting fly-catcher in the cottonwood treelearned to know my whistle, and whenever I attempted to mimic him hewould send back a ringing answer. The charming little lazulii buntingswere tamer than the irritating dirty English sparrows at home. 

It was interesting to notice how quickly all our little wild neighborslearned to know that the sound produced by banging on a tin plate meantdough-god and other good things at our camp, and as they came rustlingamong the grasses or fluttering from bush and trees they showed morefear of each other than they did of Pete and me. 

When the myriads of bright stars would twinkle in the blue black sky orthe great round-faced moon climb over the mountain tops to see what wasdoing in the park, the birds and chipmunks were quiet, but then the bigpack-rats, with squirrel-like tails, would troop out from their secretcaves and invade the camp. 

In the gray dawn, while sleeping in a tent, I often awakened to hearsomething scamper up its steep side and then laughed to see the shadowof a comical little body toboggan down the canvas. Our pocket-knives, compasses and all other small objects were never safe unless securelypacked away out of reach of these nocturnal marauders. 

Our conversations around the camp fire evenings were highly interestingtoo, for Big Pete was a fluent talker with a wealth of stories of theGreat West at his tongue’s end. Indeed, the story of his family andtheir migration west was one that fascinated me. His father had been atrapper in the old days; he had done his share of roaming the mountains, prospecting and making his strikes, small and large, fighting Indiansand living the strenuous life of the border pioneer. He had found thewoman he afterward married unconscious under an overturned wagon of anemigrant train that had been raided by the Indians, and after nursingher back to health in his mining shack, had married her. With money hehad worked from the “diggin’s” he had acquired, by grants from thegovernment, the beautiful and expansive mountain park where he hadplanned to develop a ranch. He never went very far with his project, however, for a raiding party of Indians caught him alone in themountains and his wife found his body pinned to the ground with arrows. The shock of his tragedy killed Big Pete’s mother soon after, and theyoung Peter Darlinkel, then three years old, went to a nearby settlementto be brought up by an uncle and a squaw aunt. Pete became prospector, scout, trapper and hunter, using this beautiful park that became his asa result of the passing of his father, as a private game preserve, so tospeak. That is, it was private except for the intrusion of the WildHunter and his black wolf pack. 

In a fragmentary way Big Pete told me this story and other interestingtales of this wild western country, but mostly our conversation turnedto this old man of the mountains who was such a mystery to everyone, even to Big Pete, but who, despite the lugubrious reputation, hadproved a kindly gentleman and a good friend to me. 

There were no visible signs of a change in the weather which had beenclear for weeks, and the sky was otherwise clear blue save where thewhite mares’ tails swept across the heavens. But when we sat down tosupper that evening I could hear the rumbling of distant thunder. I knewit was thunder for, although the fall of avalanches makes the samenoise, avalanches choose the noon time to fall when the sun is hottestand the snows softest. Soon I could see the heads of some dark cloudspeering at us over the mountains and before dark the clouds crept overthe mountain tops and overcast our sky. 

It rained all that night in a fitful manner and came to a stop aboutfour A. M. The wind went down and the air seemed to have lost itsvivacity and life; it was a dead atmosphere; we arose from our blanketsfeeling tired and listless. 

While we were eating our breakfast dark clouds again suddenly obscuredthe heavens and before we had finished the meal big drops of rain setthe camp fire spluttering and drove us to the shelter of our tent; thenit rained! Lord help us! the water came down in such torrents that onaccount of the spray we could not see thirty feet; then came hailstonesas large as hen’s eggs. There was some lightning and thunder, but eitherthe splashing of the water drowned the rumbling or the electric fluidwas so far distant that the reports were not loud when they reached us. Suddenly there was a ripping noise, followed by a sort of subdued roarwhich stampeded our horses from their shelter under a projecting rockand made the earth shudder. 

“Earthquake!” I exclaimed. 

“Wuss, ” said Pete, “hit’s a landslide. ”

Instantly a thought went through my brain like a hot bullet and made meshudder. 

“Pete, ” I shouted. 

“I’m right hyer, tenderfut, you needn’t holler so loud, ” he answered, and calmly filled his pipe. 

I flung myself impulsively on my companion, grasped his big brawnyshoulders, and with my face close to his I whispered, “Pete, I believethe slide occurred at the gate. ”

“Well, hit did sound that-a-way, ” admitted Pete composedly. 

“Pete, ” I continued, “that butte has caved in on our trail!”

“Wull, tenderfut, we ain’t hurt, be we? Tha’s plenty of game here furthe tak’n of it and plenty of water, as fine as ever spouted from oldMoses’ rock, right at hand. If the Mesa’s cut our trail we can live wellhere for a hundred years and not have to chew wolf mutton neither. Idon’t reckon I can go to York with you just yet, ” drawled my comrade ina most provokingly imperturbable manner, as he slowly freed himself frommy grasp and made for the camp fire, which being to a great extentsheltered by an overhanging rock, was still smouldering in spite of thedrenching rain. Raking the ashes until he found a red glowing coal, Petedeftly picked it up and by juggling it from one hand to the other, heconducted the live ember to his pipe-bowl, then he puffed away as calmlyas if there was nothing in this world to trouble him. 

“If the gate be shut, ” he resumed, “it will keep out prospectors, trampsand Injuns. ” With that he went to smoking his red-willow[1] bark again. 

 [Footnote 1: The trappers and Indians made Kil-i-ki-nic, or Kinnikinick, by mixing tobacco with the inside bark of red willow, which is the common name for the red osier of the dogwood family. EDITOR. ]

But I could not view the situation so complacently, and when the rainhad ceased as suddenly as it began, with some difficulty I caught myhorse and made my way to the gate, to discover that my worst fears wererealized; a large section of the cliff had split off the Mesa and sliddown into the narrow gateway completely filling the space and leaving awall of over one hundred feet of sheer precipice for us to climb beforewe could escape from our Eden-like prison. 

Again a wave of superstitious dread swept over me as I viewed thetightly closed exit, a dread that perhaps after all there was more toBig Pete’s superstitions about the Wild Hunter than I dared to admit, else why should that cliff which had stood for thousands of years takethis opportunity to split off and choke up the ancient trail?

The longer I questioned myself, the less was my ability to answer. I saton a stone and for some time was lost in thought. When at length Ilooked up it was to see Big Pete with folded arms silently gazing at thebarricaded exit and the muddy pool of water extending for some distanceback of the gateway into the park. 

“Well, tenderfut, you was dead right in your judication. The gate airshut sure ’nuff. Our horses ain’t likely to take the back trail andleave us, that’s sartin. ”

“Oh, Pete, ” I exclaimed, “how will we ever get out? Must we spend theremainder of our lives here?”

“It do look as if we’d stop hyer a right smart bit, ” he admitted, “maybetill this hyer holler between the mountains all fills with water aginlike it was onct before, I reckon. Don’t you think that we’d better getbusy and build a Noah’s Ark?”

“Pete, you’d joke if the world came to an end. But seriously I think wemight move our camp back to the far end of your park. ”

CHAPTER VII

One day after we had selected our new camp, I took my rod along andwandered into the wonderful forest of ancient trees. There I seatedmyself on a log to think over my experience. Somehow my own trials andambitions seemed small, trivial and not worth while when I looked uponthose grand trees standing silently on guard as they were standing whenColumbus was busy smashing a hard-boiled egg to make it stand on end. Yes, naturalists tell us some of these same trees were standing beforethe New Testament was written and then as now their branches concealedtheir lofty tops and formed a screen through which the powerful rays ofthe noon-day sun are filtered, refined and subdued to a dreamy twilightbelow, a twilight in which the soft green mosses and lace-like fernsthrive into luxuriant growth. 

It was so still and quiet in that forest that the silence seemed to hurtmy ears and I found myself listening to see if I could not hear the deepdark blue blossoms of the fringed gentians whispering scandals about theflaming Indian paint brushes that flourished in the opening in the woodswhere the sun’s ray could reach and warm the dark earth. As I listened Icould not help but speculate a great deal as to the possibilities of theodd old man of this forest being in some way connected with my father’shistory, but the story of the wolf-man as given to me by my bigcompanion was so varied and so mixed with the superstitions of theIndians and trappers who had come in contact with him, or had seen himand his weird wolf pack roaming the mountains, that I could not in anyway take it as the basis for a solution of the problem. 

Indeed, the more Big Pete told me the less I believed that this strangeand probably mad man could be my father. In truth, the only real clueor even faint reason I had for believing that he owned the missing“Patrick Mullen” was because this gun at a distance seemed to correspondwith the description of the Mullen’s gun. It was a faint clue indeed andsometimes seemed not worth investigation. Yet when I began to doubt thepossibility an unexplained impulse or force kept urging me on to believethat if I but persisted and found an opportunity to examine this gun itwould prove to be the one I sought, and if I had a chance to talk tothis strange Wild Hunter much of the mystery that surrounded my ownbabyhood would be cleared up, so I found myself earnestly longing for areal interview with this mysterious creature. 

The more I thought of it the more I was inclined to believe that I wason the right track, until at last convinced that this was so, I criedaloud, “I have found him!”

“Who! Who!” queried a startled owl, as it peered down at me from itshiding place in the dense foliage of a cedar far above. 

“Never mind who, you old rascal, ” I laughingly replied, and picking upmy fishing-rod I parted the underbrush to start on my way through thewood for some trout, but suddenly halted when I found myself staringinto the face of a huge timber wolf. The beast’s lips were drawn backdisplaying its gleaming fangs, its back hair was as erect as the croppedmane of a pony, its mongolian eyes shone green through their narrowslits and its whole attitude seemed to say, “Well, now that you havefound me, what do you propose to do?”

Now, boys, do not make any mistake about me, I am not a hero and neverposed as one; in truth my timidity at times amounts to cowardice, a factwhich I usually keep to myself, but I never was afraid of wolves until Iso unexpectedly met this one. It is needless to say that I have no hairon my back, it is as bare as that of any other fellow’s, nevertheless, on this occasion I could distinctly feel my bristles rise from the napeof my neck to the end of my spine, just the same as those on theoblique-eyed, shaggy monster whose snapping teeth were so near my face. 

Everybody is familiar with the fact that people who have had limbsamputated often complain of pains or itching in the missing members. Mymissing back hair, the hair which my ancestors lost by the slow processof evolution, the hair which grew on the back of the “missing link, ”stood on end at the sight of this wolf. However, this fear was butmomentary and when my courage returned I lifted my rod case in athreatening manner, and the wolf slunk away as noiselessly as a shadow, and like a shadow faded out of sight in the dim twilight of the ancientforest. When I reached the open land beyond the forest another surpriseawaited me. 

Surely this is heaven, I thought as I waded knee-deep among thebeautiful flowers of the prairie, starting the sharp pin-tailed grouse, prairie chickens and sage grouse from their retreats and sending themeadow-larks skimming away over flowering billows. Reaching anelevation where I could peer beyond the crests of one of the “groundswells” which furrowed the sea of nodding blossoms, I saw through thestems of the plants, a part of the prairie at first concealed from view, and there appeared to be numerous irregular boulders of dark brown stonescattered around among the vegetation, and the boulders were moving!

Careful scrutiny, however, proved them to be not stones but livebuffalo. Big Pete had often told me that these animals lived unmolestedby him in the park; but when I realized that I was looking at betweenthree and four hundred real buffalo my heart gave a great jump of joy. Itried to view them so as to take in their details, but the apparentlyshapeless masses of dark reddish brown wool appeared to have none, unless indeed the comical fur trousers with frayed bottoms on theirfront legs might be called detail. 

Even the faces of the beasts were so concealed by masks of knotted woolthat at first I could distinguish neither eyes, noses, horns or ears;but in spite of their ragged trousers and their masked faces, the bisonare sublime in their mighty strength and ponderous proportions, and asthis was the first wild herd I had ever seen and one of the very few, ifnot the only one, then extant, I viewed them with the keenest interest. 

But the scattered bunches of antelope, which I now noticed were dottingthe plains around the buffalo, appealed to my love of the beautiful. Knowing that in other localities these charming little creatures arerapidly being slaughtered and steadily decreasing in numbers and thatall attempts to breed them in captivity have so far failed, they at onceabsorbed my attention to the exclusion of their larger neighbors. 

When we moved our camp to the far side of the lake, Big Pete told methat I could find plenty of trout streams beyond the timber belt, and healso informed me that I could there see the walls of the park andsatisfy myself that there was but one trail leading into the preserve. 

I do not now recall the sort of walls that were pictured in my mind orknow what I really expected to see enclosing Darlinkel’s Park, but I doknow that when I suddenly emerged from the dark forests into the sunlitprairie, the scene which greeted my vision was not the one painted by myimagination. 

Before me stretched an open plain surrounded by mountains arisingabruptly from a bed of many colored flowers; they were the same rangeswhose snow-covered peaks formed a feature of the landscape at the lakeand at our first camp. 

Here, however, their appearance was different, as different as the darkforest from the open sunlit prairie. The scene at first did not seemreal, it had a sort of a drop-curtain effect that was as familiar to meas the row of footlights and gilded boxes, but never did I expect to seethose delicate tints, that blue atmosphere, the fresco colored rocks andall the theatrical properties of a drop-curtain duplicated in nature, yet here it was before me, not a detail wanting, even the impossiblemammoth bed of gaudy flowers at the foot of the mountain was here andthe numerous cascades had not been forgotten. Well, it does seemwonderful to me that unknown theatrical daubers should know so much moreof nature than the public for whom they paint. 

But, nature is a bolder artist than even the daring scenic painters; infront of me was a prairie of flowers, acres and acres of waving, undulating masses of color; thousands of Arizona wyetha (wildsunflowers) mingled with the brilliant tips of the fire-weed and clumpsof odorous and delicately colored horsemint. There were other flowersunfamiliar to me and hundreds of big blossoms of what I took to be amember of the primrose family. It was in this garden that the buffaloand antelope were grazing. 

An old buck antelope saw me and I instantly dropped to the ground andwas concealed by the flowering vegetation. I wanted to see the homelife of these animals, but was disappointed because of the attention Ihad attracted. When first discovered the does were browsing with headsdown and the kids were playing tag with one another, every once in awhile spreading the white hair on their rumps and then lowering the“white flag” again, they apparently used it as a Morse signal system oftheir own. But now they were all alert and facing me; the bucks had seensomething and that something had suddenly disappeared. This must beinvestigated, so they circled round hesitatingly; the apparition mightbe a foe but still they _must_ satisfy their curiosity and discover whatit was of which they had had a moment’s glimpse and thus they approachednearer and ever nearer to my place of concealment. 

Soon, however, I became aware of the fact that the antelope hadunaccountably lost all thought of me and were deeply interested insomething else which from their actions I concluded to be recognized asan enemy. It was now apparent that if Big Pete did not hunt theprong-horns someone or something else _did_ hunt them. 

As a bunch broke away from the scattered groups and came in mydirection, making great leaps over the prairie, I detected the cause oftheir panic in the form of a huge eagle which was keeping pace with andflying over the fleeing prong-horns. 

The bird was not more than a dozen feet above the animals’ backs and invain did the poor creatures try to distance their pursuer. At lengththey scattered, each one taking a course of his own. Then the bird did astrange thing. It singled out the largest buck and persistentlyfollowing him, it came directly towards me and passed within ten feet ofmy ambush, the broad wings of the antelope’s relentless foe casting adark shadow over the straining muscles of the beautiful animal’s back. Iwas tempted to drive the bird away or shoot at it with my revolver, butthe thought that I had seen that bird before restrained me and the factthat it pursued a strong, healthy buck instead of selecting a weaker andmore easy prey convinced me that this eagle had been trained to the huntand was not a wild[2] bird, for the immutable law that “labor followsthe line of least resistance” holds good with all wild creatures. It wasnot long before I had to use my field glasses to follow the chase andthen I discovered that the poor prong-horn was showing signs of fatigue. It had made a grave error in dashing up an incline and the eagle fromhis position above knew that the time had come to strike and, like athunderbolt, it fell, striking its hooked talons in the graceful neck ofthe terror-stricken antelope. 

 [Footnote 2: The late Howard Eaton of Wolf, Wyoming, watched an eagle hunt down a prong-horned buck. —EDITOR. ]

Hoping to get a nearer view of the last tragedy, I hastened towards thespot and before I was aware of my position, found myself close to theherd of buffalo. I then saw that these beasts being unaccustomed toman, did not fear him, but on the contrary meant to show fight. As Icame to a sudden halt the old bulls began to paw the earth, throwing thedirt up over their backs and bellowing with a low vibrating roar thatwas terror-inspiring. Then they dropped to their knees, rolled on theirbacks, got up, shook themselves, licked their noses, “rolled up theirtails” into stiff curves, put down their heads and came at me. The cowswith their hair standing on end like angry elks and bellowing loudlywere not behind their lords in aggressiveness and the comical littlecalves came bouncing along after their dame. 

Was I frightened? That depends upon one’s definition of the word. I wasnot panic-stricken, but to say that I was not _excited_ when I saw thoseanimated masses of dark brown wool come roaring and thundering at mewould be to make boast that no one who has had a similar experiencewould believe. 

Fortunately, not far behind me was the hollow or gully alreadymentioned and I bolted over the edge of it. As soon as the bankconcealed my person I ran as I never ran before taking a course at rightangles to my original one and leeward of the herd, and at last, out ofbreath, I rolled over in the weeds and lay there panting and strainingmy ears to hear the snorting beasts. 

My chest felt dry, hot and oppressed from forced and labored breathing, and had the buffalo discovered me I do not think I could have runanother step. But the big brutes halted at the edge of the bank andseeing no one in sight walked around pawing and throwing up great cloudsof dust and in their rage apparently daring me to come forth. Like asmall boy when he hears a challenge from a gang of toughs, I decidedthat I did not want to fight and lay as quiet as possible among thesunflowers until I had regained my breath. When the buffalo wanderedback to their original pasture land I, like a coyote, slunk away andconsoled myself with the thought that although I had had my run for mymoney, at least, I had seen the death of the antelope even if I did missagain seeing the Wild Hunter “collar his game, ” as Big Pete would havecalled the act of securing it. Besides this I had a real excitingadventure with good red-blooded American animals and learned the lessonthat large horned beasts which have not been taught to fear man areexceedingly dangerous to man. 

CHAPTER VIII

Rising abruptly from the prairie was a frowning precipice a thousand ormore feet high and above and beyond the top of this cliff, themountains. 

When Big Pete told me that his park was “walled in” he told me themildest sort of truth; the prairie is the bottom of a wide canyon, infact everything seems to indicate that the whole park had settled, sunk—“taken a drop” of a thousand or more feet; forming what minerswould call a fault. 

From the glaciers up among the clouds numerous streams of melted icecame dashing down the sides of the mountain range, fanciful cascadesleaping without fear from most stupendous heights spreading out in longhorse-tail falls over the face of the cliff, doing everything butlooking real. At the foot of each of the falls there was a pool of deepwater, in one or two instances the pools were smooth basins hollowed outof solid rock in which the water was as transparent as air and but forthe millions of air bubbles caused by the falling water every inch ofbottom could be plainly seen by an observer at the brink of the pool. 

The trout in these basins were almost as colorless as the water itself(the light color of the fish is due to their chameleon-like power ofmodifying their hue to imitate their surroundings)—this mimicry is soperfect that after looking into one of these stone basins, the roundedsmooth sides of which offered no shade or nook where a trout might hide, I was ready to declare the waters uninhabited but no sooner had my brownhackel or professor settled lightly on the surface of the pool than outfrom among the air bubbles a fish appeared and seized the fly. 

My sprained ankle was now so much improved that upon discovering adiagonal fracture in the face of the cliff, which looked as if offeringa foot hold, and feeling reckless, I determined to make the effort toscale the wall at this point. 

If the giant “fault” is of comparatively recent occurrence, geologicallyspeaking, it seemed reasonable that there would be trout in the streamsabove the cliff and the memory of the fact that Pete had reported thatboth Rocky Mountain sheep and goats were up there decided me to attemptto scale the wall by the fracture. It was a long, hard climb and morethan once while I clung to the chance projections or dug my fingers intosmall cracks and looked down upon the backs of some golden eagle sailingin spirals below me, I regretted making the fool-hardy attempt, but whenthe top was reached and I saw signs of sheep and had a peep at a whiteobject I took to be a goat, I felt repaid for my arduous climb. 

The elevated prairie or table-land on which I found myself correspondedin every important particular with the park below; there were the samenatural divisions of prairie and forests, the same erratic boulders, buton account of the difference in elevation there was a correspondingdifference in plant life, and most interesting of all to me, there werethe trout streams. The tablelands above the park were comparativelylevel in places where the stream ran almost as quietly as a meadowbrook, but these level stretches were interrupted at short distance byfoaming rapids, jagged rocks and roaring falls. 

My angler’s instinct told me that the biggest fish lurked in the deeppools, to reach which it was necessary to creep and worm myself over theopen flats of sharp stones and patches of heather, but once on thevantage ground the swish of a trout rod sounded there for the first timesince the dawn of Creation. 

[Illustration: More than once while I clung to the chance projection. .. I regretted making the fool-hardy attempt]

There was an audible splash at my first cast. My, how that reel didsing! Before I realized it, my fish had reached rapid water and takenout a dangerous amount of line; still I dared not check him too severelyamong the sharp rocks and swift waters, so I ran along the bank, stumbling over stones, but managing to avail myself of every opportunityto wind in the line until I had the satisfaction of seeing enough lineon my reel to prepare me for possible sudden dashes and emergencies. 

Ah! that was a glorious fight, and when at last I was able to steer mytired fish into shallow water I saw there were three of them, one lustytrout on each of my three flies. I had no landing net so I gently slidthe almost exhausted fish onto a gravel bar and as I did so Iexperienced one of those delightful thrills which comes to a fellow’slot but once or twice in a life-time. But it was not because I hadcaptured three at a strike, for I have done that before and since, but Ithrilled because they were not only a new and strange kind of trout, butthey were of the color and sheen of newly minted gold. Never before hadany man seen such trout. 

I have since been informed that I had blundered on to water inhabited bythe rarest of all game fish, the so-called golden trout, which has sincebeen discovered and which scientists declare to be pre-glacier fish leftby some accident of nature to exist in a new world in which all theiroriginal contemporaries have long been extinct. 

Think of it! Fish which had never seen an artificial fly nor had anyfamily traditions of experiences with them. It is little wonder thatthey would jump at a brown hackle, a professor or even a gaudy salmonfly. Why they would jump at a chicken feather! They were ready and eagerto bite at any sort of bunco game I saw fit to play upon them. They wereveritable hayseeds of the trout family, but when they felt the hook intheir lips, the wisest trout in the world could not show a craftier norhalf as plucky a fight. They would leap from the water likesmall-mouthed bass and by shaking their heads, try to throw off thehateful hook. 

The constant vigorous exercise of leaping water-falls and forging upboiling rapids had developed these sturdy mountaineer trout intoprodigies of strength and endurance. Even now my nerves tingle to thetips of my toes as in fancy I hear my reel hum or see the tip of my fiveounce split bamboo bend so as to almost form a circle. 

I fished that stream with hands trembling with excitement and had filledmy creel with the rare fish before I began to notice other objects ofinterest. Suddenly I became aware of the presence of two birds hoveringover and diving under the cold water. They were evidently feeding onsome aquatic creature which my duller senses could not discern. 

Although they were the first of the kind that I had ever seen alive, Iat once recognized the feathered visitors to be water ouzels. The birdspreceded me on my way along the water course towards camp, and werenever quiet a minute. They would hop on a rock in mid-stream and bob upand down in a most solemn but comical manner for a moment beforeplunging fearlessly into the cold white spray of the falls or the swiftdashing current, where they would disappear below the surface only toreappear once more on another rock to bob again. 

A ducking did not trouble the ouzels, for as they came out of the waterthe liquid rolled in crystal drops from their feathers and their plumagewas as dry as if it had never been submerged. The wilder and swifter thecold glacier water ran the more the birds seemed to enjoy it. 

The nearer I approached the edge of the precipitous walls, enclosing thevalley comprising Big Pete’s park, the rougher grew the trail, and as Iwas picking my way I paused to gaze at the distant purple peaks andwatch the sun set in that lonely land as if I was witnessing it for thefirst time. As my eyes roamed over the stupendous distance and unnamedmountains I felt my own puny insignificance, as who has not whenconfronted with the vastness of nature. 

I turned from my view of the sunset to retrace my steps to the valley, and peeping over the top of a large boulder, saw seated upon aninaccessible crag directly in front of me, a gigantic figure of a manclad in a hunter’s garb, and he was smoking a long cigar!

When I thought of Big Pete’s description of how the Wild Hunter was wontto sit with his long legs dangling from some rock while he smoked one ofthose unprocurable cigars, and when I realized that the figure before mewas fully sixty feet tall, I must confess to experiencing a queersensation. 

It was a shadowy figure yet it moved, arose, held out one hand, and abird as large as the fabled roc alighted on the wrist of theoutstretched hand. 

A slight breeze sprang up, the white mists from the valley rolled up themountainside and drifted away and the man and bird disappeared fromview. 

It was long after dark when I reached camp and was greeted by my friendand guide with “Gol durn your pictur tenderfut, if it hain’t tuk youlonger to get a pesky mess of yaller fish than it orter to kill a bar. ”

“Little wonder, ” thought I, “that the Wild Hunter used golden bullets ina land where even the fish’s scales seemed to be of the same preciousmetal”; but I said nothing as I sat down to clean my “yaller trout. ”

CHAPTER IX

It was always interesting to me when I could get Pete’s theories and hisbrand of philosophy on almost any subject and it was my intention thatnight at supper to lead up to the apparition I had seen on the cliffsthat day. With a substantial supper tucked away I was in a better frameof mind to realize that the illusion I had seen was not uncommon inmountain districts. I recalled that I had read of, and seen pictures of, a particular illusion of this nature that is often present in the HartzMountains in Germany and I knew full well that the setting sun, the mistand the atmospheric condition had all contributed to throwing a greatlyenlarged shadow of the real Wild Hunter onto the screen made by the mistvery much as today a motion picture increases the size of the small filmimage when it is thrown on the movie screen. 

I intended to get Big Pete’s idea on the subject but I never did for Iwas not adroit enough to steer the conversation in that direction, forBig Pete seized my first statement and made it a subject for a veritablelecture. 

“There was a smashing lot of those trout up there, Pete. Bet I couldhave brought home all I could have carried if I had been a game hog, ” Isaid, as I stirred the fire with a stick and set the coffee pot nearerthe flames to warm a second cup. 

“You see, tenderfut, it’s like this, ” he said, “when a man goes out tokill a deer for the fun of blood-spilling or to get th’ poor critter’shead to hang in his shack, he’s nothing more than a wolf or butcher;hain’t half as good a man as the one who never shot a deer, but goesback home and lies about it. The liar hain’t harmed nothin’ with hislies. His fairy stories don’t hurt game an’ they be interesting to thetenderfuts in the States. The real sportsman is the pot-hunter. Yes, that’s jist what I mean, a pot-hunter—he’s out ’cause the camp kettleis empty, and it’s up agin him to fill it or starve. Now then, thisfellow is not after blood; nor trophies, nor is he hunting for themarket. It’s self-preservation with him, that’s what it is. He’s ananimal along with the rest of ’em and he knows he’s got jest as much aright to live as tha’ have and no more! He’s hustling for his livingalong with the bunch, forcing it from savage nature, and I tell you boy, there is no greater physical pleasure in life than holding old MotherNature up and just saying to her, ‘You’ve got a living for me, ole’ gal, and I’m going to get it. ’

“Such talk pleases the old lady, makes her your friend ’cause she likesyour spunk, and because of it she’ll give you the wind of a grey wolf, the step of the panther, the strength of the buffalo and the courage ofa lion. She is always generous with her favorites. Ah! lad, she kin makeyour blood dance in your veins, make fire flash from your eyes and giveyou the steady nerve necessary to face a she-grizzly when she isfightin’ for her cubs. ”

“Why? ’cause you see, you are a grizzly yourself when the camp kettle isempty!” And Big Pete relapsed into silence, turned his attention to histin platter, examining it carefully, and then with a piece of dough-god, carefully wiped the platter clean and contentedly munched the savorybit. 

The reason, that being locked into Big Pete’s park in the mountainsstruck me as being very serious, was because I realized that althoughthe park was extensive it was completely surrounded by a practicallyunsurmountable barrier of rugged cliffs and mountains negotiable, as faras I knew, not even by the sure-footed mountain sheep and goats which wecould occasionally see on the cliffs from the valley floor, but neversaw in the park itself. I questioned Big Pete and found that he did notknow of a trail up the cliffs. 

“Though, ” he said, “there must be some sort of a one for that tha’ WildHunter gits in an’ out and brings his wolf pack along too. He knows atrail 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’malive!”

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

Although hard usage had made havoc with my tailormade clothes, neithertime nor the elements seemed to affect the personal appearance of my bigcompanion; his buckskin suit was apparently as clean and fresh as it wason the day I first met him. There was no magic in this. Big Pete knewhow to clamber all day through a windfall without leaving the greaterpart of his clothes on the branches, a feat few hunters and notenderfoot have yet been able to accomplish. 

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

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

Instead of “Tenderfoot, ” Big Pete now called me “Le-loo, ” which Iunderstand is Chinook for wolf and I took so much pride in my promotionthat I would not have changed clothes with the Prince of Wales; Igloried 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 theapproaching cold weather. There was no disputing that Big Pete wasHy-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, RobinsonCrusoe, had had a Big Pete for a partner in place of a man Friday, hewould have never made himself his outlandish goatskin clothes and aclumsy umbrella. 

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

Among his stuff was a supply of salt-petre and alum, and this wasevidently the material for which he was searching for he at oncepreceeded to make a mixture of two parts salt-petre to one of alum andapplied the pulverized compound to the fleshy side of the skins, thendoubling the raw side of the hides together he rolled them closely andplaced the hides in a cool place where they were allowed to remain forseveral days; when at length unrolled, the skins were still moist. 

“Just right, by Gosh, ” he exclaimed, as he took a dull knife andcarefully removed all particles of fat or flesh which here and thereadhered to the hide. After this was done to his satisfaction we bothtook hold and rubbed, and mauled and worked the skins with our handsuntil the hides were as soft and as pliable as flannel. Thus was thematerial for my winter clothing prepared. 

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

When it came to making the coat and trousers Big Pete spent a long timein 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 olduns. ” In vain I pleaded with him to make my trousers like his own; hewould not listen to me, he insisted upon having my ragged but stylishknickerbockers to use as a pattern. 

CHAPTER X

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

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

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

“Doggone my corn shucked bones, Le-loo, we’ve had a visitor but it gotaway mighty slick and quick. I hain’t determint yit whether it wa’ maner beast er both, er jist a thing wha’ might change into ’tother. We’llhafter investigate later. Here git these duds on. ”

When I put on my new elk-hide knickerbockers with cuffs of dressedbuckskin laced around my calves, and my beautiful soft buckskin shirttucked in at the waist I began to feel like a real Nimrod, but after Iadded 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 oflynx skin, I was as happy as a child with its Christmas stocking. It wasa really wonderful suit of clothing; the hair of the elk hide was on theoutside, and not only made the coat and breeches warmer, but helped toshed the rain. The buttons of the elk-teeth were fastened on with thongsrun through holes in their centers, and my coat could be laced up afterthe fashion of a military overcoat. The elk’s teeth served as frogs andloops 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 thehind legs of an elk, at a sufficient distance above the heels to leavehide enough for boot legs and making another cut far enough below theheels to make room for one’s feet. The fresh skins when peeled offlooked like rude stockings with holes at the toes. The skins wereturned wrong side out, and the open toes closed by bringing the lowerpart, or sole, up over the opening and sewing it there after the mannerof a tip to the modern shoe. When this novel foot-gear was dry enoughfor the purpose, Big Pete ornamented the legs with quaint coloreddesigns made with split porcupine quills colored with dyes which Petehimself had manufactured of roots and barks. 

Dressed in my unique and picturesque costume I stood upright while Petesurveyed me with the pride and satisfaction of one who had done a finepiece of work. I had now little fear of being called a tenderfoot andwhen I viewed my reflection in the spring I felt quite proud of myappearance. 

“Come along now old scout, ” said Pete viewing me with the pride of anartist, “come along and let me test you on a real trail. I want to seewhat 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 ofit, ” he said crisply. 

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

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

For fear that I might have made some mistake I carefully retraced mysteps backward toward the bullberry bushes near the camp. On the backtrail 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-taledisturbances of leaf and soil, that I once passed these plainly markedtracks with only a glance and would have done so the second time had nottheir marked peculiarities accidentally caught my attention. 

When examining the trail of this mysterious camp visitor I suddenlyrealized that in place of moccasin footprints I was following beartracks, my heart ceased to beat for a moment or two before I could pullmyself together and smother the prehensile footed superstitious oldsavage in me with the practical philosophy of the up-to-date man oftoday. 

Taking a short cut I ran back to the foot of the pass and there, onhands and knees, ascended for a hundred feet or more—the bear steps ledup the pass, and yet at the beginning of the trail the feet woremoccasins. This I knew because at one place the foot-mark showed plainlyin the gray alkali dust which had accumulated upon a projecting stone afew feet below the ledge. Obviously whoever the visitor was, he hadentered and left by this pass. Returning to camp I sat down on a loglost in thought. My reverie was at last broken by the voice of my guidequietly remarking. “Well, Le-loo, what’s your judication?”

“Pete, ” I said, “that bear walks on its hind-legs; there is not the signof a forefoot anywhere along the trail. Now this could not be caused bythe hind feet obliterating the tracks of the front feet, because in manyplaces the pass is so steep that the forefeet in reaching out forsupport would make tracks not overlapped by the hind ones. ”

“That’s true, Le-loo; sartin true. If you live to be a hundred yearsyou’ll make as good a trailer as the great Greaser trailer of NewMexico, Dolores Sanchez, or my old friend Bill Hassler, who could followa six-month-old trail, ” replied my guide. “But, ” he continued, “maybewitch-bears do walk on their hind legs same as people. ”

“Witch be blamed!” I cried impatiently; “this is no four-legged witchnor bear either. That was a man and when he thought he would be followedhe put on moccasins made from bears’ paws to leave a disguised trail. And moreover I believe that man is none other than the Wild Hunterwithout his wolf pack. And that pass is the pathway he takes in and outof this park. I’m going to trail him whether you want to or not. GoodbyePete, I’ll come back for you, ” and picking up my gun and other necessarytraps, I prepared to start immediately upon my journey, for I felt thatto follow this trail would not only get us out of our park prison butwould lead me to the abode of the Wild Hunter, where perhaps I couldtalk with him and learn some of the things I was so eager to know aboutmy parents. 

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

“Maybe he is a pine cone, ” I laughed. Then added, “Whatever he is, heknows the way out of this park of yours and I am going to follow him, ” Iemphatically answered. 

“That’s howsomever!” exclaimed my guide approvingly; “but, ” hecontinued, “the mountains are kivered with snow, while it is stillsummer down here, so I reckon ’twould be the proper wrinkle for us topull our things together, have a good feed and a good sleep before westart. White men start off hot-headed and I kinder like their grit, butInjuns stop and sot by the fire an’ smoke an’ think afore they start ona raid an’ I kinder think they be wiser in this than we ’uns, so let’sdo as the Injuns would do. We can cache most of our stuff and turn thehorses loose. Bighorn’s mutton is powerful good, but tarnally shy andhung mighty high, an’ billygoat is doggoned strong ’nless you know howto cook ’em. Yes, we’ll eat an sleep fust an’ then his for the landwhere the Bighorn pasture, the woolywhite goats sleep on the rocks, thewhistling marmot blows his danger signal an’ the pretty white ptarmiganhides 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 answeredsoberly, and continuing in his former strain, he exclaimed:

“Whar critters like goats, sheeps and rock-chucks kin live, you bet yourHy-as muck-a-muck we kin live too!”

That night I rolled up into my blanket, filled with strangepresentiments. Again the question came up: What is the source of theinfluence that this madman of the mountains, this wild hunter, thisleader of the black wolf pack, had on me to impel me to trail him overthe mountains? Was it mental telepathy? Could he really be my father?Somehow I felt convinced that soon I would be face to face with theriddle, soon I would know the facts and the truth about my parents. Itseemed unthinkable that all these weeks of wilderness travel had beenfor naught and that the Wild Hunter was nothing but a strange, eccentricold fellow living alone in the mountains and of no interest to mewhatsoever. 

CHAPTER XI

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

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

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

I crawled, and wriggled, and twisted over rock and boulders for what tome seemed miles, but always the sheep kept just out of accurate shootingdistance ahead of me. It was an exasperating chase, but one cannot livein the mountains for any length of time without paying more or lessattention to geology; the mountaineer soon learns that stratified rock, that is rock arranged like layer cake, resting in a horizontal positionon its natural bed, makes travel over its top comparatively easy, butwhen by the subsidence or upheaval of the earth’s crust huge masses ofstone have been tilted up edgewise, it is an entirely differentproposition. 

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

But when a sportsman, for the first time in his life, has succeeded increeping within range of a grand bighorn ram, and his bullet, speedingtrue, has badly wounded the game, hardships are forgotten, and if, onaccount of the miraculous vitality of the mountain sheep, there isdanger of losing the quarry, all the inborn instinct of the predaceousbeast in man’s nature is aroused, and danger is a consideration not tobe taken in account. 

A hawk in pursuit of a barnyard fowl will follow it into the open doorof the farmhouse; the hound in pursuit of the fox cares not for theapproaching locomotive—being possessed by the instinct to kill—nothingis of importance to them but the capture of the game in sight. A manfollowing 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 thesteep green glacier ice on the other side, and torture and wounds undermy feet. 

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

The cruel wounds inflicted by the sharp stones under my feet wereunnoticed. Away ahead of me was a moving object; it could use but threelegs, but that was one leg more than I had, and the ram had distancedme. After an age of time I reached the rugged, broader footing of themountain side, and creeping up behind some sheltering rocks again firedat the fleeing ram. With the impact of the bullet the sheep fellheadlong down a cliff to a projecting rock thirty feet below, where itlay apparently dead. A moment later it again arose, seemingly as able asever, and ran along the face of the beetling rock where my eyes, aidedby powerful field glasses, could perceive no foothold; then it gave amagnificent leap to a ledge on the opposite side of the narrow canyonand fell dead, out of my reach. 

Spent with my long, rough run, I naturally selected the mostcomfortable seat in which to rest; this chanced to be a cushion ofheather-like plants along the side of a fragment of rock whicheffectually concealed my body from view from the other side of thechasm. Here, on the verge of that impassable canyon, I sat panting andlooking at the poor dead creature upon the opposite side; its rightfront leg was shattered at the shoulder, a bullet had pierced its lungs. Yet, with two fatal wounds and a useless leg, the plucky creature hadscaled the face of a cliff which one would think a squirrel would findimpossible to traverse and made leaps which might well be consideredimprobable for a perfectly sound animal. The ram was dead and food forthe ravens, and a reaction had taken place in my mind; I felt like abloody murderer, and hung my head with a sense of guilt. 

Presently, becoming conscious of that peculiar guttural noise, used byBig Pete when desiring caution, and looking up I was amazed to see asplendid Indian youth climb down the face of the opposite cliff, throwhis arms around the dead ram’s neck and burst into deep but subduedlamentation. For the first time I now saw that what I had mistaken for ablood stain on the bighorn’s neck was a red collar. 

Cautiously producing my field glasses I examined the collar anddiscovered it to be made of stained porcupine quills cleverly worked ona buckskin band. The field glasses also told me that the boy’s shirt wastrimmed with the same material, while a duplicate of the sheep’s collarformed a band which encircled his head, confining the long black hairand preventing it from falling over his face, but leaving it free tohang down his back to a point below the waist line. 

So absorbed was I in this unique spectacle that I carelessly allowed myelbow to dislodge a loose fragment of stone which went clattering downthe face of the precipice. This proved to be almost fatal carelessness, for, with a movement as quick as the stroke of a rattlesnake, the ladplaced an arrow to the string of a bow and sent the barbed shaft withsuch 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 aforeyou, ” whispered Big Pete in my ear, but even as he spoke another arrowsang over our crouching bodies, shaving the protecting rock so closelythat their plumed tips brushed the dust on our backs. 

“Waugh! Good shootin’, by gum! I never seed it beat; if he onct sotsthem black eyes on our hulking carcasses he’ll get us yit, ” muttered myguide, enthusiastically. “He’s mighty slender, quick and purty—but soalso be a rattlesnake!” he exclaimed, as another arrow slit the sleeveof 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, butwith an arrow still drawn to its head. His eyes flashing, head erect, one moccasined foot on the ram’s body, the other braced against thecliff; his short fawn-colored skin shirt clung to his lithe body, andthe fringed edges hung over the dreadful black chasm in front of him. Itwas a picture to take away one’s breath. “Put down your weapon, and wewill stand with our hands up, ” I cried. Slowly the bow was lowered andas 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 theirappearance while I was crouching behind that stone on the edge of thechasm. 

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

Never will I forget that picture, the cold, bleak, snow-coveredmountains 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 thingsstood facing each other, mutually observing a truce because of—what?Because, in spite of the fighting instinct or, maybe, because of it theyboth secretly admired each other. 

CHAPTER XII

The black chasm which separated us from the trail of the wild hunter wasnot as formidable a barrier as the unfathomable abyss which separatesthe reader from what he thinks he would have done had he been in myplace, and what really would have been his plan of action. 

There were a lot of burning questions which I had privately made up inmy mind to propound to the Wild Hunter, or the even wilder medicinebear, upon the occasion of our next meeting. But when the lad wasstanding before me, with bended bow and flashing eyes, the burningimportance of those questions did not appeal to me as forcibly as didthe urgent necessity of sheltering my body behind the friendly stone. Tobe truthful, it must be admitted that the proposed inquiries were, forthe time, entirely forgotten, and I even breathed a sigh of relief whenthe boy suddenly clambered up the face of the cliff, turned, gave us afierce look of defiance, made some quick energetic gestures with hishand and disappeared. 

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

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

With his arms folded across his chest, his blond hair sweeping hisshoulders, his blue eyes fixed upon a rocky rib of the mountain behindwhich the boy had disappeared, Big Pete still stood like a statue. Butgradually the statuesque pose resolved itself into a more commonplaceposture, and the muscles of the face relaxed until the familiar twinklehovered around the corners of his eyes. “What did he say when he madethose motions, Pete?”

“Waugh! he said he was not afraid of any whitefaced coyote like us. ” Andbringing forth his pipe, Pete filled it from the beaded tobacco pouchwhich hung on his breast, and by means of a horn of punk, a flint andsteel, he soon had the pipe aglow and was puffing away as calmly as ifnothing unusual had occurred. Presently he exclaimed, “Gol durn hisdaguerrotype, what good did it do him to throw that sheep down thegulch? Reckon Le-loo and me could find a better grave for mutton chopsthan 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 porcupinecollar 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 answeredenthusiastically. 

“Wall, maybe ye are right, Le-loo, an’ maybe ye hain’t; which iscatamount 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’redriving?” I pleaded. 

“It looks to me this hea’-a-way, ” he explained. “I’ve seed his trailonct or twice, an’ I’ve seed him onct, but I never yet seed his trailand the Wild Hunter’s trail at the same time and place. ’Pears to methat a man who, when it’s convenient, kin make a wolf of hisself, mightlikewise make a boy of hisself whenever he felt that way. Never hearedtell on enny real laid who cud climb like a squtton and shoot a bowbetter nor a Robin Hood or Injun, and that’s howsomever!”

“Well, it does look ‘howsomever, ’ and no mistake, ” I admitted, “and whatmakes 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 ushit his trail now while it is fresh. ”

This was a simple proposition to make, but a difficult one to carry intoexecution; for to all appearances that trail began upon the other sideof 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 thefire without wasting the unconsumed contents; he then carefully put hisbriarwood away and began to uncoil a lariat from around his middle. Ashe loosened the braided rawhide from his waist his gaze was roaming overthe opposite rocks. Presently he fixed his attention upon a pinnaclewhich reared its cube-like form above the top of the opposite side ofthe chasm; the latter was of itself much higher than the brink uponwhich we stood. Swinging the loop around his head he sent it whistlingacross the chasm, where it settled and encircled the projecting stone, the honda striking the face of the cliff with a sullen thud. The ropetightened, but when we both threw our weight on our end of the lariat totry 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 rawhideloose and watched it for a moment dangling down the opposite side of thecanyon. 

“Now, Le-loo, we must get over this hole or lose the best lariat in theRocky Mountains. We kin look for that boy’s trail on this side, for evenif he be an Ecutock, I’ll bet my crooker bone ’gainst a lock of his hairthat he can’t jump th’ hole, an’ I’ll wager my left ear that he’s got atrail an’ a bridge somewhar—’nless he turns bird and flops over thingslike this, ” he added, with a troubled look. 

“Pete, ” said I, “never mind the bird business. I’ll admit that there isa lot of explanation due us before we can rightly judge on the events ofthe past few weeks; still I think it may all be explained in a rationalmanner; but what if it cannot? We have but one trip to make through thisworld, and the more we see the more we will know at the end of thejourney. I am as curious as a prong-horned antelope when there is amystery, so put your nose to the ground, my good friend, and find thespot 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 crookshell, ’ and with its aid fly out of this ’lum. ”

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

As Pete finished these remarks there was a sudden and astonishing changein his appearance. His head fell forward, his shoulders drooped, hisback bowed and his knee bent. It was no longer the upright statuesquePete the Mountaineer, but Peter the Trailer, all of whose faculties wereconcentrated upon the ground. With a swinging gait the human bloodhoundtraveled swiftly and silently along the edge of the crevasse, notingevery bunch of moss, fragment of stone, drift of snow or bit of moistearth, reading the shorthand notes of Nature with facility which farexcelled the ability of my own stenographer to read her own notes whenthe latter are a few hours old. But a short time had elapsed before Iheard a shout, and, hurrying to the place where my big friend wasseated, 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 theface 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, furI’ve lost my bet, ” soliloquized the trailer, as he sat on the edge ofthe cliff, with his legs hanging over the frightful chasm. 

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

“Wull, Le-loo! What’s your opinion of the Ecutock now? Do he use wingsor 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 thecanyon, and I threw myself prone upon the top of the stony brink of thechasm and peered down the awful abyss at the silver thread, shining inthe gloom of the shadows, which marked the course of a stream, andwondered what the Boy Scouts of Troop 6 of Marlborough would do underthe circumstances. 

I studied the face of the opposite cliff in a vain search for some hintto the solution of the problem before us, looking up and down from sideto side as far as allowed by the range of my vision. At length myattention wandered to the perpendicular face of the cliff, on the top ofwhich my body was sprawled; there was an upright crack in the face ofthe stone wall, and as I examined the fracture I saw that a piece ofwood had lodged in the crack; a piece of wood in a crevice in a rock isnot so unusual an occurrence as to excite remark; but when it occurredto me that we were then far above the timber line, my interest andcuriosity were at once aroused. 

The end of the stick was within a short distance from my hand, andreaching down I grasped the wood and brought forth, not a short club orstick, as I thought to be concealed there, but a very long pole. Theresult of my investigations was so unexpected that I came dangerouslynear allowing the thing to slide through my fingers and fall to thebottom of the canyon. It was a neatly-smoothed, slender piece oflodge-pole pine which was brought to view, and it had a crooked rootnicely spliced to one end and bound tightly in place with rawhidethongs. Big Pete was wholly absorbed in the trail, the study of which hehad resumed, and when I looked up he was down on all fours, minutelystudying 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 aforehe made his jump! If you’re any good you’ll find what the lad wasafter. ”

“He was after his barleycorn broomstick, ” I replied, proudly, “and hereit is, although I must confess it is a pretty long one for a fellow ofhis size, and it looks more like a giant Bo-Peep’s crook than a witch’sbroom. ”

Big Pete eagerly snatched the pole from my hands and examined itcarefully. 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 stonewith, one kin see, with half an eye, by the way the end is sandpaperedoff. Over tha’ air some marks on the stone which look almighty like asif they’d been made by the end of this yer hook slipping down the faceof the rock. 

“Now, I wonder wha’ cud be up tha’ on the top of the rock that the boywanted, ” mused Big Pete, and for a moment or so he stood in silentthought; at length he exclaimed, “Why, bless my corn-shucking soul, if Idon’t believe he’s got a lariat staked out tha’ an’ crosses this ditchsame as we-uns aimed to do!” With that he began raking and scraping thetop of the opposite rock with the shepherd’s crook, and presently therecame tumbling and twisting like a snake down the face of the cliff, along braided rawhide rope with a loop at the bottom end. 

“Waugh, Le-loo! tha’s no witchcraft ’bout this ’cep the magic ofcommon-sense; but we hain’t through with him yit!” By this time Pete hadthe end of the rawhide rope in his hands and was testing the strength ofits anchorage upon the opposite cliff. The point where it was fastenedprojected some distance over the ledge, where the supposed landing-placewas located, thus making it possible for one to swing at the end of therope from our side without danger of coming into too violent contactwith the opposite cliff. 

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

Holding fast to the rawhide rope with his hands and bracing his feetagainst the rock, Pete could walk up the face of the cliff by goinghand-over-hand up the cable at the same time. He had almost reached thetop when I was horror-stricken to see a small hand and brown arm reachover the precipice; but it was neither the grace nor the beauty of thisshapely bit of anatomy which sent the blood surging to my heart, but thefact that the cold gray glint of a long-bladed knife caught my eyes andfascinated me with the fabled “charm” of a serpent. The power of speechforsook me, but with great effort I succeeded in giving utterance to theinarticulate noise people gurgle when confronted in their sleep by ashapeless horror. Big Pete heard the noise, but he was not unnervedwhen he saw the knife, neither did he show any nightmare symptoms, although he was dangling over the terrible abyss with a full knowledgethat it needed but a touch of the keen blade of that knife to sever thestraining lariat and dash him, a mangled mass, on the rocks below. Thedanger was too real to give Pete the nightmare; there was nothing spookyto him in the glittering knife blade, and only ghosts and thesupernatural could give Big Pete the nightmare. Calmly he looked at thehand 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 companionI had obeyed his commands as a matter of course, and so was notsurprised to see the fingers instantly relax their grasp and the knifego gyrating to the mysterious depths. In a few moments Big Pete was upand over the edge of the rock and hidden from my view. 

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

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

CHAPTER XIV

Only those persons who have made solitary trips over snow-cappedmountain ridges can appreciate the overwhelming feeling of solitude thatI felt on looking about me. To whatever point of view I turned my eyeswere greeted with a tumbled sea composed of stupendous petrifiedbillows. 

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

On a closer examination, some of the rocks appeared to be rough bits ofunfinished worlds still retaining the form they had when poured from themighty blast furnaces of the Creator. It was God’s workshop strewn withhuge fragments, still bearing the marks of His mallet and chisel; yetthese cold barren wastes were the pasture lands of the shaggy-coatedwhite goats and the lithe-limbed bighorned sheep. 

Suddenly a shrill whistle pierced the air and with a jump Iinstinctively looked for a vision of the Wild Hunter, but a moment laterrealized that the sound I heard was but the warning cry of a whistlingmarmot. Again the silence was broken, this time by a low rumbling soundwhich increased in volume until it roared like a broadside from an oldforty-four-gun man-of-war, each crag and peak taking up the sound andhurling it against its neighbor, until the reverberating noise seemed tocome from all points of the compass. 

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

The white stream could be seen to decrease perceptibly in size, from abroad sheet to a wide band, a narrow ribbon, a line, a hair and thendisappear altogether. While the distant mountains were still growling, mumbling and playing shuttlecock with the echoes a timid chief hare wenthopping across a green half-acre of grass at the damp edge of a meltingsnow patch in my path. Overhead a golden eagle sailed with a smallmammal in its talons; strange reddish-colored bumblebees busiedthemselves in a bunch of flowers growing in a crevice in the rocks at myfeet. 

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

When I viewed the lonely landscape with no human being in sight, Iconfess to experiencing a creepy sensation and a strong inclination toflee, but I knew not in what direction to run. I was in a roughbasin-shaped depression among the mountain peaks, and I sat on a largerock with my back to a black chasm. From my elevated position I couldsee a long distance. Strange fancies creep into one’s head on suchoccasions and play havoc with previous well-founded beliefs. To me, poorfool 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 whetherthe 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 notgood to have tumbling around in my brain. I figuratively pulled myselfback to earth, and to steady my nerves reached into my pack and broughtout several hard bits of bannock that I had stored there. I wasdreadfully hungry and I munched these with enthusiasm, meanwhilekeeping a sharp eye out for Big Pete, and between times making theacquaintance of the little chief hare who, as he scuttled about amongthe rocks, looked me over curiously. 

A short distance to my left was a huge obsidian cliff, the glassy wallsof which rose in a precipice to a considerable height. On account of itspeculiar formation, this crag of natural glass had several timesattracted my attention, and on any other occasion I would have beencurious enough to give it closer inspection. Once, as I turned my headin that direction, I thought I heard a wild laugh and later concludedthat it was only imagination on my part, but now, as I again faced thecliff, I unmistakably heard a shout and was considerably relieved to seesilhouetted against the sky the figure of Big Pete. 

“Hello, Le-loo, ” he shouted. “Through chasin’ that ’ere spook Indian kidbe you? It’s about time. Gosh-all-hemlocks! I been breakin’ my necktryin’ to keep up with you, doggone yore hide, ” shouted the big guide ashe started to climb down toward me. 

“Hello, Pete! You bet I’m through and I’m blamed near all in. Where arewe, do you know?” I called to him. 

“Top o’ the world, my boy. Top o’ the world, that’s whar we be, ” he saidwith a grin. 

I had seen no game since I had lost the bighorn, and the sunball was nowhung low in the heavens. It appeared to me that there was every prospectfor a supperless night, too. But Big Pete evidently had no such idea, and he “’lowed” that he would “mosey” ’round a bit and kill somevarmints for grub. 

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

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

I, at least, slept soundly, and, thanks to the clothes Pete had sokindly made for me, I do not remember feeling cold. When I awoke againit was daylight and I could scarcely believe that I had been asleep morethan five minutes since my friend bade me good-night. Big Pete was upbefore me, of course, and when I opened my eyes I found him cookingbreakfast and making tea in a tin cup over those economical fires he soloved to build even when we were in the park where there was fuel enoughfor a roaring bonfire. It’s queer how difficult it is to make water boilon a mountain top. 

“Well, now fer the witch-b’ar track agin, ” said Big Pete, wiping hismouth. 

“Witch-bear!” I exclaimed. “Oh—yes—you don’t mean to tell me you keptfollowing the track of that two-legged bear this far, Pete?” Iexclaimed, suddenly recalling that we had started out following amysterious moccasin trail that had later turned into bear tracks. 

“Sartin’ sure. Didn’t you figger out that that tha’ b’ar war the Injunor tha’ Wild Hunter who put on moccasins made o’ b’ar feet when hethought we’d foller him?” asked Pete. 

“Yes, I did, but I forgot—maybe that ram was the Wild Hunterhimself—blame it. Nothing will astonish me in this country. ”

“Yes, you fergot everything, even yore head when you started to follerthat tha’ ram yesterday. But I didn’t. I jest kept peggin’ away at themtha’ 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 werefollowing for it could climb over green glacier ice like a Swiss guideand over rocks like a goat. It led us a wild, wild chase over crevasses, friable and treacherous stones covered with “verglass, ” over dangerouscouloirs and all the other things talked of in the Alps but forgotten inthe Rockies, to high elevations, where frozen snow combed over thebeetling crags, and the avalanches roared and thundered down the rocks, dashing the fragments of stone over the lower ice fields. We were notroped together like mountain climbers in the Swiss or Tyrolean Alps; wegot 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 whenthe trail led along the edge of a dizzy height I could look at themiddle of Big Pete’s broad back and then my head would not swim. Itrequired quick and good judgment to tell just how much of a slant made aloose stone unsafe to step upon. It was exciting and exhilarating work, and the violent exercise kept me so warm that I carried most of myclothes in a bundle on my back. Presently our path led us into a goattrail, one of those century old paths made by shaggy white Alpineanimals, and used by them as regular highways. There were plenty offresh goat signs, and the broad path led us over a saddle mountain tothe verge of a cliff, beyond which it seemed impossible for anything butbirds to pursue the trail. Here we sat down to rest and to make a cup oftea over a tiny fire, although wood was plentiful at this place, itbeing in the timber line. 

Below us lay a valley, into which numerous small glaciers emptied theireverlasting supply of ice and blocks of stone, and horse-tail fallspoured from the melting snow fields. It might have presented enchantingprospects to an iceman or a bighorn, or a Rocky Mountain goat, but fortwo tired men it was a gloomy, dangerous and desolate place and I feltcertain that even a witch-bear would not choose such a dangerous placeas a camping ground. We had finished our tea and I was feeling somewhatrefreshed when I noticed a peculiar stinging sensation about my face; Ifelt as if I had been attacked by some peculiar form of insect. Butthere were none in sight. 

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

To my surprise, the big fellow seemed very much alarmed, and every timeI shouted to him it greatly excited him. As he was hurrying to me asrapidly as possible, I desisted from further inquiry. When Big Petereached my side he pulled a handkerchief from around my neck and put itover my mouth, making signs which I did not comprehend. At last he puthis 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 WHITEDEATH!”

CHAPTER XV

Clothes and stage trappings can neither add nor detract from our respectfor 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, ared death or a yellow death is just as grizzly and awe-inspiring as oneof any shade of gray. Even a black death excites no emotions not touchedby the first name, for it is the dread messenger himself whom we respectand not his fanciful robes of office. 

As far as I am personally concerned, I confess that Big Pete’s painfulsuggestion about the coyotes had more to do with keeping my mouth shutthan any terror inspired by the lily-like purity of the garments of thewhite death; what made my bones ache was the thought of the wolvesgnawing them. 

Overhead the sun shone with an unusual brilliancy, and the atmospherehad that peculiar crystalline transparency which kills space and bringsdistant objects close to one’s feet. Where then was the terrible whitemessenger? Why must my head be muffled like a mummy? Why must I keep mymouth shut, while the curiosity mill within me was working overtimegrinding out questions I should dearly love to ask?

Again and again I looked around me to see where this ghostly whiteterror might lurk, and now, as I gazed at the mountains, I was surprisedand annoyed to discover that the distant peaks were graduallydisappearing, being blotted out of the landscape before my eyes; aghost-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 donningtheir fernseed caps of invisibility. Now the air around and about meseemed to be filled with powdered dust of mica that glinted, sparkledand scintillated in the sunshine. The breeze which was tossing about thebright 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 againbound 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 wasengaged in idle speculation, for he led me to a point about fifty yardsfrom the goat trail where there was a possible place to descend thecliff to a ledge fifty feet below. By this time I had become enough of amountaineer to follow my guide over trails which a few weeks previouswould have seemed to me impossible to traverse, and after a hasty anddaring descent we reached the ledge, where I discovered the black mouthof a cavern; into this hole Pete thrust me and led me back some twentyyards into the darkness, ordered me to disrobe to the waist, then hebegan a most vigorous and irritating slapping and rubbing of my chest;so insistent and persevering was he that I really thought my skin wouldbe peeled from shoulders to waist. At last he desisted and ordered me toput on all my clothes. 

“Are you mad, Pete? Has the rarefied air of the mountains upset yourbrain? If not, will you kindly tell me what on earth all this means andwhy we are hiding in this gloomy hole?” I asked as soon as I got thebreath back in my body. 

“Le-loo, you be a baby, and need a keeper to prevent you from committingsusancide several times a day. Tenderfoot? Well, I should say so. No onebut a short-horn from the East would keep his mouth open gulping in thefrozen fog, filling his warm lungs with quarts of fine ice. I reckon itwould be healthier to breathe pounded glass, fur it hain’t sharper norhalf as cold. Why, Le-loo, tha’ be a dose of fever and lung inflammationin every mouthful of this frozen fog. ”

He held my face between his two strong hands so that the faint lightthat filtered through the murky darkness from the cavern’s mouth dimlyilluminated my countenance, and as he watched the streams ofperspiration falling in drops from the end of my nose his frown relaxedand a broad grin spread over his handsome features. 

“You’re all right this time, ” he added “I calculate that I’ve melted allthe ice in your bellows, so just creep up tha’ and sweat a bit more tomake it slick and sartin that we’ve beat the White Death this trip. ” Idid as he said, not because I wanted to sweat but because habit made meobey the commands of my guide. 

Evidently this cavern had been in constant use by some sort of animalsas a sort of stable for many, many years, and I have had sweetercouches, but by this time my rough life had transformed me intosomething of a wild animal myself, and it was not long before I wascomfortably dozing. During the time that I slept I was dimly consciousof being surrounded by a crowd of people; as the absurdity of thisforced itself through my sleep-befuddled brain and I opened wide myeyes, 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 handon my shoulder, and not until then did I realize that the cave wascrowded with the shaggy white Rocky Mountain goats, and not weird, white-bearded old men. Few persons can truly say that they have beenwithin arm’s length of a flock of these timid and almost unapproachableanimals; but we had invaded their secret place of refuge, and they hadnot, as yet, taken alarm at our presence in their castle. It may be thatthe frozen fog had driven the goats to the cavern for shelter, and it ispossible that never having been hunted by man, these animals feared theWhite Death more than they did human beings, and did not realize thedangerous character of their present visitors; whatever the cause oftheir temerity, the fact remains that men and goats slept that night inthe cavern together. 

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

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

After breakfasting on the remains of the kid, Big Pete arose and scannedthe 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 doublingon his trail an’ as it hain’t him we’re after now but the trail out ofthe mountains, I mean to go by sens-see-ation, but you must keep yermeat-trap shut and not speak, ’cause soon as I know I’m a man I hain’tgot no more sense than a man. I must say to myself, ‘Now, Pete, you’re avarmint and varmints know their way even in a new country. ’ Then I justsense things and trots along ’til I come out all right. ”

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

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

It was truly wonderful the way this man, in a trance-like state, wasguided by an invisible power over the most dangerous ground, but no one, after a careful survey, could have selected a better trail than thatchosen by Big Pete. On and on we went, scrambling over rock-skirtingprecipices and crumbling ledges. A dense fog settled around us, makingeach step hazardous, but with an instinct as true and apparentlyidentical with that of our four-footed brothers, my guide kept the samerapid 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 sameswaying motion, but after a short while he crept cautiously forward inthe fog, with me at his heels, and we found ourselves at the edge of agiant fault, similar to the one in Darlinkel Park, but there wasapparently no pass to let us down the towering precipices to the valleybelow. 

“Well, that was a wonderful trip, ” I cried. 

“Shut up!” shouted Pete savagely, but I had spoken and the spell wasbroken; reason, not instinct, must now lead us. 

Vapor and clouds concealed the low grounds from our view; however, wewere determined not to spend another night in the mountains, so while Irested 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 ledme to a place where another goat trail went over the edge of theprecipice, this time not in ten and fifteen feet jumps, but by a steepdiagonal path. Down the treacherous trail we slipped and slid with awall of rocks on one side and death in the form of a bluish white spaceon the other side. 

As we were clambering carefully around the face of a big rock Petesuddenly whispered that he smelt a “Painter, ” and upon peering aroundthe corner we found ourselves face to face with a large cat; the animalwas crouching upon a flat-topped projecting stone immediately in ourpath. That it was not the puma of the low-lands, its reddish-coloredcoat and great size proclaimed. It was a so-called mountain lion and agrand specimen of its kind. 

The cat’s small head lay between its muscular forepaws, its hair adheredclosely to its body, its long tail was full and round and waved slowlyfrom side to side, while its eyes gleamed like electric sparks. 

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

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

As a corollary to this proposition he said that when a person issuddenly confronted by a dangerous wild beast, the safest plan to pursueis to remain perfectly quiet, or, as he quaintly put it, “to peetrifyyourself in the wink of an eye. ”

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

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

CHAPTER XVI

With an imperceptible movement, as steady and almost as slow as that ofa glacier, my guide twisted his neck until his face was turned from thepuma and the side of the mouth pressed against the flat surface of hisrock. I was crowded up against Big Pete, who occupied a position butslightly in advance and a little above me. My agony of fear havingsomewhat subsided I ventured to steal a momentary glance at my comrade’sface. To my unutterable surprise I discovered a whimsical twinkling atthe corners of his eyes and a mirthful expression of mischief in hiscountenance. This was incomprehensible to me, for I could imagine nomore awe-inspiring position than the one we then occupied. 

While my thoughts were still busy trying to fathom the cause of Pete’suntimely mirth, the long-drawn howl of the big timber wolf floated overthe valley and sent a new lot of shivers down my back. It was therallying call used by the wolves to call the band together when game isin sight. The sound increased in volume until it reverberated among thecrags like the voice of a winter’s storm, and then it gradually diedaway. Big Pete was not only a good mimic but he proved himself to be aventriloquist of no mean ability; by the help of the rock against whichhis cheek was pressed he had been able to throw his voice off into spacein 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 themeaning of that wild lonesome howl, the assembling call, as well as theoldest wolf in the pack, and its effect upon the lion in our path wasinstantaneous. The hair, which had a moment before been as slick as ifit were oiled, now rose upright until the fuzzy hide gave the animal’sbody the appearance of being twice its original size. 

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

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

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

The good-natured fellow at first seemed reluctant to repeat hisperformance, but at length consented and put his hands to his mouth, forming a trumpet, then bent forward his body, stooping so low that hisface was was below his waist, after which he began again that wild crywhich 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 toside; continuing the movement he gradually assumed an upright pose, andended by making a low obeisance as the sound died away. 

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

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

Scarcely had the sound waves faded away when in the mysterious distancecame another and another answer, until it seemed as if a troop of lostsouls were vocalizing their misery. I unslung my gun and loosened myrevolvers in their fringed holsters, but Big Pete only shrugged hisshoulders and said, “Come, let’s be moseying. ’Taint nothin’ but wolves. ” A fact of which Iwas as well aware of as Pete, but I, tenderfoot that I was, could nottreat howling of wolves with the same unconcern as did my guide. 

We soon reached a point where the goat trail turned again up themountain and we forsook that ancient path for a diagonal fracture verysimilar to the one by which we had ascended, which led down the face ofthe precipice “slantendicularwise, ” Big Pete said, and soon plunged intothe bluish gray sea which filled the valley. We were now enveloped in adense fog, which added materially to the dangers of the journey. I hadhad so many thrills in the last few moments that my nerves were becomingdull and failed to vibrate on this occasion, so that descending thecliff in a fog by a diagonal fracture in the rock became only anincident of our journey; this trail, however, was wider than the one bywhich we ascended. 

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

For the first time in months I saw a human habitation. The blue smokefrom the chimney ascended slowly in a tall column and then floatedhorizontally in stratified layers. There were fields of ripe grain, orchards, groves, pasture lands and a winding stream fringed withpoplars, which flowed in a tortuous course across the valley. As Ifeasted my eyes on the peaceful scene a great longing took possession ofmy 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 enchantingpicture; so full of unconscious dignity was his pose, so immovable stoodthe mountain man that he looked like a grand statue done by a masterhand. 

But what thoughts were conjured up in the guide’s brain by theunexpected sight of this ranch could not be interpreted from theexpression of his countenance, for that showed no more trace of emotionthan an American Indian at the torture stake, or the marble face of aGreek god. Presently he shifted his pose, threw back his head, and BigPete’s eyes were fixed on the valley in front of us, as with distendednostrils he sniffed the mountain air, his brows contracted to a frown, his eyes lost their gentle angelic look and seemed to change from Chinablue to a cold steel color, and his tightly closed mouth had a sternexpression about the corners which appeared altogether out of keepingwith the occasion. 

“Rot my hide!” he exclaimed, “if I hain’t had a neighbor all these yearsand never knowed it. Waugh! Some emigrant—terrification seize him!—hasfound another park an’ squatted, t’ain’t more’n eight miles as a crowflies 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 momentand added fiercely, “if these geysers know when they are well off, they’ll steer shy of Darlinkel Park. If I catch ’em scoutin’ ’round myclaim, 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 cartridgesin his belt in the old familiar manner, and with a motion quicker than Ican describe it, whipped out his revolvers and wheeled about face, atthe 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 outfrom the face of the towering cliff and overhung the valley that wasspread out like a map beneath us. About twenty feet back from the edgeof the rock was a pile of debris heaped up against the face of thecliff; but the remaining surface of the stone was clean bare andweather-beaten. The talus against the cliff was composed of loosefragments of stone and other products of wash and erosion. This wasovergrown with a thicket of stunted shrubs, wry-necked goblin thistlesand murderous devil’s clubs. These bludgeon-shaped plants, thicklycovered with sharp thorns, reared aloft their weapons as if in menace toall living things; the unstable ground and thorny thicket formed theonly shelter where we could be ambushed in the rear, and it was not alikely spot to be chosen for such a purpose by man or beast. 

When Big Pete wheeled about face with his trusty revolvers in hand, Iquickly followed his example, and our mutual surprise may be imaginedwhen we found ourselves gazing in the faces of a semicircle of giganticwolves. The animals were squatting on their haunches at the foot of thetalus, their wicked slant eyes fixed upon us and their red tongueslolling out from their cavernous mouths. 

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

The whole scene appeared to me to be exceedingly funny and, in a spiritof utter reckless bravado, I doffed my fur cap, with exaggeratedpoliteness made a low bow, and, addressing the largest and mostdevilish-looking wolf in the pack, exclaimed, “Ah! this is Monsieur Loup-Garou, I believe. Pardon me, Monsieur, butdid you speak a moment since?”

But Big Pete Darlinkel looked at the wolves, and great beads of sweatstood on his forehead. It was his turn to have the shivers. There was nomore color in his face than in a peeled turnip. His gun shook in hisleft hand like a aspen, while the spangled gun in his right hand droppedits muzzle towards earth and there was scarcely strength enough in hisnerveless fingers to have pulled a hair-trigger. 

Pete’s great baby-blue eyes turned helplessly to me; but it was now myinnings, and with a cheery voice I cried, “Why, Pete, old fellow, what ails you?” Then meanly quoting his ownwords, I added, “They hain’t nothing but wolves!”

There is not a shadow of a doubt that Pete expected the wolves to answerme 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 topursue. But for the present they appeared to prefer to maintain a solemnsilence. 

The middle wolf had been looking intently at us for some time before awell-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 beenso evident that Big Pete was badly frightened and had lost all hisself-possession, I should have thought he was again practising his artas ventriloquist. 

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

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

“You kin hackle me and card my sinews, if it hain’t the Wild Hunterhimself an’ his pack, ” said Big Pete under his breath. 

The color now began to return to his face and at the recollection of hislate rude words the big fellow blushed like a school girl. Gradually herecovered his self-possession, and, doffing his cap, made a low bow asgraceful and as courtly as that of any polished courtier. This was anentirely new side to my friend’s character and I listened with interestwhen he said, “Sir, whether you be loup-garou, werwolf, witch-b’ar or all them toonct, I do not care. What I want ter say is ef that tha’ ranch yander beyour’n, you may hamstring me ef I hain’t proud to have such a man for aneighbor. Whatever else you be yore no shavetail or shorthorn, an’that’s howsomever. I don’t mind sayin’ that yore a better shot an’ allaround hunter an’ mountain man than Daniel Boone, Simon Kenton, DavyCrockett, 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 aneighbor and would be still prouder ef I might call you my friend. ”

Our strange visitor displayed a beautiful white set of teeth as a franksmile played over his smooth face. But his only answer at that momentwas 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 ofcommendation. I can honestly say that it is the greatest compliment Ihave ever received from a stranger, and, ” he added with another winningsmile, “you are the first stranger with whom I have held converse innearly twenty years. That I am not unfriendly I have already proved bysome trifling services, but the honor of the acquaintance is mine. ”

After the formalities of our meeting were over the stranger stood for afew moments with his chin resting on his breast. He was evidentlythinking over some serious subject. His head was bare, his fur cap beingin his hands, and his hands locked behind his back. A mass of lightcolored 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 ourselvesimplicitly to his care, he would be glad to take us to his home andwould feel honored if we should choose to visit him. 

“You can proceed no further on this trail for it ends here, and not evena goat can go beyond the rock on which we stand, therefore we mustretrace our steps a few hundred yards, ” he explained, as he apologizedfor his strange proposition. He securely bandaged our eyes with our ownhandkerchiefs, and after turning us around until I at least had lost allsense of direction, he placed thongs in our hands, and then wediscovered that we were to be led by some sort of animals, presumablywolves. Whatever else they were, they proved to be careful and sagaciousleaders. 

After a short distance of rough climbing where we constantly needed thepersonal help of our mysterious host, we began to descend and soon ourfeet told us that we were traveling on a comparatively smooth thoughsteep trail. Now and again our guide would speak to warn us of stones orother obstructions in our path, but, with the exception of thesenecessary words of caution and brief words expressing approval orreproof to the animals, we made the journey in silence and in due timereached the bottom, and our feet told us that we were walking on a levelshale-covered path. 

At this point the creatures leading us were dismissed and we could hearthem scrambling back over the trail. We heard the bleating of sheep, thelowing of cattle and all the multiplicity of noises so familiar on awell-stocked farm, and we could easily detect the different odors asfamiliar and characteristic as the noises. We enjoyed to its fullestextent the novelty of the homely sensations aroused by the smell ofnew-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 oursurroundings. Of course, we surmised we were in the ranch house which wesaw from the table rock, but this was only a surmise. 

“Gentlemen, ” said the strange old man, “you are welcome to my home, andallow me to add that you are the only white men who have ever crossedthe 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 wereunbandaged after we entered the portal of the ranch house, and when BigPete and I turned toward our guide, we were facing in a direction thatgave us a sweeping view of the entire ranch. And what we saw made usmarvel. 

This farm, between the towering, almost insurmountable mountains, hadevidently been wrenched from what two decades before had been as much ofa wilderness as the Darlinkel Park across the divide. Timber clothed themountains on either hand but the fertile valley bottom was as rural as adistrict of the middle west. On one hand stretched acres and acres ofripened grain. Beyond was pasture land dotted with strange whitefacedanimals, which later proved to be hybrid buffalos, a strange crossbetween wild and domestic cattle. [3] In other pastures and on thehillsides I could see goats and sheep, and these too were evidently across breed of wild and domestic stock, the goats having a very strangeresemblance to the fleet-footed shaggy old fellows we had seen on themountains, 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 ranchhouse, but what seemed very strange to me was the fact that there wereno horses in sight. All of the animals at work in the fields were thosestrange hybrid buffalo-oxen, all save one, a single, lame and apparentlyalmost blind burro that I saw lying in the sun. From his grayness aboutthe head I had little doubt that he was of great age. 

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

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

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

What manner of place was this that we had permitted ourselves to be ledinto? Indeed, what manner of man was this strange host of ours? I shot asidelong 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 grimcountenance. A slight feeling of fear crept into my heart. Could thisstrange man be my father? For some reason he certainly did attract meand excite my sympathy, yet I stood in awe of him. The strangeness of mysurroundings, too, settled upon me. I turned toward Pete and I had apremonition 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? Iwas eager to be alone with Pete for I knew that he would have someinteresting observations to make. 

“I am disappointed, gentlemen, you say nothing. Isn’t my ranchinteresting to you?” demanded the Wild Hunter, with a smile. In a lowsmooth voice he gave some orders to a young Indian who was walkingtoward the stables. The Indian instantly snapped into action and hurriedaway as if one of the black wolf dogs were snapping at his heels, and Ifelt certain that it was the youth whom we had been trailing. 

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

“It is a wonderful place, ” I managed to stammer; “who could conceive ofsuch 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 Petein 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 achievedsomething here in the wilds, thanks a great deal to Pluto and hisstrain. ”

“Eh, what?” exclaimed Big Pete in alarm. 

“To—to—whom, ” I gasped, for to have the man actually confess analliance 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 anicety. ”

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

“Yes, you son of Satan, you and your hybrid whelps have helped me do allthis in spite of the fact that you hate me, and would love to tear melimb from limb. You splendid, ugly brute, you are insensible tokindness!”

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

[Illustration: “I think the name ‘Pluto’ fits his character to anicety”]

“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 andferocity, a fierce brute which I brought over the mountains with me manyyears 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 isthe fiercest and most bloodthirsty beast in the whole pack, he hates mewith the intense hatred of his wolfish nature, he hates me because heknows that I am the master of the pack, the real leader, and he isjealous. 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 behis life or mine. Yet because of his wonderful strength, endurance andsagacity, I could almost love him. 

“His breed does not want to recognize any master. But _I am_ hismaster!” cried the Wild Hunter as his eyes flashed and he struck himselfon his chest, “and he knows it. The only way, however, that I keep mypower over him and his pack is by forcing myself to think every time Ispeak to them, now I am going to _kill you_, and brutes though they arethey can read my mind and fear me. Besides which self-interest helps alittle towards their loyalty. With me for a leader there is always akill at the end of the hunt, and they know that they come in for a shareof 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 andwe form a happy community. The Indians look upon me as Big Medicinebecause I can control these medicine wolves. ”

Big Pete looked at the man with open admiration, a man who by the sheerpower of his will could control a band of wolves, any one of which waspowerful enough to kill an ox, certainly was a man to please the wildnature 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 packas savage as himself. The pack is the secret of my whole success; mypower over them first won the allegiance of the Indians, won theiradmiration and their respect. They know that I could turn those wolvesupon them at any moment, but they also know that I would not think ofdoing such an act and they are human and love me; the wolves are brutesand not susceptible to kindness. The wolves hate the Redmen as they hateme, but they supplied us all with food, they secured for us our wintermeat while the men worked to build houses and clear the land, and thusmade it possible for us to start this settlement. They even acted aspack animals for us, each of them carrying as much as seventy pounds inweight on their backs. But be on your guard, gentlemen, be on yourguard! Remember that you are strangers to the wolves and they will nothesitate, 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 isserved, ” and turning, he led the way through the broad doorway of thelog ranch house into an almost sumptuously furnished dining room wheretwo silent, soft-footed Indians began immediately to serve a trulyremarkable meal. 

“He may be lo-coed, ” whispered Pete to me as we took our places at thetable, “but I’ll tell the folks, he is a master looney alright. He knowshow to make Injuns love him and varmints fear him, he kin pack all hisduffle 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 wolfpack!—yes and also that young Indian whose ram you shot; it seems helooks after the wolves and sees to it that they are fastened up in theircorral. 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 smokedrafters stained like an old meerschaum pipe. It reminded me of a wealthyman’s hunting lodge in Maine, perhaps, rather than the abode of a wildman. There was a huge yawning fireplace at one end, above which was thefinest specimen of an elk’s head I have ever seen. There were otherheads, too, prong-horned antelope, beautiful bison heads, remarkablespecimens of bighorn sheep and mountain goats, there were buffalo robesand wolf robes strewn over the floor, and there were abundant wellstocked 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 placedjust above the big mantle. It was beautifully though not elaboratelymade, with a fine damascus barrel of tremendous length, a lock and settrigger that showed expert handicraft, and stock of beautifully polishedbirds-eye maple. An expert would have known immediately that it was afirst-water product of an expert gunsmith. 

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

“You may scalp me, stranger, fer sayin’ it, but I’d like mightily wellto heft that tha’ shooting iron o’ your’n and examine it when we gitthrough 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 saidfinally. 

“I reckon I wouldn’t hurt it none. I’ve handled guns before, ” said BigPete 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 handstouch that rifle, ” said the strange man, and there was a grimness abouthis 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 strangehands. Bet a ten spot it’s a Patrick Mullen. Hain’t it?”

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

The mention of the gunsmith seemed also to have a curious effect on theold man. His face grew red under the tan and his brow wrinkled and Icould see his cold blue eyes scrutinizing Big Pete closely. Finally hesaid 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 facein his hands, and I could see him biting his lips as if he wereattempting to control his feeling. 

As for me, quite suddenly a great light seemed to dawn. This strange oldman was mentioning names that were familiar—that meant worlds to me. Ileaned toward him eagerly. Big Pete stood quietly listening, a silentbut 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 witnesssuch a pitiful expression of anguish pictured so vividly on the humancountenance 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, “Ibelieve you, you favor him somewhat. ” He then came forward as if toshake my hand, but changed his mind and sat down with a forced and wansmile. 

“Did I know Don Mullen? Did I? He was my partner, my bunkee for manyyears 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. Hewas killed by an avalanche. A better partner no man ever had, ” hemurmured and relaxed into silence. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It will probably be a novelty for both of you gentlemen to again sleepin a bed between sheets and under a roof. I doubt whether you will enjoyit even though the sheets are clean linen which were spun and woven bymy noble Indians. Moose Ear, here, will conduct you to your rooms and Iwill take a turn about the place before retiring to see that all iswell, and also to see that my black wolf pack is securely confinedwithin the wolf corral. This is a precaution, gentlemen, which I takeevery night, because a wolf is a wolf no matter how well trained he maybe upon the surface, and night is the time wolves delight to run. Thesebeasts are especially dangerous to strangers and it is for that reason Iam 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 thedoors are closed. Pleasant dreams. ”

As we said good-night to him I wondered vaguely if the wolf pen wassecurely built, for it seemed to me that I detected a suggestion ofdoubt 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 ofbuffalo tallow, guided Big Pete and me up the broad skilfully builtpuncheon stairway to the upper story of the surprisingly large ranchhouse, where he showed us to our rooms, rooms which were a joy to lookupon. Each was furnished with a heavy, hand-made four-posted bedstead, which in spite of the massiveness was beautifully made, and I wonderedat the patience of the Wild Hunter in teaching the Indians theircraftmanship. 

The other furniture in the room was also hand wrought, as were the fiberrugs on the floor and the checked homespun blankets on the beds. Therewas a harmonious and pleasing effect; the rooms were cheerful, aboundingin evidences of Indian handicraft. Beadwork and embroidery of dyedporcupine quills were prevalent, even the tester which roofed thefour-post bedstead was ornamented with fringes of buckskin and designsmade of beads and porcupine quills. The chairs and floors wereplentifully supplied with fur rugs, and the quaint, old-fashionedappearance of the room in nowise detracted from its comfort or evenluxury. 

If it had not been for the uncomfortable thought of that pack of blackwolves outside, I am sure I would have been supremely happy at theprospect of once more spending a night between clean and cool sheets anda real feather pillow on which to rest my head. Eagerly and almostexcitedly I threw off my clothes and donned the long, linen nightshirtwith which old Moose Ear had provided me. Then I put the buckhornextinguisher over the candle and dove into the feather bed as gleefullyas a child on Christmas Eve. 

I expected to immediately fall asleep, but there is where I made amistake; my mind would not cease working, the wheels in my head keptbuzzing and would not stop. I was as wide awake as a codfish; the bedwas comfortable, too comfortable, but tired though I was I felt noinclination to sleep. I thought it was the strangeness of mysurroundings which kept me tossing from side to side, but I soonrealized that the trouble was to be found in the fact that for months Ihad only had the sky for my roof, never using our tents or open facedshack except in bad weather; but here, the ornamented tester of the bedand the ceiling itself seemed to be resting on my chest; in spite of thewide open windows the room seemed stuffy and oppressive. I felt as if Iwould suffocate. 

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

In the darkness I discovered another occupant of the piazza also rolledup in a blanket taken from a bed in the house. Feeling with my hands Idiscovered that it was Big Pete. Comfortably settling myself in myblanket I felt the breeze from the mountain blowing over my face andthrough my hair, and it soothed me until I dropped off into gentleslumber; but during the months I had been sleeping in the open I hadlearned the art, as the saying is, of sleeping with one eye open. Inthis case, however, if the eye had really been wide open it could haveseen nothing because of the darkness, but the darkness did not interferewith my ability to hear, and after I had been sleeping awhile I foundmyself suddenly sitting bolt upright in my blankets with beads ofperspiration on my forehead and that terrible sensation of horror whichone experiences in a nightmare. I knew that I had heard something, butwhat?

The oppressive silence of the wilderness made the valley appear as ifNature was holding her breath for a moment before giving voice to anexplosion of sound. I sensed impending disaster of some sort. What itwas I could not guess, but was convinced that something was about tohappen. 

As I held my breath and listened, the ranch house was silent; even Petehad not, apparently, awakened, but I could not hear his regularbreathing. Now I thought I could detect a soft and very faint noise asof some large body creeping over the puncheon steps. I also imagined Idetected the noise of padded feet and the scraping noise of claws on thewood. A shudder ran through me. Was a panther, a mountain lion, about tospring upon me? No, I abandoned the thought and instinctively I knewthat it must be one of the black wolf pack. Then I remembered hearingthe cracking and breaking of sticks or timber while I was trying tosleep in the bedroom, and I felt that Pluto had broken out of the penand was creeping up on us slowly and stealthily as I have seen a foxcreep up on a covey of quail. 

Would the beast presently hurl its terrible form upon me, or on BigPete? I attempted to warn my friend, but my tongue clung to the roof ofmy mouth and for the moment I was powerless and speechless, subdued by acombination of fear of the real beast and superstitious fear of thefabulous werwolf or loup-garou, [4] but the next moment I pulled myselftogether, mastered my trembling limbs, rolled softly out of my blankets, and gun in hand wormed my way toward the spot where Big Pete lay, determined to sell my life dearly. With Big Pete beside me, now that Iwas thoroughly awake, I would fight all the werwolves of the old worldand all the loup-garous of Canada. I reached out and felt for Pete buthe was not there, the blankets were empty; once or twice I thought Idetected the glint of the wolves’ eyes, but the night was very dark andin the shadow of the roof I could really see nothing. 

 [Footnote 4: A werwolf, or loup-garou, is a legendary man who, it was formerly believed, could at will take on the form and nature of a wolf. ]

Closer and closer sounded the stealthy, dragging noise, and I heard ahand feel softly for the latch of the front door and could hear fingersscraping ever so softly over the wood surface of the other side. Aslight rattle told me that the hand had found the latch and thatpresently the door would be flung open. With my revolver ready I waiteddevelopments and braced myself for the attack. 

The door flew open wide, and the voice of the Wild Hunter cried, “Pluto, you fiend, down! down! I say!”

But this time the huge brute did not obey and the command was answeredby a low rebellious growl, a scratching of feet on the puncheons, and aheavy thud of someone falling told me that the final struggle for theleadership of the black wolf pack had begun. 

Then burst upon the stillness of the night such an uproar that for amoment I thought the whole pack was mixed in the fight, but at length Iheard Pluto’s snarling, rumbling growl, answered by the distant howl ofthe wolf pack, followed immediately by a close-by yell that chilled myblood; after this came Big Pete’s war cry, then the crash of fallingobjects, shrieks and growls and savage yells. 

I had flung myself forward, and there in the pitch darkness of thedoorway of the hall I felt and heard rather than saw the lean twistingbodies of the Wild Hunter and Pluto clasped in a life and death struggleon the floor. I feared to use my revolver, as it would have beenimpossible to tell whether I was shooting the hunter or the wolf. 

Suddenly a light burst upon the scene. Big Pete’s absence wasexplained; he had secured a lantern and holding it aloft with his lefthand, with a six-shooter in his right, he paused a moment over thestruggling figures. By the light of the lantern one could see that theWild Hunter was on his back struggling with the giant beast which he wastrying to choke with his two hands, while the wolf’s teeth were seekingthe throat of the man. It was a terrible scene but it was no time towaste in horror. The efforts of the hunter to free himself from histerrible assailant would have been of little avail but for theassistance of Big Pete, for the wolf was shaking the wild man from sideto side with terrific force, very much the same as a bull-terrier mightshake a cat. 

Pete wasted no time but placing the muzzle of his gun against the wolf’shead he fired, then shouted to me, “Look behind you. ”

As I wheeled about I found that I was facing the rest of the pack. Plutoreared upon his hind legs, clawed the air frantically in his deathstruggle, and fell with a thud across his master’s body, but Pete and Iwere now concentrating our fire on the snarling, leaping bodies of thewolf pack. Fortunately the death of Pluto and the silence of the WildHunter seemed to discourage the pack, they evidently missed theirleaders and this gave us the advantage, for if they had rushed us weundoubtedly would have fallen victims to their savage teeth. 

In the melee the lantern was upset and the struggle ended in darkness asit began, but when things quieted down and Pete relit the lantern therewere only two wolves which were alive and they were fiercely attackingeach other. We soon dispatched them, however, and then devoted ourattention to the Wild Hunter over whose body Big Pete was now bending. 

“By the great horn spoon, Le-loo!” cried he, looking up for a moment, “we’ve wiped out the pack, and now that the scrap is over here comes theInjuns. I calculate our friend here is a dead one; Pluto has chewed himto pieces. Come, lend a hand and we will see what we can do for the poorold man; he certainly did put up a glorious fight. ”

Reaching down I gathered the old man’s legs in my arms, and with BigPete supporting his head and shoulders, we carried him into my room andlaid him on the feather bed under the savagely ornamented tester. 

Big Pete was all action then, and I helped as best I could. The Scoutripped one of the homespun sheets into ribbons and with these madebandages and proceeded to stay the flow of blood from the old man’slacerated throat. He worked hard and long and now and then he wouldshake his head dubiously. Presently he muttered, “’Taint much use, Ol’Timer, I guess yore a goner. Yore goneta pass over t’ Divide this time, I guess. That tha’ Pluto fiend done chewed you up fer further orders. ”

At this the old man opened his eyes, and a grim smile wrinkled his nowashen face. 

“I knew he’d do it some day, and I think he got me this time. The MewanIndians call the giant wolf “Too-le-ze” and that is also the name theygave me, but I am not a werwolf, a loup-garou or a Too-le-ze. I was onlytheir master but now their victim. 

“I feared that Pluto, as I call him, or Too-le-ze, was strong andtreacherous and that is why I ruled him with an iron hand. He’s got methis time. I guess it had to end this way—give me a cup of water. ”

He then fixed his gaze on me and I noticed that he no longer had thatworried, haunted look which had heretofore characterized him. 

“So you are Donald’s son—well, when I heard Pluto stalking you I knewthat it was you or your uncle that the beast would get; it was fate thatmade me slip and fall, and once down the wolf saw his long-looked-foropportunity and instantly availed himself of it. But the good Lord wasnot going to allow me to bring bad luck to both you and your father, boy. Yes, I am Fay Mullen and I caused the death of your father, and mybrother. I bear the brand of Cain. 

“We were crossing a steep bank of snow at the foot of a cliff, and beingboth tired and hungry we were bickering and quarreling over nothing. Ishould have remembered that your father was but just recovering from anattack of nervous prostration, but I did not; we had been months in themountains prospecting and the unprofitable toil and loneliness must havegot on my nerves. At any rate, after some hot, unbrotherly language, weagreed to part company. 

“We sat down on the snow and divided our outfit by lot. I got theflint-lock Patrick Mullen, the fierce Great Dane and the gentle littledonkey; your father got the packhorse and the Winchester rifle. 

“We—we—parted without saying good-bye, and just then an elk came outon the snow bank. Instantly your father fired and I fired, the elk fell, but the simultaneous concussion of the reports of the two rifles startedthe snow to moving. The Great Dane and the donkey sensed the danger andfled to the right. I turned to warn your father and motioned him back, but he came on a run toward me and I fled at the heels of my outfit. Theburro and dog escaped to safety, I was caught in the edge of the slide, knocked unconscious and buried in snow, from which the dog rescued me. 

“A fragment of stone struck me on the head and I have never been thesame since then. Your father and his outfit are buried under fivehundred feet of snow and rocks. I camped nearby for days but could findno trace of my brother and all the time a voice seemed to cry, ‘Youkilled your brother; you are marked with the brand of Cain. ’

“This thought has haunted me night and day and I have never quarreledwith a man since then; for fear that I might do so, I have avoided whitemen ever since and buried myself in these mountains. I found this valleyand I hid here and with the aid of the Great Dane and the wolf dogs Ibred, as beasts of burden, I built this ranch. I—I—was afraid—all thetime, though—afraid someone would—find out about—Donald’s death andblame it on me. When you—said—you—were—Donald’s son I wasfrightened—I thought you’d come to get me—for killing your—fatherand—I—I—I was going to kill myself. But Pluto got—me—and saved mefrom further guilt. I—”

He said more, but neither Big Pete nor I could understand him. Indeed, he kept mumbling incoherently for an hour or more while we watched overhim and did all that we could to make him comfortable until the deathrattle in his throat put an end to his mumbling. But despite ourefforts, he passed on at dawn. Just as the first warm light of the sunglowed above the mountains, he breathed his last. 

 * * * * *

Now you know why my private den is just cram full of the things youfellows like. You may also guess where I procured the black wolfskinrugs and the rare bead and porcupine quill decorations. Yes, thatlong-barrelled rifle hanging on the buckhorn rack is the famous PatrickMullen gun. It is a rifle that Washington, Boone or Crockett would havealmost given their scalps to possess, because it is the same pattern asthe ones they themselves used but more scientifically and skillfullymade. It’s a flint-lock, too, and that is the funny part about it thatinterests all the Scouts of our Troop. It is my good-turn mascot, for aslong as it hangs there I am under the influence of my wild uncle and canquarrel with no man. 

Now you know why the gun is preserved as a trophy for my old Scouts andis an object of veneration upon which they love to gaze when they sitcross-legged on the skins of the black wolf pack before the cracklingfire of their Scoutmaster’s private den. 

Big Pete? Oh, he now runs the Pluto Ranch in Paradise Valley. 

 THE BEARD BOOKS FOR BOYS

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 THE AMERICAN BOY’S HANDY BOOK. Or, What to Do and How to Do It _Illustrated by the author_

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 THE FIELD AND FOREST HANDY BOOK. Or, New Ideas for Out of Doors _Illustrated by the author_

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 ON THE TRAIL

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 This volume tells how a girl can live outdoors, camping in the woods, and learning to know its wild inhabitants. 

 MOTHER NATURE’S TOY SHOP

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 How children can make toys easily and economically from wild flowers, grasses, green leaves, seed-vessels, fruits, etc. 

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