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Title: Connie Morgan in the Fur Country

Author: James B. Hendryx

Release Date: April 21, 2009 [EBook#28574]

Language: English

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Connie Morganin the

Fur Country

By James B.Hendryx

· ILLUSTRATED ·

By James B. Hendryx

The Promise

The Gun Brand

The Texan

The Gold Girl

Prairie Flowers

Connie Morgan in Alaska

Connie Morgan with the Mounted

Connie Morgan in the LumberCamps

Connie Morgan in the Fur Country

close beside the fire, his head and huge shoulders thrust intothe doorway, his eyes gleaming like live coals, stood the great

grey leader of the wolf pack."Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover

CONNIEMORGAN

IN THEFUR COUNTRY

BYJAMES B. HENDRYX

AUTHOR OF "CONNIE MORGAN IN ALASKA,"

ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS

NEW YORK AND LONDON

The Knickerbocker Press

1921

Copyright, 1921by

James B. Hendryx

Made in the United States of America

CONTENTSCHAPTER PAGE

I.—Dog, or Wolf? 1 II.—'Merican Joe 17 III.—Nerve 32 IV.—Brass 49 V.—The Plague Flag in the Sky 76 VI.—At the End of René's Trail 95 VII.—At Fort Norman 111 VIII.—Bait—and a Bear 123 IX.—Out on the Trap Line 138 X.—The Trail of the CARCAJO 149 XI.—The Caribou Hunt 168 XII.—The Trail in the Snow 184

XIII.—At the Camp of the HOOCH-Runners 200

XIV.—The Passing of BlackMoran 216

XV.—Setting the Fox Traps 238 XVI.—The Voice from the Hill 254 XVII.—The-Lake-of-the-Fox-That-Yells 269

XVIII.—The Man in the Cave 290

ILLUSTRATIONSPAGE

"For there,StandingClosebeside theFire, hisHead andHugeShouldersThrust intotheDoorway,his EyesGleaminglike Live

Coals,Stood theGreat GreyLeader ofthe WolfPack" Frontispiece

"In the WhirlingBlizzard,withoutProtectionof Timber,One Placewas asGood asAnother toCamp, andwhile the

IndianBusiedhimself withthe Dogs,ConnieProceededto Dig aTrench inthe Snow" 54

"The Third DayDawnedCold andClear, andDaylightFound theOutfit on theMove" 70

"It was aTerribleThing toLook uponto thoseTwo whoKnew itsSignificance—That FlagGlowinglike aSplotch ofBlood therein theBrazen Sky" 80

"The Snare wasSet only a

Foot or Twofrom theStuffedRabbit Skinand Sticksand Brushso ArrangedThat inOrder toReach theRabbit theLynx mustLeapStraight intothe Snare" 130

"'Merican JoeClimbed the

Tree and aFewMinutesLaterConnieHeard theBlows ofhis Belt Axas heHacked atthe Limbthat Heldthe Clog" 156

"As DarknessSettled overthe NorthCountry, aLittle Fire

Twinkled Inthe Bush,and theOdour ofSizzlingBacon andFryingLiverPermeatedthe CozyCamp" 182

"As he Steppedthrough theDoorway hewas SeizedViolentlyFromBehind" 218

Connie Morgan inthe

Fur Country

CHAPTER I

DOG, OR WOLF?

In the little cabin on Ten BowWaseche Bill laid his week-old

newspaper aside, knocked the ashesfrom his pipe against the edge of thewoodbox, and listened to the roar ofthe wind. After a few moments herose and opened the door, only toslam it immediately as an icy blast,freighted with a million whirlingflakes of snow, swept the room.Resuming his seat, he proceeded verydeliberately to refill his pipe. Thisaccomplished to his satisfaction, helighted it, crammed some wood intothe little air-tight stove, and tilted hischair back against the log wall.

"Well, son, what is it?" he asked,after a few moments of silence

during which he had watched hisyoung partner, Connie Morgan, drawrag after rag through the barrel of hisrifle.

"What's what?" asked the boy,without looking up.

"What's on yo' mind? The last fivepatches yo've drug through that gunwas as clean when they come out aswhen they went in. Yo' ain't cleanin'no rifle—yo' studyin' 'boutsomethin'."

Connie rested the rifle upon hisknees and smiled across the littleoilcloth-covered table: "Looks like

winter has come in earnest," he said."Listen to her trying to tear the roofoff. I've been wishing it would snowfor a week."

"Snow fer a week?"

"No. Wishing for a week."

"Well, now it's come, what yo'goin' to do with it?"

"I'm going out and get that BigRuff."

"Big Ruff! Yo' mean kill him?"

Connie shook his head: "No. I'mgoing to catch him. I want him."

Waseche laughed: "What inthunder do yo' want of him, evenpervidin' he's a dog, which thechances is he ain't nothin' but a wolf.An' yo' don't even know they's anysuch brute rompin' the hills, nohow.Stories gits goin' that-a-way.Someone, mebbe, seen a dog or awolf runnin' the ridge of SpurMountain late in the evenin' so helooked 'bout half agin the size hewas, an' they come along an' told it.Then someone else sees him, eranother one, an' he recollects that heheard tell of a monstr'us big wolf erdog, he cain't recollect which, so hesplits the difference an' makes him

half-dog an' half-wolf, an' he adds abig ruff onto his neck fer goodmeasure, an' tells it 'round. After thatyo' kin bet that every tin-horn thatgits within twenty mile of SpurMountain will see him, an' each timehe gits bigger, an' his ruff gits bigger.It's like a stampede. Yo' let someonepan out mebbe half a dozen ouncesof dust on some crick an' by the timethe news has spread a hundred mile,he's took out a fortune, an' it's inchunks as big as a pigeon's aig—theyain't nary one of them ever saw apigeon's aig—but that's always whatthem chunks is as big as—an' directlythe whole crick is staked an' a lot of

men goes broke, an' some is killed,an' chances is, the only ones thatcomes out ahead is the ones that'sstaked an' sold out."

"But there are real wolf-dogs—I'veseen plenty of 'em, and so have you.And there are real strikes—look atTen Bow!"

"Yeh, look at it—but I made thatstrike myself. The boys down toHesitation know'd that if I said theywas colour heah it was heah. Theydidn't come a kihootin' up heah onthe say-so of no tin-horn."

"Yes, and there's a big wolf-dog

been over on Spur Mountain for aweek, too. I didn't pay any attentionwhen I first heard it. But, DutchHenry saw him yesterday, and todaywhen Black Jack Demeree came upwith the mail he saw him, too."

Waseche appeared interested: "An'did they say he was as big as a cabinan' a ruff on him like the mainsail ofa whaler?"

"No, but they said he was thebiggest dog they ever saw, and he hasgot the big ruff, all right—and he wasrunning with two or three wolves,and he was bigger than any of them."

"Well, if Dutch Henry an' BlackJack seen him," agreed Waseche withconviction, "he's there. But, what intime do yo' want of him? If he wasrunnin' with wolves he's buildin' himup a pack. He's a bad actor. You takethem renegade dogs, an' they'reworse than wolves an' worse thandogs—an' they're smarter'n mostfolks."

"That's why I want him. I want tomake a leader out of him."

"You can't catch him—an' if youcould, you couldn't handle him."

"I'll tell you more about that after

I've had a try at him," grinned theboy.

"Who's going along?"

"No one. I don't want to dividehim up with anyone, and anyone Icould hire wouldn't be worth takingalong."

"He'll eat you up."

"I hope he tries it! If he ever getsthat close to me—he's mine!"

"Or yo'll be his'n," drawledWaseche Bill. "Howeveh, if I wasbettin' I'd take yo' end of it, at that."

Connie rose, laid the rifle upon thetable, and began to overhaul his gear.Waseche watched him for a fewmoments, and blew a cloud of bluesmoke ceilingward: "Seems like yo'jest nach'lly cain't set by an' takethings easy," he said; "heah's yo',with mo' money than yo' kin evehspend, gittin' ready to hike out an'live like a Siwash in the bush whenyo' c'd go outside fer the winteh, an'live in some swell hotel an' nothin' todo but r'ar back in one of them bigleatheh chairs with yo' feet in thewindow an' watch the folks go by."

Connie flashed him a grin: "You've

got as much as I have—and I don'tnotice you sitting around any swellhotels watching the folks go by."

Waseche's eyes twinkled: and heglanced affectionately at the boy:"No, son. This heah suits me betteh.But, yo' ain't even satisfied to stayheah in the cabin. When my laigwent bad on me an' I had to gooutside, you hit out an' put in thetime with the Mounted, then lastwinteh, 'stead of taking it easy, youhit out fo' Minnesota an' handed thattimbeh thievin' bunch what wascomin' to 'em."

"Well, it paid, didn't it?"

"Sho' it paid—an' the work withthe Mounted paid—not in money, butin what yo' learnt. But you don'tneveh take things easy. Yo' pa waslike that. I reckon it's bred in thebone."

Connie nodded: "Yes, and thiswinter I've got a trip planned out thatwill make all the others look piking.I'm going over and have a look at theCoppermine River country—overbeyond the Mackenzie."

Waseche Bill stared at the boy inastonishment: "Beyond theMackenzie!" he exclaimed, then hisvoice dropped into a tone softly

sarcastic. "Yo' ought to have a rightpleasant trip. It ain't oveh a thousan'miles oah so, an' only about fifteen ertwenty mountain ranges to cross. Thetrail ought to be right nice an'smooth an' plain marked. An' whenyo' git theah yo' sho' ought to enjoyyo'self. I caint' think of no place inthe world a man had ought to keepaway from worse than right theah.Why, son, they tell me that beyondthe Mackenzie they ain't nothin'!"

"There's gold—and copper,"defended the boy.

"Did Dutch Henry an' Black Jack

Demeree tell yo' that, too?"

Connie laughed: "No, I read aboutit in a book."

Waseche snorted contemptuously,"Read it in a book! Look a heah, son,it don't stand to reason that if anyoneknow'd they was gold an' coppeh uptheah they'd be foolin' away theahtime writin' books about it, does it?No suh, they'd be be right upamongst it scoopin' it out of thegravel, that's wheah they'd be! Booksis redic'lus."

"But the man that wrote the bookdidn't know where the gold is——"

"You bet he didn't! That's the waywith these heah fellows that writesbooks. They don't know enoughabout gold to make 'em a livin' diggin'it—so they write a book about it.They's mo' ways than one to make alivin' out of gold—like sellin' fakeclaims, an' writin' books."

"I'm going to roll in, now, becauseI want to get an early start. It's thatbook up there on the shelf with thegreen cover. You read it, and when Icome back with Big Ruff, we'll talk itover."

Again Waseche snortedcontemptuously, but a few minutes

later as he lay snuggled between hisblankets, Connie smiled to himself tosee his big partner take the bookfrom the shelf, light his pipe, andafter settling himself comfortably inhis chair, gingerly turn its pages.

Spur Mountain is not really amountain at all. It is a long sparselytimbered ridge only about sevenhundred feet in height that protrudesinto the valley of the Ten Bow, for allthe world like a giant spur. The creekdoubles sharply around the point ofthe spur which slants upward to adeep notch or pass in the range thatseparates the Ten Bow from the

valley of the Tanana.

It was past noon when ConnieMorgan swung his dogs from thecreek-bed and headed back along thebase of the spur toward the mainrange. He had covered the fifteenmiles slowly, being forced almostconstantly to break trail ahead of thedogs through the new-fallen snow.

He turned into a patch of timberthat slanted obliquely upward to thecrest of the ridge, and working hisoutfit halfway to the top, pitched histent on a narrow ledge or shoulder,protected from every direction by theridge itself, and by the thick spruce

timber. The early darkness hadsettled when he finished makingcamp and as he ate his supper hewatched the stars appear one by onein the heavens. After replenishing hisfire, he removed his mukluks andmackinaw, and slipped into hissleeping bag.

Two hours later he opened hiseyes and listened. From beyond theridge—far down the valley of the TenBow, floated the long-drawn howl ofa wolf. A moment of silence followed,and from across the valley soundedan answering call. Outside the littletent a dog whined softly. The boy

smiled as his eyes rested for amoment upon the glowing coals ofhis fire. "What anybody wants to livein a city for when they can lie out inthe timber and listen to that, is morethan I know—I love it!" The nextmoment he was sitting bolt upright,his hands fighting his sleeping bag,as the hair of his scalp seemed to riselike the quills of an enragedporcupine, and a peculiar tickly chillran down his spine. The silence ofthe night was shattered by a sound soterrible that his blood seemed to chillat the horror of it. It was a wolf cry—but unlike the cry of any wolf he hadever heard. There was a swift rush of

dark bodies and Connie's four dogsdived into the tent, knocking himover in their haste, their feetscratching up a shower of snowwhich caused the glowing coals of thelittle fire to sizzle and smoke. The cryof the wolves had floated—but thisnew cry seemed to hurl itself throughthe night—a terrifying crescendo ofnoise that sounded at once achallenge and wail. For a full minuteafter the sound ceased the boy sattense and motionless, staring wide-eyed beyond the fire, while behindhim, in the farthest corner of the tentthe malamutes huddled and whined.Then he shook himself and laughed.

"Some howl!" he muttered, "I betthey heard that in Ten Bow. That'sthe Big Ruff, all right—and he ain'tfar away."

Hastily wriggling from hissleeping bag the boy drew on hismukluks and mackinaw and steppedfrom the tent. Overhead the starsglittered brilliantly, and he notedwith satisfaction that objects werevisible at a distance of severalhundred yards against thebackground of new-fallen snow.Drawing a heavy parka over hismackinaw, he fastened on hissnowshoes, caught up his rifle, and

headed upward for the crest of theridge. "Maybe I can get a look at himanyway," he thought. "He'll gatherhis wolves and the chances are thatsometime before morning they'll runthe ridge."

A half-hour later the boy slippedinto a tangle of brush that markedthe upper end of his patch of timber.The bare summit of the ridgestretched away in the half-light tomerge in a mysterious blur with theindistinct valley of the Ten Bow. Thewind was blowing gently from theridge and the boy figured that if thewolf pack followed the summit as he

hoped, they must pass within twentyyards of him. "If it don't go and cloudup before they get here I can see 'emplain as day," he thought, as hesettled himself comfortably for hislong wait. An hour passed and theboy was thankful he had thought tobring his parka. Mushing a hard trail,a man can dispense with his parka attwenty degrees below zero, butsitting still, even at zero, the heavymoosehide garment is indispensable.For another hour Connie divided hisattention between watching thefantastic changes of pale aurora andscanning the distant reach of theridge. He shifted his weight to his

other hip to stretch a cramped leg;and suddenly became motionless as astone. Far down the ridge his trainedeye had caught a blur of motion. Hisfists clenched in anticipation as hestared into the dim distance. Yes,there it was again—somethingmoving, like a swift shadow along thebald surface of the snow. Again thesilent shadow shape vanished andagain it appeared—nearer, now—nearenough so that the boy coulddistinguish not one, but manyshapes. In fascination he watchedthat silent run of the wolf pack.Nearer they swept, running easilyand swiftly along the wind-swept

ridge. Instinctively Connie reachedfor his rifle but withdrew his armbefore his hand touched the weapon.

There were ten or twelve wolves inall, but his attention was rivetedupon the leader. Never in his life hadhe seen such an animal. In thestarlight his coat gleamed like moltensilver in contrast with the dark tawnycoats of the pack that ran at his heels.They reached a point nearly oppositeto the boy's hiding place, and distantnot more than fifty yards, whensuddenly the huge leader halted inhis tracks. So sudden was his actionthat the wolves running behind him

were unable to stop until they hadcarried six or eight yards beyond. Oneor two jostled the leader in passingand were rewarded with swift, silentslashes of his great jaws. Luckily forthemselves, the culprits escapeddeath by inches, and leaping swiftlyaside, mingled with theircompanions, while the great greyleader stood squarely upon his feetsniffing the air.

Connie's heart raced wildly as hestared at the magnificent animal. Itseemed incredible that the brute hadcaught his scent against the wind,and yet, if not, why had he halted so

suddenly? And why did he standthere sniffing the air? The wolvessettled upon their haunches withtongues a-loll and eyed their leader,or moved nervously back and forth inthe background sniffing inquisitively.During this interval the boy took inevery detail of the great brute he hadset out to capture. More conspicuouseven than his great size was theenormous ruff of long hair thatcovered the animal's neck andshoulders—a feature thataccentuated immeasurably theferocious appearance of the pointedwolfish muzzle and gleaming eyes.Every detail of coat, of muzzle, of

eyes, of ears, or of legs bespoke thewolf breed—but there were otherdetails—and the heart of the boyleaped as he noted them. The deep,massive chest, the peculiar poise ofthe head, and the over-curl of thehuge brush of the tail showedunmistakably the breed of the dog. "Iwonder what his heart is?" thoughtConnie. "Is it wolf, or dog, or partwolf and a part dog?" As thesethoughts flashed through his mindthe boy saw the great grey shape turnabruptly and trot toward the oppositeside of the ridge at a right angle to hisformer course. The wolves followedat a respectful distance and as they

disappeared over the crest Conniewriggled from his place ofconcealment and crawling to the top,peered down the slope.

The wolves had vanishedcompletely. Nothing was in sightexcept the long white sweep of snow,with here and there a black patch ofbushes and scrub. He was about toreturn to his camp when, from one ofthe patches of scrub burst ascattering of tawny shapes. Singly,and in groups of two or three,crowding each other in their madhaste, they fled into the open andranging themselves in a semicircle,

waited expectantly. Presently anotherwolf emerged from the thicket,dragging himself on his belly,ploughing the snow. As Conniewatched curiously he noticed that thewide, flat trail left by the slowlycrawling wolf showed broad, darkstreaks and blotches. The waitingwolves knew the meaning of thatdarkened trail and the next momentthey were upon him. Connie shiftedhis position for a better view of thismidnight tragedy of the wild, whenhis foot caught under a rootconcealed by the snow and he pitchedheavily forward. To save himself hegrasped the dead branch of a stunted

tree. The branch snapped with areport that rang through the silenceof the night like an explosion and theboy pitched headforemost into thesnow. The great grey leader shotfrom the scrub, and with the pack athis heels disappeared in the thickertimber at the base of the ridge.

CHAPTER II

'MERICAN JOE

When Connie regained his feetSpur Mountain was silent as the

tomb, and for several moments hestood motionless gazing at the tawnyshape that lay still at the end of thestained trail, and at the patch ofscrub from which the shape hademerged. What was in that darkpatch of brush? Why had the wolvesburst from it in terror? Why had thegreat leader stayed until the snappingof the limb had frightened him away?And what had happened to the wolfthat lay dead in the snow? Slowly theboy returned to his hiding place,picked up his rifle, and descended theslope toward the patch of scrub. Hestooped to examine the body of thewolf. As he rolled it over his thoughts

leaped to the great grey leader."Maybe his heart's all wolf," hemuttered thoughtfully, as he staredat the long slash that extended fromthe bottom of the flank upwardalmost to the backbone—a slash asclean as if executed with a sharpknife, and through which theanimal's entrails had protruded andhis life blood had gushed to discolourthe snow. "What did he do it for?"wondered Connie as he turned fromthe carcass and proceeded cautiouslyinto the scrub.

Ten yards in he stumbled over asnow-covered object. It was a sledge

of curious design. "That's no Alaskasled," he muttered, as he stared abouthim, his eyes seeking to pierce thedarker gloom of the scrub. A few feetfrom him was a curious whitemound. Before the mound weremany wolf tracks, and there it wasthat the blotched trail began. Movingcautiously, the boy examined theirregular snow-covered mound. Atthe point where the wolf tracksconverged he noticed a smalltriangular patch of darkness close tothe ground. Stooping he examined itclosely and found to his surprise thatit was the opening of a shelter tent orwikiup. Dropping upon his hands and

knees he peered inside. In thedarkness he could make out nothing.Throwing off his mittens, he lighted amatch, and as the tiny flame threwits feeble light upon the interior hemade out at the farther side agruesome looking mound ofblankets. The match burned hisfinger tips and the miserable shelterwas once more plunged in blackness.Involuntarily Connie shuddered. Hisfirst inclination was to leave thatplace—to return to his camp andharness his dogs and hit the backtrail for Ten Bow—then, tomorrow—Even with the thought his jawstiffened: "If I do it'll be because I'm

afraid," he sneered. "What would mydad have done? What wouldWaseche do? Or Dan McKeever? Orany of the boys? The very last thingin the world they would do would beto run away! And I won't either. Thefirst thing is to find out who he is andhow he comes to be lying dead wayup here on Spur Mountain."

Methodically the boy kicked thesnow back from the door of the lowshelter tent, and gathering some drybranches built a fire. Then he crawledinside, and by the light of thecrackling flames proceeded toexamine the interior. One glance told

the story. A battered aluminumkettle, a small frying pan, and acanvas bag which contained nothingbut a small handful of tea, and theblankets he was wrapped in,constituted the man's whole outfit.There was no grub—no weapon ofany kind with which to procure grub.He laid a hand on the blanket to rollthe man toward the light—andstarted so violently that he sent thefrying pan rattling against the kettle.For, instead of the rigid corpse ofsolid ice he had expected to find, theblanket yielded beneath the pressureof his hand! Either the man wasalive, or had died so recently that his

body had not had time to freeze!Recovering himself instantly, Connieran his hand beneath the blanket.Yes, he was alive—there was heatthere—not much—but enough body-warmth to show that he still lived.Scooping up a kettle of snow the boyset it upon the fire and, as it melted,without uncovering the man, he fellto beating him with his fists, tostimulate the lagging circulation.Heating the frying pan he thrust itinto the canvas bag and slipped itunder the blankets and went on withhis beating. When the water began toboil, he withdrew the bag and threwthe tea into the kettle. Then he

removed the outer blanket andsucceeded in rolling the unconsciousform nearer to the fire. When heuncovered the face he saw that theman was an Indian—a young buck oftwenty-five or thirty, and hewondered the more at his plight.Removing the kettle from the fire, heset it beside him and succeeded inpropping the Indian's head upon hisknees. With a tin cup, he dippedsome scalding tea from the kettle andallowing it to cool a little, dropped asmall quantity between the man'slips. At the third dose, the Indianshuddered slightly, his lips moved,and he swallowed feebly. The next

time he swallowed as much as aspoonful, and then, double thatamount. After that his recovery wasrapid. Before the cup was half emptyhe had opened his eyes and blinkedfoolishly into Connie's face. Hegulped eagerly at the hot liquid, butthe boy would allow him only amouthful at a time. When the cupwas empty Connie refilled it. TheIndian's lips moved. He seemed to betrying to speak.

"Talk English?" encouraged theboy with a smile.

The other nodded: "Yes—kloshewawa—me spik good."

"What's your name—kahta mikanem?"

The Indian seemed delighted tofind that the boy could speak thejargon. He smiled: "Nika nem'Merican Joe." And having impartedthe information, plunged into arabble of jargon that the boy was athis wit's end to follow.

He stopped him in the middle ofit: "Look here, 'Merican Joe, you talkEnglish—she best to talk. You knowall 'bout English?"

"Yes."

"Well, you talk it then. Listen—I'vegot a camp over across the ridge.Plenty grub. I go get grub. You stayhere. Half an hour I come back. Weeat big."

The Indian nodded vigorously, andas Connie turned toward the door herecoiled, and involuntarily drew theknife from his belt. For there,standing close beside the fire, hishead and huge shoulders thrust intothe doorway, his eyes gleaming likelive coals, stood the great grey leaderof the wolf pack!

'Merican Joe struggled to hiselbow and stretched his hand toward

the superb brute: "Ah, come Leloo!Nika skookum tkope leloo!" (My bigwhite wolf). With a bound the greatanimal was at the Indian's side,nuzzling, rooting at him, licking hishands and face with his long redtongue. Connie sat fascinated at thesight, as the Indian tugged playfullyat the pointed ears and buried hishand in the long shimmering hair ofthe enormous ruff. Then the greatbrute settled down close against theblanket and, raising his head, eyedConnie indifferently, and as if toemphasize his indifference heopened his huge jaws in a prodigiousyawn—a yawn that exposed the

interior of his cavernous mouth withits wealth of gleaming fangs.

The Indian thumped the brute onthe ribs and pointed to the boy."Skookum tillicum." Leloo rose,stalked to the boy, deliberatelysniffed him over from top to toe, andresumed his place.

"Is he yours?" asked Connieeagerly. "Where did you get him?Have you got any more of 'em?"

'Merican Joe laughed: "No—nomore! No more lak heem een deworl'. Leloo you frien', now. You com'een de daytam—een de night—Leloo

no hurt."

"I hope you're right," laughed theboy, "I'm going after that grub now."And throwing some more wood onthe fire, he slipped from the scrub. Ashe did so, there was a scattering oftawny shapes, and where the carcassof the dead wolf had been, there wereonly gnawed fragments of bones.

When he returned Leloo met himat the edge of the scrub, eyed him fora moment, and turning deliberately,led the way to the shelter tent.

Connie viewed 'Merican Joe'sattack on the food with alarm. In vain

he cautioned the Indian to go slow—to eat lightly at first—but his onlyanswer was a grin, and a renewedattack on the grub. The boy hadbrought with him from the camp,three cans of baked beans, a bag ofpilot bread, and several pounds ofpemmican, and not until the lastvestige of food was consumed, did'Merican Joe even pause. Then helicked his fingers and asked for more.Connie told him that in the morningthey would break camp and hit forTen Bow. Also, that when theycrossed the ridge he could have allthe grub he wanted, and with that theIndian had to content himself. While

'Merican Joe ate the boy cooked upsome fish for Leloo, who accepted itfrom his hand and then settledhimself beside him upon the blanket.

"Where did you come from? Andwhere are you are going? And howdid you come to be out of grub?"asked Connie, when 'Merican Joe hadlighted a villainous looking blackpipe.

"Me—I'm com' far," he pointedtoward the east. "I'm goin' toKuskokwim. A'm liv' on Kuskokwim—be'n gon' t'ree year. I'm los' myoutfit w'en de ice brek on CharleyRiver, 'bout ten day 'go."

"And you kept on for theKuskokwim without any grub, andwith no rifle!"

"Yes—I'm lucky I'm hav' myblankets an' kettle on de front of desled—de ice no ketch."

"But where did you get the dog—orwolf—or whatever Leloo is?"

"I'm git heem ver' far—" again hepaused and pointed to the east.

"Beyond the big mountains?"

"Yes."

"Beyond the big river—the

Mackenzie?"

"Yes. I'm desert from de whalerwan year 'go. I com' on de—w'at youcall Innuit. I liv' wit dem long tam.All tam snow. All tam ice. All tamcol'. 'Cross de big water—de sea—" hepointed north. "Cross on ice. Com' onde lan'—beeg lan', all rock, an' snowan' ice. We hunt de musk ox. T'ree,four day we mush nort'. Spose bye-m-bye we fin' ol' igloo. Woof! Out jompde beeg white wolf! Mor' bigger asany wolf I ever seen. I take my riflean' shoot heem, an' w'en de shot mak'de beeg noise, out com' anudder wan.She aint' so beeg—an' she ain' white

lak de beeg wolf. She ron an' smell dedead wolf. She look on us. She lookon our sled dogs. She com' close. Denshe run off agin. An' she mak' all detam de leetle whine. She ain' no wolf—she dog! Bye-m-bye she ron back inigloo. Ol' Sen-nick him say dat badmedicine—but me, I ain' care 'bout deInnuit medicine, an' I fol' de dog. Istart to crawl een de igloo an' dat dogshe growl lak she gon eat me oop. Icom' back an' mak' de snare an' pullher out, an' I gon' on een, an' I fin'wan leetle pup. He ees de gran pup.Him look lak de beeg white wolf an' Iketch um. Een de snow w'ere de roofcave een sticks out som' seal-skin

mukluks. Lays a dead man dere. I takhol' an' try to pull um out but she toomooch froze. So I quit try an' lef'heem dere."

"Was it a white man?" criedConnie.

'Merican Joe shook his head: "Iain' know—I can't pull heem out. Datgood plac' to lef' heem anyhow. Hefrooze lak' de iron. I hont roun' an' heain' lef' no grub. Him starve an'freeze, an' hees dogs is all dead butwan, an' she mate oop wit' de beegwhite wolf. I giv' ol' Sen-nick de dogan' I kep' de pup. See, Leloo ees depup. Mos' two year ol'—an' de bes'

sled dog een all de worl'!"

As Connie watched 'Merican Joerefill his pipe he thought how nearhistory had come to repeating itself.The boy studied Leloo as he lay quietupon the edge of the blanket. He hadheard of the great white wolves thatinhabit the drear lone lands that liebeyond the arctic coast—larger eventhan the grey caribou wolves of thebarren lands. He knew, now, thatthese stories were true.

"You called Leloo a dog," he said,"but he's only half dog, and sometimehe may turn wolf."

'Merican Joe shrugged: and eyedthe great wolf-dog sombrely: "No,him ain' never turn wolf—Leloo. Himhalf-wolf—half-dog, but de wolf an'de dog ain' separat', lak de front legs,an' de hin' legs. De wolf an' de dog ismix', lak de color een de hair. Yousavvy? Leloo ain' never all wolf—an'he ain' never all dog. All de tam' hewolf an' dog mix'."

Connie nodded eagerly. "I see!" heanswered, and his thoughts flew tothe great brute he had seen only afew hours before running at the headof the wolf pack. No hint of the dogin that long-drawn wolf-howl that

had brought him tensely erect in histent and started the hair roots toprickling along his scalp, and no hintof the dog in the silent slashes withwhich he had resented the crowdingof the pack. And yet a few momentslater he had defended his helplessmaster from that same wolf pack—and in defending him with thedevotion of the dog, he had rippedwith the peculiar flank-slash that isthe death thrust of the wolf. Later, inthe tent, he had fawned dog-likeupon his master—but, wolf-like, thefawning had been soundless.

"You know Leloo well," he said.

'Merican Joe smiled: "I raisedheem from de pup. I learn heem topull. He ees de gran' leader. I trainheem to hont de caribou—de moose—de deer. I show you som' tam. Hekin fight—kill any dog—any wolf. Heain' never git tire. He work all day lakde dog—an' all night mebbe-so he ronwit' de wolf-pack."

"You say you've been over east ofthe Mackenzie; is there gold overthere?"

"I ain' see no gold."

"I'm going over there."

"W'en you go?"

"Just as soon as I can get an outfittogether."

"Me—I'm goin' 'long."

"Going along! Will you go?"

'Merican Joe nodded: "Youskookum tillicum. 'Merican Joe, shedead—she starve—she froze—youcom' 'long, mak' de fire—give de grub—I ain' dead no mor'. I go 'long."

"Do you think there's a goodchance to prospect over there?What's the formation?"

"I ain' know mooch 'bout dat, w'atyou call, fo'mation. Plent' riv—plent'crick. Mebbe-so plent' gol'—I ain'know. But, on de barrens is Injuns.W'en I com' way from de Innuit, I fin'um. Dey got plent' fur. Eef you gotnuff stake for tradin' outfit you mak'de beeg money—you ain' care eef degol' aint' dere."

"You meaning trading with theIndians—free trading?"

"Yes—de free traders skin 'em—dey cheat 'em—an' sell de hooch——"

"But—the Hudson's Bay Company!How about them?"

"De H.B.C. all right—but dey ain'go out after de Injun. Dey got dereg'lar post. De Injun got to mushmebbe-so mor' as hondre mile—twohondre. Spose de free traders ketchum firs'. De Injun never git to depost. You got nuff for de stake?"

Connie laughed: "Yes, I've gotenough for the stake, all right. ButI'm not so keen for the trading outfit.We can take along some traps,though, and if there isn't any gold—we'll take out some fur. And, you'llsure go with me? When can youstart?"

The Indian glanced out of the low

door. "It daylight—le's go."

"But, how about the Kuskokwim?"

'Merican Joe shrugged."Kuskokwim kin wait. She ain' nogood. Me—I'm stay 'long wit' you.You pay me wages w'at you want. Igood man—me. You wait—I showyou. You good man, too. I seen plent'good man—plent' bad man—I know—me."

The Indian reached out his hand,and Connie shook it—and thus wasthe bargain struck.

"Will you sell Leloo?" asked the

boy.

The Indian shook his head: "No!"

"Five hundred dollars?"

"No! Fi' hondre dolla—fi't'ousan'dolla—no!" The Indian crawled outthe door followed by Connie andLeloo. Going to the sled, 'Merican Joepicked up a loop of babiche line andthrew it about Leloo's neck. Hehanded the end of the line to Connie."Leloo heem you dog," he said.

"What!" cried the boy.

"Heem b'long you—I giv' heem——"

"No! No! Let me buy him."

The Indian drew himself erect: "Iain' sell Leloo. You giv' me my life—Igiv' you Leloo. Me—'Merican Joegood man. You good man. Wan goodman wit' anodder. It ees frien's."

So Connie Morgan took the linefrom the hand of 'Merican Joe and ashis eyes rested upon the superb linesof the great silver brute, his heartthrilled with the knowledge that hewas the possessor of the greatestwolf-dog in all the North.

CHAPTER III

NERVE

On the morning after ConnieMorgan had hit the trail for theavowed purpose of capturing thehuge wolf-dog that had been reportedon Spur Mountain, his big partner,Waseche Bill, lighted his pipe andgazed thoughtfully through thewindow of the little log office whichwas situated on the bank of Ten BowCreek, overlooking the workings. Hiseyes strayed from the intricatesystem of pipes and flumes to thecloud of white vapour that rose from

the shaft house where the never-tiring steam-point drills forced theirway slowly down, down, down intothe eternal frost.

"Jest three years ago since me andthe kid staked this valley," he mused."An' now we're rich—an' I'm an 'officeminer' with a game laig, an' moregold than I could spend if I lived tobe as old as Methooslum."

His glance strayed to the modernbuilding across the creek with its ironroof, and white painted siding. In thisbuilding, erected a month before,were the general offices of thepartners, the construction and

hydraulic engineers, the chemist, thepurchasing agent, the paymaster, thebookkeeper, and a score of clerks andstenographers.

There, also, Waseche Bill had hadhis own office, as general manager ofthe mine, but after an uncomfortablefour weeks of hardwood floors,ground glass doors, and polisheddesk tops, he moved his office intothe one-roomed log cabin across thecreek, and upon this, the first day ofhis installation in his new quarters,he grinned happily out of the windowas he watched Cain, the constructionengineer, wallow through the new-

fallen snow and climb the slipperybank, on his first trip of consultation.And Waseche's grin widened as heheard the engineer endeavouring toremove the snow and sticky mudfrom his boots before entering.

"Stomp 'em off inside, Cain," hecalled. "The floor's solider, an' you'llhave better luck."

"Beastly place for an office!"growled the engineer, as he unrolleda blue print, spread it upon the roughpine desk, and glanced withdisapproval about the room. "Youroffice in the main building was somuch more convenient."

"Yup," answered Waseche. "Thatwas the trouble. About every fiveminutes in would pop one of youbirds an' pester me with somequestion or 'nother. What I hire you-all for is to get results. What do I carewhether you use a double-jointedconniption valve, or a reverse Englishinjector on the donkey engine, so youget the water into them sluices? Orwhat do I care whether thebookkeeper keeps all the accountsseparate, or adds gum-boots, an'cyanide, an' sandpaper, an' wages allup in one colyumn? Or whether thechemist uses peroxide of magentum,or sweet spirits of rawhide, so he gits

the gold? The way it is now, you-all'sgoin' to do a little figgerin' feryourself before you'll wade throughthe water an' mud, or waller throughthe snow, to git over here. An' besidesI cain't think right without I can rareback with my feet on the table an' myback ag'in' a good solid log wall."

Cain, who understood and lovedhis employer, chuckled heartily. Afew minutes later he rolled up theblue print and buttoned hismackinaw. "By the way, Waseche," hesaid, with his hand in the door latch,"I'm sending you over a stenographer——"

"Me one!" cried Waseche Bill inalarm.

"Yes, you need one. Be reasonable,and let me talk for a minute. Hereyou are, one of the gold magnates ofAlaska, and a lot of thecorrespondence that comes in you'vegot to handle yourself. You knowyour spelling and Mr. Webster's don'talways agree, and your handwriting isalmost illegible in pencil—and worsein ink——"

"Well, ain't we got a half dozenstenographers now?"

"Yes, but they're all up to their

ears in work, and we've been payingthem overtime to transcribe yourscrawls into readable English. So Iheard of this fellow in Fairbanks, andsent for him. He came in yesterday,with Black Jack Demeree's mailteam." Cain's eyes twinkled as hepaused and grinned. "He's only beenin the country a few weeks—a rankchechako—but try to put up withhim, because stenographers are hardto get and he seems to be a good one.I'll send him over with a couple ofmen to carry his outfit. I thought Iought to break the news to you——"

"An' I ort to break your neck,"

growled Waseche. "But send himalong—mebbe my spellin' an', as thefellow says, chiropody, aint what itort to be—anyway we'll try him."

A few minutes later the dooropened and a couple of minersentered with a chair and a table, uponwhich they deposited a typewriter.Waseche glared as the minerswithdrew, and a young man oftwenty-one or-two stepped into theroom. He was a tall, pale young manwith store clothes and nose glasses.Waseche continued to glare as thenewcomer addressed him:

"Is this Mr. Antrim? I'm the new

stenographer. You were expectingme, sir?"

Waseche eyed him from top to toe,and shook his head in resignation."Well—almost, from what Cain said—but not quite. Was you born inservitude?"

The newcomer shifted his weightto the other foot. "Sir?" he asked,doubtfully.

Waseche deliberately filled hispipe and, tilting his chair against thewall, folded his arms. "Yup—that'swhat I meant—that 'sir,' an' the'Mister Antrim.' I ain't no

Englishman. I'm an American. I ain'tno 'sir,' nor likewise 'mister.' Myname's Waseche Bill. It's a goodname—good enough to live by, an' tobe called by—an' good enough towrite at the bottom of a check.What's yourn?"

"Percival Lafollette."

"Percival Lafollette," repeatedWaseche, gravely rolling the nameupon his tongue. "'Was you in theoriginal Floradora Sextette?"

"Why, no, sir——"

"No what?"

"No—no—" stammered Percival, inconfusion.

"That's it—no!—just plain no!When you've got that said, you'rethrough with that there partic'lartrain of thought."

"No—they were girls—theFloradora Sextette."

"So they was," agreed Waseche,solemnly. "Did you bring the mailover?"

"Yes, s—yes, here it is." He placeda handful of letters on the pine tablethat served as Waseche's desk.

"All right, just take off your cloakan' bonnet, an' pry the lid off thatthere infernal machine, an' we'll gitto work."

A few minutes later the newstenographer stood at attention,notebook in hand. Waseche Bill, whohad been watching him closely, notedthat he shivered slightly, as heremoved his overcoat, and that hecoughed violently into ahandkerchief. Glancing into the paleface, he asked abruptly: "Sick—lunger?"

Percival nodded, and Wasechemotioned him close, and when he

stood at his side reached out andunbuttoned his vest, then his thinshirt, and took his undershirtbetween his thumb and finger. Thenhe snorted in disgust. "Look a-here,young fellow, you an' me might's wellhave it out. I aint' a-goin' to have nolunger workin' fer me!"

At the words, the other turned ashade paler, buttoned his clothing,and reached for his overcoat.

"Come back here! Where yougoin'?"

"Why—I thought——"

"You ain't hired to think. I've got ashanty full of thinkers over acrost thecrick. You're hired to spell. An' after awhile you'll learn that you'll knowmore about what I'm sayin' if youwait till I git through. In the firstplace, fire that there book an' pencilover in the corner, an' put on yourcoat an' hat an' hit over to ScottyMacDougall's store an' tell him togive you a reg'lar man's outfit ofclothes. No wonder you're a lunger;dressin' in them hen-skins! Gitplenty of good thick flannelunderwear, wool socks, mukluks, acouple of pairs of good britches,mackinaw, cap, mittens, sheep-lined

overcoat—the whole business, an'charge 'em up to me. You didn't comethrough from Fairbanks in themthings?"

"Yes, Mr. Demeree——"

"You mean Black Jack?"

"Yes, Black Jack loaned me aparka."

"Well, git now—an' put them newduds on, an' come back here, pausin'only long enough to stick them hen-skins in the stove—shoes, overcoat,an' the whole mess. You're in a man'scountry, now, son," continued

Waseche in a kindly tone. "An' you'vegot to look like a man—an' act like aman—an' be a man. You've got a lotto live down—with a name like that—an' a woman's job—an' a busted lung—an' a servant's manners. I neverseen anyone quite so bad off to startwith. What you'll be in a year fromnow is up to you—an' me. I guaranteeyou'll have good lungs, an' a man'sname—the rest is fer you to do. Git,now—an' hurry back."

The young man opened his lips,but somehow the words would notcome, and Waseche interrupted him."By the way, did you tell anyone your

name around here?" he asked.

The other shook his head, and ashe turned to get his overcoat acommotion drew both to the window.A dog team was climbing the creekbank. Connie Morgan was driving,urging the dogs up the deep slope,and on the sled was an Indianwrapped in blankets. Neither Connienor the Indian received more than apassing glance, for in the lead of theteam, sharp pointed muzzle low tothe ground and huge shouldersheaving into the harness, was thegreat wolf-dog that Connie had foundguarding the unconscious form of his

master from the attack of the wolfpack. A cry escaped thestenographer's lips and evenWaseche gasped as he took in thedetails of the superb animal.

Percival instinctively drew closer."It's—it's—the great wolf we saw onthe trail! Black Jack Demeree saidhe'd never seen his like. Oh, he can'tget in here, can he?"

Waseche shook the speakerroughly by the shoulder. "Yes—hecan," he answered. "He'll be in herein just about a minute—an' here'swhere you start bein' a man. Don'tyou squinch back—if he eats you up!

The next ten minutes will make orbreak you, for good an' all." Andhardly were the words out of hismouth than the door burst open andConnie entered the office, closelyfollowed by the Indian and Leloo, thegreat ruffed wolf-dog.

"I got him, Waseche!" he cried."He's mine! I'll tell you all about itlater—this is 'Merican Joe."

The Indian nodded and grinnedtoward the boy.

"Skookum tillicum," he grunted.

"You bet!" assented Waseche, and

as Connie led the great dog to him,the man laid his hand on the hugeruff of silvered hair.

"Some dog, son," he said. "Thebest I ever seen." He flashed a swiftglance at Percival who stood at hisside, and saw that his face was whiteas death, that his lips were drawninto a thin, bloodless line, and thatlittle beads of sweat stood out likedew on the white brow. But even ashe looked, the stenographerstretched out his hand and laid it onthe great dog's head, and he, too,stroked the silvery hair of the greatruff.

Waseche, noticing that Conniecast an inquiring glance at thenewcomer, introduced him, abruptly:"Son, this here's Roarin' MikeO'Reilly, from over on the Tanana.He's our new stenographer, an' whilehe goes an' gits on his reg'lar clothes,you an' me an' the Injun will knockoff fer noon, an' go over to the cabin."

During the preparation of themidday meal Connie told Waseche ofhow he had found 'Merican Joe,starved and unconscious in his littlesnow-covered shelter tent, and ofhow, out of gratitude, the Indian hadpresented him with Leloo. Waseche

eyed the great ruffed animalsombrely, as Connie dwelt upon hiscuriously mixed nature—how he ranthe ridges at night at the head of thewolf pack, and of how, ripping andslashing, he had defended hishelpless master against the fangs ofthose same wolves.

"Well, son," he drawled, when theboy had concluded, "he's the finestbrute I ever seen—barrin' none. Butkeep your eye on him. If he ever gitshis dates mixed—if he ever turns wolfwhen he'd ort to be dog—good-night!"

"I'll watch him," smiled the boy.

"And, Waseche, where do you think'Merican Joe came from?"

"Well," grinned his big partner,"fetchin' such a lookin' brute-beast asthat along with him—I'd hate to say."

"He came from beyond theMackenzie! He knows the country."

"That's prob'ly why he comeaway," answered Waseche, dryly.

"But he's going back—he's goingwith me. We're going to hit the trailfor Dawson tomorrow, and hit acrossthe mountains by way of BonnetPlume Pass, and outfit at Fort

Norman on the Mackenzie, and thenstrike out for the eastern end ofGreat Bear Lake, and the barrengrounds. We're going to trap the restof the winter and next summer we'regoing to prospect and figure onstarting a trading post. We've got itall worked out."

"Oh, jest like that, eh? It ort to beright smart of a little ja'nt. Withnothin' between Dawson an' FortNorman—an' nothin' beyond."

"We might make another strike.And if we don't we can trap."

"Yup, that's a great idee—that

trappin'. If you both work like a dogall winter out in them there barrenlands, an' freeze an' starve, an' havegood luck with your traps, you'd ortto clean up as much as two dollars aday."

"But look at the country we'd see!And the fun we'd have!"

"Ain't they country enough to seehere in Alaska? An' as fer fun—somefolks idee of humour gits me! Whoever heard of anyone goin' 'levenhundred miles into nowheres for tohave fun? I tell you, son, I've know'dstampedes to start on mighty sliminformation, but never as slim as

what you've got. I read your book, an'all them old parties had to go on wasthe stories of some Injuns—an' thewhole mess of 'em's be'n dead mosttwo hundred years! An' I think thebook's a fake, anyhow—'cause I don'tbelieve gold's been invented thatlong! No, sir, take it from me, it's thedog-gonedest wild goose chase everundertook by anyone—but, at that—ifit wasn't for this game laig of mine, Ib'lieve I'd go 'long!"

After dinner Connie started tooverhaul his trail outfit whileWaseche looked on. After a while theman rose, and put on his mackinaw.

"I've got to go back to the office,"he said. "Me an' Roarin' MikeO'Reilly has got to tackle that mail."

Connie shot his big partner a long,sidewise glance. "He must be somerough bird to earn a name like thatover on the Tanana."

"Rough as pig iron," answeredWaseche solemnly. "He eats 'emalive, Roarin' does."

"What—pancakes?"

"Yup—pancakes, an' grizzlies.Roarin' Mike, he takes 'em as theycome. Didn't you see him lay holt of

your wolf-dog?"

"Yes," answered the boy, assolemn as an owl. "And I don't likefolks to be so rough with Leloo."

"He promised he wouldn't hurtyour dog when we seen you comin'up the hill."

"It's a good thing you've got himwhere you can keep your eye on him.If he ever gets loose he's liable to runthe crew off the works."

"Yup. I'll watch out for that. He's astenographer. It's claimed he kinspell—better'n what I kin. An' when

he gits a letter wrote down, it kin beread without a jury."

"I think you've picked a winner, atthat, Waseche. I was watching himwhen he put out his hand to touchLeloo. He would rather have shovedit into the fire. There's something tohim, even if the names did get mixedon the package when they shippedhim in. I suppose that somewhereover on the Tanana there's a big, red-eyed, double-fisted roughneckcharging around among theconstruction camps packing a namelike 'Nellie.'"

Waseche grinned. "Percival

Lafollette, to be exact. I furnished theRoarin' Mike O'Reilly part, alongwith a full an' complete outfit ofmen's wearin' apparel. When he getsto where he can live up to the Roarin'Mike name, he can discard it an' takeback his own. Might's well give theboy a chanct. Cain thought he'd put itover on me, 'count of my movin' myoffice where he'd have to walleracrost the crick to it. But I'll fool himgood an' proper. The kid's a lunger,an' the first thing to do is to git himstarted in to feelin' like a man. Ifigured they was somethin' to himwhen I first seen him. If they wasn't,how did he get up here in the middle

of Alaska an' winter comin' on—an'nothin' between him an' freezin' butthem hen-skin clothes? An' I waswatchin', too, when he laid his handon the dog's head. He was so scairtthat the sweat was jest a-bubblin' outof him—an' yet, he retch out an' donelike I done—an' believe me, I wasn'tnone too anxious to fool with thatbrute, myself. I done it to see if hewould. I'm goin' to take holt an' makea reg'lar man out of him. I figger wekin git through the office work bynoon every day. If we don't, thembirds over in the thinkers' shack is infor more overtime. In the afternoonsI'm goin' to keep him out in the air—

that's all a lunger needs—plenty air,an' good grub. We'll tromp aroundthe hills and hunt. We'll be a pair todraw to—him with his busted lungs,an' me with my game laig. We was allchechakos onct. They's two kinds ofchechakos—the ones with nerve an'the ones with brass. The ones withthe real nerve is the kind that stays inthe big country. But the other kind ofchechakos—the ones with brass—thebluff an' bluster—the counterfeitnerve that don't fool no one buttheirself—the luckiest thing that canhappen to them is they should livelong enough to git back to the outsidewhere they come from—an' most of

'em's lucky if they live long enough tostarve to death."

"I guess he's the first kind," opinedConnie. "When I come back I expecthe'll be a regular sourdough."

"When you're gone I reckon I'lljest have him move his traps up here.I won't be so lonesome, an' I cankeep cases on him——"

"But—" interrupted Connie.

Waseche divined his thoughts andshook his head. "No, they ain't nodanger. My lungs is made of whangleather, an' besides, he ain't no floor

spitter—I watched him in the office.Even if he was it wouldn't take mor'nabout a minute to break him of that."

By nightfall Connie and 'MericanJoe had the outfit all ready for thetrail, and the following morning theydeparted at daylight, with half of TenBow waving good-bye, as the greatsilver wolf-dog swung out onto thelong snow trail at the head of theteam.

CHAPTER IV

BRASS

It was high noon, just two weeksfrom the day Connie Morgan and'Merican Joe pulled out of Ten Bow,and the two halted their dogs on thesummit of Bonnet Plume Pass andgazed out over the jumbled mass ofpeaks and valleys and ridges that layto the eastward. The first leg of thelong snow trail, from Ten Bow toDawson, had been covered over awell-travelled trail with road housesat convenient intervals. Over thistrail with Connie's team of seven bigmalamutes, headed by the greatruffed wolf-dog, they had averaged

forty miles a day.

At Dawson they outfitted for thetrip to Fort Norman, a distance ofabout five hundred miles. Conniewas fortunate in being able topurchase from a prospector eightMackenzie River dogs which hepresented to 'Merican Joe, much tothe Indian's surprise and delight. TheAlaska sled was replaced by twotoboggans, and 'Merican Joe noddedapproval at Connie's selection ofsupplies. For from now on therewould be no road houses and, for themost of the way, no trail. And theircourse would thread the roughest

country on the whole continent.Therefore, the question of outfittingwas a problem to be taken seriously.Too little grub in the sub-arctic inwinter means death—horrible, black-tongued, sunken-eyed death bystarvation and freezing. And toomuch outfit means overstrain on thedogs, slower travel, and unless someof it is discarded or cached, it meansall kinds of trouble for the trailmushers.

The surest test of a sourdough ishis outfit. Connie figured the tripshould take thirty-five days, whichshould put them into Fort Norman

on the fifth of November. But Conniehad been long enough in the North totake that word "should" none tooliterally. He knew that under veryfavourable conditions the trip mightbe made in twenty days, and he knewalso that it might take fifty days.Therefore although the month wasNovember, a very favourable monthfor hunting, and the country to betraversed was good game country, hedid not figure his rifle for a singlepound of meat. If meat were killed onthe journey, well and good. But if nomeat were killed, and if they losttheir way, or encountered blizzardafter howling blizzard, and their

journey lengthened to fifteen ortwenty days beyond the estimatedtime, Connie was determined that itshould also be well and good.

He remembered men who hadbeen found in the spring and buried—chechakos, most of them who haddisregarded advice, and whose outfitshad been cut down to a minimumthat allowed no margin of safety fordelay. But some of them had beensourdoughs who had taken a chanceand depended on their rifles for food—it had been the same in the end. Inthe spring the men who buried themread the whole story of the

wilderness tragedy in visiting theirlast few camps. Each day the distancebetween them shortened, here a dogwas killed and eaten, here another,and another, until at the very lastcamp, half buried in the soddenashes of the last fire, would be foundthe kettle with its scraps ofmoccasins and bits of dog harnessshrivelled and dried—moccasin soup,the very last hopeless expedient ofthe doomed trail musher. Andgenerally the grave was dug besidethis fire—never far beyond it.

And so Connie added a safetymargin to the regular sub-arctic

standard of grub for the trail, andwhen the outfit pulled out of Dawsonthe toboggans carried three and onehalf pounds of grub apiece for each ofthe thirty-five days, which was a fullhalf pound more than was needed,and this, together with their outfit ofsleeping bags, clothing, utensils, andnine hundred pounds of dog food,totalled thirteen hundred and fiftypounds—ninety pounds to the dog,which with good dogs is acomfortable load.

The summit of the Bonnet Plumepass is a bleak place. And dreary andbleak and indescribably rugged is the

country surrounding it. Connie and'Merican Joe, seated in the lee oftheir toboggans, boiled a pot of teaover the little primus stove.

"We've made good time so far,"said the boy. "About three hundredmiles more and we'll hit FortNorman."

'Merican Joe nodded. "Yes, but wegot de luck. On dis side we ain' gon'hav' so mooch luck. Too moochplenty snow—plenty win'. An'tonight, mor' comin'." He indicatedthe sky to the northward, where,beyond the glittering white peaks, theblue faded to a sullen grey.

"You're right," answered Connie,dropping a chunk of ice into his cupof scalding tea. "And I'd sure like tomake a patch of timber. These high,bare canyons are rotten places tocamp in a blizzard. If you camp in themiddle of 'em you've got to tieyourself down or the wind mighthang you on a rock somewhere, andif you camp out of the wind against awall, a snow cornice might bust looseand bury you forty feet deep."

'Merican Joe grinned. "Yousourdough—you know. I know yousourdough w'en I seen you han'le dedogs—an' I know w'en you buy de

grub. But mos' I know w'en you packde toboggan—you ain' put all de grubon wan toboggan an' all de odderstuff on de odder toboggan——"

Connie laughed. "Lots of menhave made that mistake. And then ifthey get separated one dies ofstarvation, and the other freezes todeath, or if they lose one tobogganthey're in the same fix."

'Merican Joe returned the dishesand stove to the pack and glanced atthe sky. "I ain' t'ink we mak' detimber tonight. She git dark queeknow—seven, eight mile mor' we gotto camp."

"Yes," assented Connie. "And thedays are getting so short that fromnow on we'll quit camping at noon.We'll pull once and make a day of it—anyway till we get a moon."

"In the whirling blizzard, without protection of timber, oneplace was as good as another to camp, and while the Indian

busied himself with the dogs, Connie proceeded to dig a trenchin the snow."

Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover

To this plan the Indian readilyagreed and a moment later struck outahead as "forerunner" to break trailfor the dogs. Despite the fact thatthere was more snow on the easternslope, the two soon found itinsufficient to check the toboggansupon the series of steep pitches andlong slopes they now encountered. Atthe end of a mile a halt was made,Connie's dogs were turned loose tofollow, both toboggans were hitched

behind the Mackenzie River dogs,and while 'Merican Joe ploddedahead, Connie had all he could do atthe tail rope. An hour later the windsuddenly changed and came roaringout of the north. The whole skybecame overcast and stingingparticles of flinty snow were drivenagainst their faces. The stormincreased in fury. The stingingparticles changed to dry, powderysnow dust that whirled and eddiedabout them so thickly that Conniecould not see the dogs from the rearof the toboggans. Covering theirnoses and mouths, the two bored onthrough the white smother—a slow

moving, ghostly procession, with thesnow powder matted thick into thehairy coats of the dogs and theclothing of the mushers. Not untildarkness added to theimpenetrability of the storm did'Merican Joe halt. In the whirlingblizzard, without protection oftimber, one place was as good asanother to camp, and while theIndian busied himself with the dogsConnie proceeded to dig a trench inthe snow. This trench was as long asthe toboggans, and wide enough toaccommodate the two sleeping bagsplaced side by side. Three feet downthe boy struck ice. The sleeping bags,

primus stove, and part of the foodwere dumped into the trench. Theloaded toboggans were tipped onedge, one along either side, and theheavy canvas shelter tarp wasstretched over these and weighteddown by doubling its edges under thetoboggans. The open ends wereblocked with snow, the dogs fed andleft to make their own beds, and thetwo crawled into their snug quarterswhere by the light of a candle theyprepared a good hot meal on the littlestove and devoured it in warmth andcomfort while the storm roaredharmlessly over their heads.

For two days they were stormbound, venturing out only to feed thedogs and from time to time to relievethe tarp roof of its burden of snow.The third day dawned cold and clear,and daylight found the outfit on themove. They were following a creekbed, and the depth of the snow,together with the easing of the slope,permitted the use of both teams. Nohalt was made at noon and whenthey camped at dark they estimatedthey had made fifteen miles. Fivedays of fair cold weather followedand each night found them fromfifteen to eighteen miles from thecamp of the night before. No game

had been sighted, but on two of thenights Leloo had left camp, and once,from some ridge far to thenorthward, they had heard his long-drawn howl of the kill.

On the sixth day another stormbroke. They were following the snow-covered bed of a fair-sized riverwhich Connie hoped would prove tobe the head-waters of the Gravel,which empties into the Mackenziesome forty-five miles above FortNorman. They had left the highestmountains behind, and patches oftimber appeared at frequent intervalsalong the banks of the stream. As the

storm thickened they camped, settingup their tent in the shelter of athicket, and in the morning theypushed on despite the storm. It wasnearly noon when Connie called to'Merican Joe, and when the Indianmade his way back, the boy pointedto Leloo. The great wolf-dog hadhalted in the traces and stood withnose up sniffing the air, while thehuge ruff seemed to swell to twice itssize, and the hair along its spinebristled menacingly.

They had stopped opposite a patchof timber taller than any they hadpassed, the tops of the trees being

visible between the gusts of whirlingsnow. "Moose or a bear in there,"ventured Connie. "Let's go get him."

'Merican Joe shook his head. "No.Leloo, he ketch de man scent. He ain'ac' lak dat for moose an' bear."

"Man scent! What would any menbe doing up here?"

The Indian shrugged. "Hunt, trap,mebbe-so prospeck. Com' on, le's go.It ain' no good we go in dere." Hepaused and pointed to the dog. "Badmans in dere—Leloo, he know. Badmans smells one way—good manssmells anudder way. Leloo ain' git

mad for good mans."

"We can't go away and leavethem," Connie answered. "They maybe out of luck—may need help."

Again 'Merican Joe shrugged, butoffered no further objection, andreleasing Leloo from his harness thetwo followed him into the timber. Ashort distance back from the edgethey came upon a rude log cabin,glaringly the work of inexperiencedbuilders. No tracks were seen aboutthe door, and no smoke rose from thestovepipe that served as a chimney.'Merican Joe pushed open the door.

"It's 'bout time you was comin'—an' me crippled," came a petulantvoice from the bed. "But what do youcare—" The voice ceased suddenly,and 'Merican Joe sprang back fromthe doorway so swiftly that heknocked Connie into the snow. Asthe boy picked up himself he againheard the voice. "Git out of here, youthievin' Injun or I'll blow yer headoff!"

Ignoring the protest of 'MericanJoe, Connie thrust his head in at thedoorway. "What's the matter withyou?" he asked, sharply. "Are youcrazy?"

The man in the bed stared amoment and with seemingreluctance lowered his rifle. "Who'reyou?" he asked, sullenly. "If you wantgrub y're out of luck. We ain't gotnone to spare—an' I got a rifle herethat says you don't git none of it."Involuntarily, Connie's glance sweptthe supplies piled along the walls andupon the shelves, and estimated afour-man outfit.

"How many of you are there?" heasked. "And why haven't you got afire?"

"They's two of us, an' I ain't got nofire 'cause my partner ain't showed

up to build none. I'm crippled—sunkan ax in my foot a couple days back."

"Where is your partner?"

"I dunno. He went to look at thetraps yesterday an' he ain't got backyet." He noticed the snow clinging toConnie's garments. "Is it snowin'?"he asked, in sudden alarm.

"Snowing!" exclaimed the boy. "Ofcourse it's snowing—it's beensnowing since yesterday noon."

The man's voice dropped into awhine. "The winders is frosted so youcan't see out. I bet he's lost. Go find

him, can't you? What're you standin'there fer?"

Righteous indignation succeededthe flash of disgust engendered bythe man's first words. And Conniestepped closer. "Look here, who doyou think you're talking to? I don'tknow who you are, and I don't wantto. What I can't figure is how youever got this far. If nobody else hadbothered to knock some commonsense and decency into you it's awonder your partner hasn't. But Iguess he don't know the differencebetween you and a man or hewouldn't be your partner." Connie

turned on his heel and started for thedoor.

"Hey, where you goin'?" wailed theman on the bunk.

"I'm going out and tend to mydogs," answered the boy.

"Build a fire first, an' cook mesome grub! I ain't had nothin' sinceyesterday."

"After the dogs," said Connie as hebanged the door behind him.

"Le's mush," said 'Merican Joe,when they returned to the dogs.

Connie grinned. "No, we can't dothat. I've seen some pretty rawchechakos, but never one like him. Ifwe pulled out they'd probably bothdie."

'Merican Joe gave an expressiveshrug. "S'pose we ain't got no grub.He ain' care we die."

"No, but we're men, and he——"

"He ain' so good lak Injun dog,"interrupted 'Merican Joe.

"Just about—but we can't go offand leave him, at that."

Twenty minutes later Connie and

the Indian entered the cabin.

"You took yer time about it,"complained the man. "Hustle aroundnow an' cook me up a meal ofvittles."

"Where's your firewood?" askedthe boy, smothering his wrath.

"Go out an' cut it, same as we do."

"Don't you keep any ahead, norany kindlings?"

"Naw, it's bad enough to cut a littleat a time."

Connie's glance sought the room.

"Where's the ax?"

"Out in the brush, I guess. Mypartner cut the wood last. I don'tknow where he left it."

"Well, it's under about two feet ofsnow now," answered the boy dryly,as 'Merican Joe departed to get theirown ax and cut some wood.

By the time the cabin was warmedand the man fed, the storm hadceased. "Let me have a look at yourfoot," said Connie. "I expect it hadbetter be tended to." The manassented, and the boy turned backthe covers and, despite much

groaning and whining complaint,removed the bandage and replaced itwith a clean one.

"Pretty bad gash," opined Connie."How did it happen?"

"Cuttin' firewood—holdin' thestick with my foot an' the ax struck aknot."

"You've got to learn a lot, haven'tyou?"

"What d'you mean—learn? Howyou goin' to cut firewood without youhold it with yer foot?"

"Nex' tam dat better you hol' de

chunk wit' you neck," advised'Merican Joe.

"Is that so! Well, believe me, Iain't takin' no advise offen no Siwash,nor no kid, neither!"

Connie pulled his cap down overhis ears and drew on his mackinawand mittens. "We're wasting timehere, the days are short and if we'regoing to find your partner we've gotto get at it. How long is your trapline, and where does it run?"

"We got about twenty-five martintraps out. They're acrost the river upthe first crick—strung along about

three or four mile."

"Twenty-fi' trap! Three or fourmile!" exclaimed 'Merican Joe. "Howlong you be'n here?"

"Just a month. What's the matterwith that? We've got eight martin an'a wolverine an' a link!"

The Indian gave a snort ofcontempt. "Me—if I ain' set mor' trapas dat every day I ain' t'ink I donenuttin'." He followed Connie to thedoor.

"You might's well move yer junkin here if you got your own grub. You

kin keep the fire goin' nights in caseTom don't show up, an' besides I ain'thad no one to talk to fer goin' on twomonths except Tom, an' we don't giton none too good."

"Thanks," said Connie. "But we'llput up the tent when we come back—we're a little particular, ourselves."

"They ain't no use of both of yougoin' out to hunt him. One of youstay here and tend the fire, an' cooksupper in case the other one don't gitback in time."

Connie glared at the man for amoment, and burst out laughing. "If

you had a little more nerve and awhole lot less brass, there might besome hope for you yet," he opined."Did your partner have any dogs withhim?"

"Naw, we had six when we comein, but they was worked down skinpore when we got here, an' some of'em died, an' the rest run off. Theywasn't no good, nohow."

Connie banged the door in disgustand, taking Leloo with them, the twostruck across the river. They foundthe creek without difficulty and hadproceeded scarcely a mile when Leloohalted in his tracks and began

sniffing the air. This time the hair ofhis neck and spine did not bristle,and the two watched him as he stood,facing a spruce-covered hill, his headmoving slightly from side to side, ashis delicate pointed nostrils quiveredas if to pick up some elusive scent."Go on, Leloo. Go git um!" urged'Merican Joe, and the wolf-dogtrotted into the spruce, followed byConnie and the Indian. Halfway upthe slope the dog quickened his pace,and coming suddenly upon a moundin the new-fallen snow circled itseveral times and squatted upon hishaunches. It took Connie and theIndian but a few moments to scrape

away the snow and disclose theskinned carcass of a moose.

'Merican Joe pointed to thecarcass. "It be'n snowin' quite a w'ilew'en he skin de moose. He ain' goin'carry dat hide far. She heavy. He ain'know nuttin' 'bout skinnin', an' lef'lot of meat stick to de hide. He starthom' an' git los'."

"Lost!" exclaimed Connie. "Surelyhe wouldn't get lost within a mile ofhis cabin!"

'Merican Joe nodded. "Himchechako—git los' anywheres. Git los'somtam w'en she snowin' bad,

hondre steps from cabin. Me—Iknow. One git los' an' froze dead, wantam, he go for water not so far youkin t'row de stone."

"Well, he's probably home by thistime. If he was lost he'd camp, andhe's had plenty of time since itstopped snowing."

The Indian was not so hopeful."No, I'm t'ink he ain' got sense'nough to camp. He walk an' git scare,an' den he mebbe-so run till he falldown."

"He won't do much running withthat hide," grinned Connie. "Let's

separate and hunt for him. Come,Leloo—go find him!"

The two continued to the top ofthe timbered slope. "I don't see howanyone could possibly get lost here.Surely he would know enough to godown hill to the creek, and follow itto the river, wouldn't he?"

"No, w'en dey git scairt dey don'tknow up an' down an' crossways."

As the two were about to separateboth suddenly paused to listen.Faintly upon the air, seemingly frommiles away, came the call of a humanvoice. Leloo heard it too, and with

ears stiffly erect stood looking far outover the ridges. Raising his rifle,Connie fired into the air, and almostimmediately the sound of the shotwas answered by the faint call forhelp.

"That's funny," cried the boy."Sound don't travel very fast. Howcould he possibly have answered assoon as that?"

Placing his hands to his mouth,'Merican Joe launched a yell thatseemed fairly to tear through thespaces, echoing and re-echoingacross, the valley.

Again came the answering call,faintly, as from a great distance.Locating the direction of the soundwhich seemed to come fromsomewhere near the head of aparallel valley, they plunged straightdown the opposite slope. At thebottom they paused again, and againthe Indian sent his peculiarpenetrating yell hurtling through theair. Again it was answered, but thistime it came from up the slope.Faintly it reached their ears,seemingly farther away than before.The sound was repeated as the twostood looking at each other inbewilderment.

'Merican Joe's eyes seemedbulging from his head."Tamahnawus," he whispered. "W'atyou call, de ghos'. He git froze, an'hees ghos' run 'roun' de hills an' yell'bout dat! Me—I'm gon'!" Abruptlythe Indian turned and started as fastas his webs would let him in thedirection of the river.

"Come back here!" cried Connie."Don't be a fool! There ain't anytamahnawuses—and if there are, I'vegot the medicine that will lick 'em! Ibrought one in once that had run awhole tribe of Injuns off theirhunting ground."

'Merican Joe, who had halted atthe boy's command, looked dubious."I ain' huntin' no tamahnawus—Iain' los' none!"

"You come with me," laughed theboy, "and I'll show you yourtamahnawus. I've got a hunch thatfellow has dropped into a cave orsomething and can't get out. And hecan't be so very far off either."

With Connie in the lead theyascended the slope in the direction ofthe sound which came now from apoint upstream from where they haddescended. Once more Leloo pausedand sniffed, the hair of his back

bristling. Whatever the object of hisattention, it seemed to lie beneaththe outspreading branches of a largespruce. Connie peered beneath thebranches where an oblong of snowappeared to have been disturbedfrom under the surface. Even as helooked the sound of a voice, plainenough now to distinguish the words,reached his ears.

"Git me out of here! Ain't younever comin'? Or be you goin' toleave me here 'cause I burnt thempancakes?"

"Come on out," called Connie.

"What's the matter with you?"

"Come on out! How kin I? Who beyou?"

Connie reached the man's side andproceeded to scrape away the snow,while 'Merican Joe stood at arespectful distance, his rifle at fullcock. "Come on Joe!" the boy called,at length. "Here's yourtamahnawus—and it's going to taketwo of us to get him out."

When the snow had been removedboth Connie and the Indian stared insurprise. There lay the man closelywrapped in his moose skin, fur side

in, and the heavy hide frozen to thehardness of iron!

"I'm all cramped up," wailed theman. "I can't move."

The man was wrapped, head andall, in the frozen hide. Fortunately,he had left an air space but this hadnearly sealed shut by the continuedfreezing of his breath about its edges.

Rolling him over the two graspedthe edge of the heavy hide andendeavoured to unroll it, but theymight as well have tried to unroll theiron sheathing of a boiler.

"We've got to build a fire and thawhim out," said Connie.

"Tak' um to de cabin," suggestedthe Indian. "Kin drag um all sametoboggan."

The plan looked reasonable butthey had no rope for a trace line.Connie overcame the difficulty bymaking a hole with his hand ax in aflap of the hide near the man's feet,and cutting a light spruce saplingwhich he hooked by means of a limbstub into the hole.

By using the sapling in themanner of a wagon tongue, they

started for the cabin, keeping to thetop of the ridge where the snow wasshallow and wind-packed.

All went well until they reachedthe end of the ridge. A mile back,where they had ascended the slope,the pitch had not been great, but asthey neared the river the sides grewsteeper, until they were confrontedby a three hundred foot slope with anextremely steep pitch. This slope wassparsely timbered, and great rocksprotruded from the snow. Conniewas for retracing the ridge to a pointwhere the ascent was not so steep,but 'Merican Joe demurred.

"The third day dawned cold and clear, anddaylight found the outfit on the move."

Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover

"It git dark queek, now. We git umdown all right. Turn um roun' an'mak de pole lak de tail rope on detoboggan—we hol' um back easy."The early darkness was blurringdistant outlines and the descent atthat point meant the saving of anhour, so Connie agreed and for thefirst twenty yards all went well. Thensuddenly the human toboggan struckthe ice of a hillside spring and shotforward. The pole slipped from thesnowy mittens of the two and,

enveloped in a cloud of flying snow,the man in the frozen moose hidewent shooting down the slope!Connie and 'Merican Joe barely savedthemselves from following him, and,squatting low on their webs theywatched in a fascination of horror asthe flying body struck a tree trunk,shot sidewise, ploughed through thesnow, struck a rock, bounded highinto the air, struck another rock and,gaining momentum with every foot,shot diagonally downward—rolling,whirling, sliding—straight for thebrink of a rock ledge with a sheerdrop of twenty-five or thirty feet.Over the edge it shot and landed with

a loud thud among the broken rockfragments of the valley floor.

"We ought to have gone back!"shuddered the boy. "He's dead by thistime."

'Merican Joe shrugged. "Anyhow,dat com' queek. Dat better as if he layback onder de tree an' froze an'starve, an' git choke to deat' w'en hisair hole git froze shut. He got goodstrong coffin anyhow."

Relieved of their burden it was butthe work of a few moments to gainthe floor of the valley and hasten tothe form wedged tightly between two

upstanding boulders, where theywere greeted by the voice of the manraised in whining complaint.

"Are you hurt?" eagerly askedConnie, kneeling at the man's sideand looking at him closely.

"Naw, I ain't hurt but can't youpick out no smoother trail? I'm alljiggled up!" In his relief at finding theman unharmed, Connie laughinglypromised a smoother trail, and as heand the Indian pried him frombetween the rocks with a young tree,the boy noted that the frozen moosehide had scarcely been dented by itscontact with the trees and rocks.

In the cabin the stove wascrammed with wood and the manlaid upon the floor close beside it, butit was nearly daylight the followingmorning before the hide had thawedsufficiently for the combined effortsof Connie and the Indian to unroll it.All night the two tended the fire andlistened to the petty bickering andquarrelling of the two helplesspartners, the man in the bunktaunting the other with being a foolfor wrapping up in a green moosehide, and being in turn called a foolfor chopping his own foot. It wasdisgusting in the extreme to Conniebut at last the humour of the

situation got the better of his disgust,and he roared with laughter, all ofwhich served to bring down thecombined reviling of both men uponhis head.

When at last the man wasextricated from his prison and foundto be little the worse for hisadventure, he uttered no word ofthanks to his rescuers. Indeed, hisfirst words were in the nature of anindirect accusation of theft.

"Whur's my marten?" he asked,eying them with suspicion.

"What marten? We didn't see any

marten," answered the boy.

"Well, I hed one. Tuk it out of atrap just before I seen the moose. It'sfunny you didn't see it." Connieanswered nothing, and as the mandevoured a huge breakfast withoutasking his rescuers to join him, hecontinued to mutter and growl abouthis lost marten. Daylight wasbreaking and Connie, bottling hiswrath behind tight-pressed lips, roseabruptly, and prepared to depart.

"Whur you goin'?" asked the man,his cheeks distended with food. "Youlay around here soakin' up heat allnight; looks like you could anyways

cut a little wood an' help worsh thesedishes! An', say, don't you want tobuy some moose meat? I'll sell youall you want fer two-bits a pound, an'cut it yerself."

For a moment Connie saw red. Hisfists clenched and he swallowed hardbut once more his sense of humourasserted itself, and looking the mansquarely in the eye he burst into aroar of laughter, while 'Merican Joe,who possessed neither Connie's self-restraint nor his sense of humour,launched into an unflattering tiradeof jumbled Indian, English, andjargon, that, could a single word of it

have been understood, would havegoaded even the craven chechakos towarfare.

Two hours later, as they sat intheir cozy tent, pitched five milesdown the river, and devoured theirbreakfast, Connie grinned at hiscompanion.

"Big difference in men—even inchechakos, ain't there, Joe?"

"Humph," grunted the Indian.

"No one else within two hundredmiles of here—his partner crippled sohe never could have found him if he

tried, and he never would have tried—a few more hours and he wouldhave been dead—we come along andfind him—and he not only don't offerus a meal, but accuses us of stealinghis marten—and offers to sell usmoose meat—at two-bits a pound! Iwish some of the men I know couldhave the handling of those birds forabout a month!"

"Humph! If mos' w'ite men I knowgot to han'le um dey ain' goin' live nomont'—you bet!"

"Anyway," laughed the boy, "we'vesure learned the difference betweennerve and brass!"

CHAPTER V

THE PLAGUE FLAG IN THE SKY

It was nearly noon of the dayfollowing the departure of ConnieMorgan and 'Merican Joe from thecamp of the two chechakos.

The mountains had been leftbehind, and even the foothills hadflattened to low, rolling ridges whichprotruded irregularly into snow-covered marshes among which thebed of the frozen river loopedinterminably. No breath of air stirred

the scrub willows along the bank,upon whose naked branches a fewdried and shrivelled leaves still clung.

'Merican Joe was travelling aheadbreaking trail for his dogs and theboy saw him raise a mittened handand brush at his cheek. A fewminutes later the Indian thrashed hisarms several times across his chestas though to restore circulation ofthe blood against extreme cold. But itwas not cold. A moment later the boybrushed at his own cheek whichstung disagreeably as though nippedby the frost. He glanced at the tinythermometer that he kept lashed to

the front of his toboggan. Itregistered zero, a temperature thatshould have rendered trailing evenwithout the heavy parkasuncomfortably warm. Connie glancedbackward toward the distantmountains that should have stoodout clean-cut and distinct in the clearatmosphere, but they haddisappeared from view although thesun shone dazzlingly bright from acloudless sky. A dog whimpereduneasily, and Connie cracked hiswhip above the animal's head andnoted that instead of the sharp snapthat should have accompanied themotion, the sound reached his ears in

a dull pop—noted, too, that the dogspaid no slightest heed to the sound,but plodded on methodically—slowly,as though they were tired. Conniewas conscious of a growing lassitude—a strange heaviness that hardlyamounted to weariness but whichnecessitated a distinct effort of brainto complete each muscle move.

Suddenly 'Merican Joe halted and,removing his mitten, drew his barehand across his eyes. Connie noticedthat the air seemed heavy and dead,and that he could hear his ownbreathing and the breathing of thedogs which had crouched with their

bellies in the snow whimperinguneasily. Wild-eyed, the Indianpointed aloft and Connie glancedupward. There was no hint of blue inthe cloudless sky. The whole dome ofthe heavens glared with a garish,brassy sheen from which the sunblazed out with an unwholesome,metallic light that gleamed in glintsof gold from millions of floating frostspicules. Even as the two stoodgazing upward new suns formed inthe burnished sky—false suns thatblazed and danced and leapedtogether and re-formed.

With a cry of abject terror

'Merican Joe buried his face in hisarms and stood trembling andmoaning, "Hyas skookum kultustamahnawus—mesahcheetamahnawus!" (a very strong badspirit—we are bewitched). The wordspuled haltingly from lips stiff withfright. The next moment the boy wasbeside him, thumping him on theback and choking him roughly:

"Tamahnawus nothing!" he cried."Buck up! Don't be a fool! I've seen itbefore. Three years ago—in theLillimuit, it was. It's the white death.Waseche and I hid in an ice cave.Tonight will come the strong cold."

The boy's voice sounded strangelytoneless and flat, and when hefinished speaking he coughed.'Merican Joe's hands had dropped tohis side and he stood dumblywatching as Connie loosened theheavy woollen muffler from his waistand wound it about the lower half ofhis face. "Cover your mouth anddon't talk," the boy commanded."Breathe through your muffler. Wecan still travel, but it will be hard. Wewill be very tired but we must findshelter—a cave—a cabin—a patch oftimber—or tonight we will freeze—Look! Look!" he cried suddenly,pointing to the northward, "a

mirage!"

Both stared awe-struck as thepicture formed rapidly before theireyes and hung inverted in the brassysky just above the horizonforeshortened by the sweep of a low,snow-buried ridge. Both had seenmirages before—mirages that, like afaulty glass, distorted shapes andoutlines, and mirages that broughtreal and recognizable places into viewlike the one they were staring at inspell-bound fascination. So perfect indetail, and so close it hung in theheavy, dead air that it seemed asthough they could reach out and

touch it—a perfect inverted picture ofwhat appeared to be a two or threemile sweep of valley, one sidesparsely wooded, and the othersloping gently upward into the samelow-rolling ridge that formed theirown northern horizon. Each stuntedtree showed distinctly, and in theedge of the timber stood a cabin, withthe smoke rising sluggishly from thechimney. They could see the pile ofsplit firewood at its corner and eventhe waterhole chopped in the ice ofthe creek, with its path leading to thedoor. But it was not the waterhole, orthe firewood, or the cabin itself thatheld them fascinated. It was the little

square of scarlet cloth that hung limpand motionless and dejected from astick thrust beneath the eave of thetiny cabin. It was a horrible thing tolook upon for those two who knew itssignificance—that flag glowing like asplotch of blood there in the brazensky with the false suns dancing aboveit.

"The plague flag!" cried Connie.

And almost in the same breath'Merican Joe muttered:

"De red death!"

"It was a terrible thing to look upon to those two who knew itssignificance—that flag glowing like a splotch of blood there in

the brazen sky."Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover

Even as they spoke the cabin dooropened and a man stepped out. Hisfeatures were indistinguishable, butboth could see that he was a largeman, for his bulk had filled thedoorway. He swung a heavy pack to atoboggan which stood waiting beforethe door with the dogs in harness.The next moment the form of awoman appeared in the doorway. Sheevidently called to the man, for hehalted abruptly and faced about,shook his fist at her and, turning,

resumed his course, while with anappealing gesture the womanstretched out her arms toward him.

Then rapidly as it had formed, thepicture faded and the two awe-struckwatchers stood gazing at the frostspicules that glittered brassily in theunwholesome light of the false suns.

Once more the Indian buried hisface in his arms and muffled,moaning words fell from his lips: "Dered death—de white death! It ismesahchee tamahnawus! We die!We die!"

Again Connie shook him roughly,

and meeting with no response, beathis arms from his face with theloaded butt of his dog whip.

"You're a crazy fool!" cried the boy,with his lips close to the Indian's ear."We're not going to die—anyway, nottill we've had a run for our money!We're going to mush! Do you hear?Mush! And we're going to keep onmushing till we find that cabin! Andif you hang back or quit, I'm going towind this walrus hide whip aroundyou till I cut you in strips—do you getit?" And, without another word, theboy turned, whipped the dogs to theirfeet, and leaving the river abruptly,

led off straight into the north acrossthe low, snow-covered ridge.

Of the two brothers Bossuet,Victor, the elder, was loved in theNorth; and René was hated. And thereason for this lay in the menthemselves. Both were rivermen—good rivermen—and both labouredeach year during the long days of thesummer months, together with manyother rivermen, in working theHudson's Bay brigade of scows downthe three great connecting rivers to

the frozen sea. For betweenAthabasca Landing and FortMcPherson lie two thousand miles ofwilderness—a wilderness whoseneeds are primitive but imperative,having to do with life and death. Andthe supplies for this vast wildernessmust go in without fail each year bythe three rivers, the Athabasca, theSlave, and the Mackenzie. These arenot gentle rivers flowing smoothlybetween their banks, but are greattorrents of turbulent waters that rushwildly into the North in miles uponmiles of foaming white water, insheer cascades, and in boiling, rock-ribbed rapids. So that the work of the

rivermen is man's work requiringskill and iron nerve, and requiringalso mighty muscles for the gruellingportages where cargoes must becarried piece by piece over rough foottrails, and in places even the heavyscows themselves must be man-hauled around cascades.

Seeing the two brothers together,the undiscriminating wouldunhesitatingly have picked René,with his picturesque, gaudy attire, hisloud, ever-ready laughter, hisboisterous, bull-throated chansons,and his self-confident air, as thetypical man of the North. For beside

him Victor, with faded overalls, hissockless feet thrust into worn shoes,his torn shirt, and his old black felthat, cut a sorry figure.

But those who know recall thetime that old Angus Forgan, thedrunken trader of Big Stone, fell outof a scow at the head of the Rapids ofthe Drowned. They will tell you thatof the twenty rivermen whowitnessed the accident only twodared to attempt a rescue, and thosetwo were René and Victor Bossuet.And that René, being the stronger,reached the struggling man first and,twisting his fingers into his collar,

struck out for a flat shelf of rock thatedged the first suck of the rapids.They will tell you how he reached therock and, throwing an arm upon itsflat surface, endeavoured to pullhimself up; but the grip of thecurrent upon the two bodies wasstrong and after two or threeattempts René released his grip onthe drowning man's collar andclambered to safety. Then they willtell you how Victor, who hadmanaged to gain shore when he sawRené reach the rock, plunged inagain, straight into the roaring chute,of how he reached Forgan in the nickof time, of how the two bodies

disappeared completely from view inthe foaming white water, and of howa quarter of a mile below, by meansof Herculean effort and a bit of luck,Victor managed to gain the eddy of aside channel where he and hisunconscious burden whirled roundand round until the rivermenrunning along the bank managed tothrow a rope and haul them both tosafety.

Also, they will tell you of GaspardPetrie, a great hulking bully of a man,who called himself "The Grizzly ofthe Athabasca," whose delight it wasto pick fights and to beat his

opponents into unconsciousnesswith his fists. And of how the mightyPetrie whose ill fame had spread thelength of the three rivers, joined thebrigade once at Fort McMurry and ofhow the boisterous René became thebright and shining mark of hisattentions, and of the fight that sentRené to the brush before he was"licked," after which René stood thetaunts and insults of "The Grizzly ofthe Athabasca" for many days like thecraven he was, before the eyes of allmen, until one day Petrie used wordsthat brought insult upon the motherof René—who was also the mother ofVictor. René paid them no heed but

Victor rose from his place beside thefire and slowly removed hismackinaw and his torn felt hat and,walking over to Petrie, demandedthat he retract the words. "TheGrizzly of the Athabasca" eyed him inastonishment, for Victor had been afigure in the brigade so insignificantas to have entirely escaped hisattention. The ramping one threw outhis huge chest and roared withlaughter. "See!" he taunted, "theweasel defies the bear!" And withthat he reached out and with histhumb and forefinger grasped Victorby the nose and jerked him roughlytoward him.

The next instant the air rushedfrom his throat in a grunt of agonizedsurprise for the violent jerk on hisnose seemed to release steel springsin Victor's body and before Petriecould release his grip both of Victor'sfists and the heel of one shoe hadbeen driven with all the force ofmighty muscles directly into thebully's stomach. The unexpectedonslaught staggered the huge bully,and then began the fight that riddedthe rivers of Gaspard Petrie. In andout flashed the lighter man, landing ablow here and a kick there—roundand round, and in and out. "TheGrizzly of the Athabasca" roared with

rage, and struck mighty blows that,had they landed, would haveannihilated his opponent on the spotbut they did not land. Victor seemedtireless and his blows rained fasterand faster as his opponent's defencebecame slower and slower. At last,from sheer exhaustion, the heavyarms could no longer guard thewrithing face and instantly Victorbegan to rain blow after blow uponeyes and nose and mouth until a fewminutes later "The Grizzly of theAthabasca" collapsed entirely, andwhimpering and puling, he retractedhis words, and then amid thefrenzied jeers of the rivermen, he

made up his pack and slunk awayinto the bush—and the fame of VictorBossuet travelled the length of thethree rivers. Thus it was that Victorbecame known as the better man ofthe two. But it was in the winning ofHélène Lacompte that he gained hisfinal triumph. René had boastedupon the rivers that he would marryher,—boastings that reached the earsof the girl in her father's little cabinon Salt River and caused her to smile.But as she smiled her thoughts werenot of René and his gaudy clothing,his famous blue capote, his crimsonscarf, and his long tasselled cap ofwhite wool—but of Victor—who

spoke seldom, but saved his moneyeach year and refrained from joiningin the roistering drinking bouts ofthe rivermen.

Then one day at Fort Norman inthe hearing of all the rivermen Renéboldly told her that he was coming totake her when the scows returned,and she laughingly replied that whenshe changed her name fromLacompte, she would take the nameof Bossuet. Whereat René drankdeeper, bragged the moreboisterously, and to the envy of allmen flaunted his good fortune beforethe eyes of the North. But Victor said

nothing. He quit the brigade upon apretext and when the scows returnedHélène bore the name of Bossuet.For she and Victor had been marriedby the priest at the little mission andhad gone to build their cabin upon alittle unnamed river well back fromthe Mackenzie. For during the longwinter months Victor worked hard athis trap lines, while René drank andgambled and squandered his summerwages among the towns of theprovinces.

When René heard of the marriagehe swore vengeance, for this thinghad been a sore blow to his pride. All

along the three rivers men talked ofit, nor did they hesitate to taunt andmake sport of René to his face. Hesought to make up in swashbucklingand boasting what he lacked incourage. So men came to hate himand it became harder and harder forhim to obtain work. At last, in greatanger, he quit the brigade altogetherand for two summers he had beenseen upon the rivers in a York boat ofhis own. The first winter after he leftthe brigade he spent money in thetowns as usual, so the followingsummer the source of his incomebecame a matter of interest to theMounted Police. Certain of their

findings made it inadvisable for Renéto appear again in the towns, and thatautumn he spent in the outlands,avoiding the posts, stopping a dayhere—a week there, in the cabins ofobscure trappers and camping thenights between, for he dared notshow his face at any post. Then it washe bethought himself of his brother'scabin as a refuge and, for the timebeing laying aside thoughts ofvengeance, he journeyed there.

He was welcomed by Victor andHélène and by the very small Victorwho was now nearly a year old. Victorand Hélène had heard of the threats

of vengeance, but knowing René,they had smiled. Was not René agreat boaster? And the very youngVictor, who knew nothing of thethreats, thought his big uncle a verybrave figure in his blue capote, hisred muffler, and his white stockingcap of wool.

René worked willingly enoughside by side with Victor upon the trapline, and with the passing of the daysthe envy of his brother's lot grew, andin his heart smouldered a sullen rage.Here was Victor, a man at whomnobody would look twice in passing,happy and contented with his little

family, untroubled by any hauntingfear of the hand of the law, enjoyingthe respect of all men, and a veritablehero the length of the three rivers.And beside him, of his own flesh andblood, was himself, a bold figure of aman, a roisterer and a poser, who hadsought to gain the admiration andrespect of the men of the riverswithout earning it, and who hadfailed—and failed most miserably.The sullen rage grew in his heart, andhe plotted vengeance by the hour—but his hand was stayed by fear—fearof Victor and fear of the law.

And so a month passed, and one

day as the two brothers finished theirlunch and lighted their pipes upon alog beside a tiny fire, Victor spokethat which for several days had beenpassing in his mind: "It has beengood to have you with us, mybrother," he began, being a man ofindirect speech.

"The joy has been all mine, Iassure you," replied René, wonderingwhat would come next.

"But three people eat more thantwo, and I laid in supplies for two tolast until the holiday trading."

"I have no money, but I will leave

the pay for my keep at Fort Normannext summer."

A swift flush of anger reddenedthe cheek of Victor. "Pay! Who talksof pay? Think you I would accept payfrom my own brother?"

"What then?"

"Only this, you must make the tripto Fort Norman for food. I will giveyou a note to McTavish, and the stuffwill be charged to me. It is three daystravelling light, and four on thereturn. You can take my dogs. Theyknow the trail."

There was a long pause before theyounger man spoke. "I cannot go toFort Norman. I cannot be seen on theriver."

Victor glanced up in surprise."Why?"

René shifted uneasily. "Thepolice," he answered. "They think Ihave broken their law."

"Have you?" The older man's eyeswere upon him, and René groped inhis mind for words. "What if I have?"he blurted. "What was I to do? Icannot work with the brigade. Theywill not have me. Because I am a

better man than the rest of them,they are jealous and refuse to workbeside me." René rose from the logand began to strut up and down inthe snow, swinging his arms wideand pausing before his brother to taphimself upon the chest, thrown outso the blue capote swelled like thebreast of a pouter pigeon. "Beholdbefore you one whose excellence inall things has wrought his ruin.Julius Cæsar was such a man, andthe great Napoleon, and I, RenéBossuet, am the third. All men fearme, and because of my great skill andprodigious strength, all men hate me.They refuse to work beside me lest

their puny efforts will appear as thework of children. I am theundisputed king of the rivers. Besideme none——"

Victor interrupted with a wave ofhis hand. "Beside you none will workbecause of your bragging!" heexclaimed, impatiently. "You are agood enough riverman when youmind your business, but there areplenty as good—and some better.What law have you broken?"

"I have traded hooch upon therivers."

"And when you found that the

men of the Mounted were upon yourtrail you came here," continued theolder man. "You thought you wouldbe safe here because the police,knowing of your loud-bawled threatsagainst me, would think we weremortal enemies."

"You knew of that—of mythreats?" gasped René in surprise,"and you allowed me to stay!"

Victor laughed shortly. "Of courseI knew. But what are threats betweenbrothers? I knew they were but theidle boastings of a braggart. Youwould not dare harm me, or mine.You are a great coward, René, and it

is to laugh and not to fear. You strutabout like a cock partridge in thespringtime, you clothe yourself withthe feathers of the bluejay, and speakwith the tongue of the great grey wolfbut your heart is the heart of therabbit. But talk gets us nowhere. Wewill go to the cabin, now. In themorning I will start for Fort Norman,and you will remain to look afterHélène and the little Victor." Theolder man rose and faced his brother."And if harm comes to either of themwhile I am gone may the wolvesgnaw your bones upon the crust ofthe snow. That little cabin holds allthat I love in the world. I never boast,

and I never threaten—nor do I everrepent the work of my hands." Hepaused and looked squarely into hisbrother's eyes, and when he spokeagain the words fell slowly from hislips—one by one, with a tiny silencebetween—"You have heard it, maybe—scarcely disturbing the silence ofthe night—that sound of thecrunching of bones on the snow." Ahand of ice seemed to reach beneathRené's blue capote and fasten uponhis heart, there came a strangeprickling at the roots of his hair, andlittle chills shot along his spine.Somewhere back in the forest a treeexploded with the frost, and René

jumped, nervously. Then, side byside, the brothers made their way tothe cabin in silence.

CHAPTER VI

AT THE END OF RENÉ'S TRAIL

The ridge up which ConnieMorgan laboured at the head of hisdogs was a sparsely timbered slopewhich terminated in a rounded cresta mile away. To the boy thatsmoothly rolling sky line looked tenmiles ahead of him. No breath of

wind stirred the stinging dead air. Hissnowshoes became great weightsupon his feet which sought to draghim down, down into immeasurabledepths of soft warm snow. The slopewhich in reality was a very easy gradeassumed the steepness of a mountainside. He wanted above all things tosleep. He glanced backward. 'MericanJoe's team had stopped, and theIndian was fumbling listlessly withhis pack. Halting his own dogs, theboy hastened back. The effort taxedhis strength to the limit. His heavywhiplash swished through the air,and 'Merican Joe straightened upwith a howl of pain.

"Come on!" cried Connie, as heprepared to strike again. "That cabin'sonly just over the ridge, and if youstop here you'll freeze!"

"No use," mumbled the Indian."De red death—de white death. Wegoin' die annyhow. Me—I'm lak I'msleep."

"You mush!" ordered the boy. "Getup there and take my dogs and I'lltake yours. No more laying down onthe job or I'll lay on this whip inearnest. If we mush we'll be there inan hour—Skookum Injun! Where'syour nerve?"

'Merican Joe smiled. "Skookumtillicum," he muttered gravely,pointing his mittened hand towardthe boy. "Me I'm go 'long wit' you tillI die. We mak' her, now. We speet onde kultus tamahnawus in hees face!"

"You bet we will!" cried the boy."Get up there now, and keep thosedogs moving. I'll follow along withyours."

A half hour later the two stoodside by side upon the crest of theridge and looked down into thevalley. Both were breathing heavily.Each had fallen time out of number,but each time had scrambled to his

feet and urged on his dogs. As theystood now with the false sunsdancing above them, the cold seemedto press upon them like a thing ofweight. Connie glanced at histhermometer. It had dropped fortydegrees! Across a half mile of snowthey could see the little cabin in theedge of the timber. Only, now thesmoke did not rise from the chimneybut poured from its mouth and fellheavily to the roof where it rolledslowly to the ground. Motioning withhis arm, 'Merican Joe led off downthe slope and Connie followed,holding weakly to the tail rope of histoboggan. The going was easier than

the ascent had been, but the "strongcold" seemed to strike to the verybone. After what seemed hours, theboy found himself before the door ofthe cabin. Beside him 'Merican Joewas bending over unharnessing thedogs. Connie stooped to look at thethermometer. "Seventy-two below!"he muttered, "and she only goes toseventy-six!"

Frantically the boy worked helping'Merican Joe to unharness the dogsand when the last one was freed heopened the door and, closely followedby the Indian, stumbled into thecabin.

The next thing Connie knew hewas lying on a bunk and a womanwas seated beside him holding aspoon to his lips while she supportedhis head on her arm. The boyswallowed and a spoonful of hotliquid trickled down his throat. Hefelt warm, and comfortable, anddrowsy—so drowsy that it was withan effort that he managed to swallowother spoonfuls of the hot liquid.Slowly he opened his eyes and thenstruggled to a sitting posture.'Merican Joe sat upon the floor withhis back against the log wall. Hebecame conscious of a stingingsensation in his face and he prodded

his cheek with an inquisitive finger.

The woman noticed the action. "Itis not bad," she explained. "Your noseand your cheeks they were frozen butI thawed them out with the snow."Suddenly her expression changed anda look of fear haunted her eyes. Shepointed toward the door. "But—whatis it—out there? The sky is all wrong.There are no clouds, yet it is not blue,and there are many suns that moveand jump about. It is a time of greatevil. Did you not see the plague flag?And my man is away. Maybe it is theend of all things. I am afraid. Whyare there many suns?"

"It is the white death," answeredthe boy. "You needn't fear. Only stayin the house and don't breathe theoutside air. I have seen it oncebefore. Tonight will come thenorthern lights and they will hiss andpop and snap. And they will be sobright it will look like the wholeworld is on fire. Then the wind willcome, and tomorrow it will be gone,and everything will be the same asbefore."

"I have heard of the white death,"said the woman. "My father andsome of the old men have seen it—beyond Bear Lake. My father and

some of the others crawled undertheir blankets and lay for more thana day but some of the old men died."

The thin wail of an infant soundedfrom a pole crib at the other end ofthe room, and the woman rosequickly and crossed to its side.Connie saw her stoop over the criband mutter soft, crooning words, asshe patted the tiny bed clothing withher hand. The wailing ceased, and thewoman tiptoed back to his side. "It isthe little Victor," she explained, andConnie noticed that her eyes werewet with tears. Suddenly she brokedown and covered her face with her

hands while her body swayed to andfro. "Oh, my little man! My little softbaby! He must die—or be terriblyscarred by the hand of the red death!So beautiful—so little, and so good,and so beautiful! And I have nothingto feed him, for René has taken themilk. René is a devil! I would havekilled him but he took the gun." Thewoman stopped speaking, and thesilence of the little cabin waspunctuated by the sound of hermuffled sobs.

Connie felt a strange lump risingin his throat. He swallowed andattempted to speak, but the result

was a funny noise way back in histhroat. He swallowed several timesand when he finally spoke his voicesounded hard and gruff. "Quit crying,mam, and help me get this straight. Idon't believe your little kid's got thesmallpox." He paused and glancedabout the room. "This ain't the kindof a place he'd get it—it's too clean.Who told you it was the red death?"

"Oh, no one told me! Who is thereto tell? René is a liar, and my manhas gone to Fort Norman. But," sheleaped to her feet and regardedConnie with a tense, eager look, "canit be that you are a doctor?" The next

instant she turned away. "No—youare but a boy!"

"No," repeated Connie, "I am not adoctor. But I used to be in theMounted and I learned all there wasin the manual about smallpox andI've seen a good deal of it. Whatmakes you think it's smallpox?"

"I have seen, on his little chest—the red blotches. What else could itbe?"

"How long has he been sick?"

"Since day before yesterday."

"Did he have any fits? Did he

vomit? Did he run up a high fever?"

"No—none of these things. But hehas not wanted much to eat—and onhis chest are the blotches."

"Let's look at 'em."

The woman led the way to the criband lifting the baby from it, bared hischest. Connie examined the redmarks minutely. He felt of them withhis fingers, and carefully examinedthe forehead along the roots of thehair. Then he turned to the womanwith a smile. "Put him back," he saidquietly. "He's a buster of a kid, allright—and he ain't got smallpox. He'll

be well as ever in three or four days.He's got chicken pox—"

The woman clutched at his armand her breath came fast. "Are yousure?" she cried, a great hopedawning in her eyes. "How can youtell?"

"It's all in the manual. Smallpoxpimples feel hard, like shot, and theycome first on the face and forehead,and there is always high fever andvomiting, and the pimples are alwaysround. This is chicken pox, and itain't dangerous, and I told you I usedto be with the Mounted, and theMounted is always sure. Now, what

about this Rainy person that stole thelittle kid's milk?" But the woman waspaying no attention. She was pacingup and down the floor with the babyhugged to her breast—laughing,crying, talking to the little one all inthe same breath, holding him out atarm's length and then cuddling himclose and smothering him withkisses. Then, suddenly, she laid thebaby in his crib and turned to Conniewho, in view of what he had seen,backed away in alarm until he stoodagainst the door.

"Ah, you are the grand boy!" thewoman exclaimed. "You have saved

the life of my little Victor! You aremy friend. In four days comes myman—the little one's papa, and hewill tell you better than I of ourthanks. He is your friend for life. Heis Victor Bossuet, and on the rivers isnone like him. I will tell him all—how the little one is dying with thered death, and you come out of thestrong cold with the frost in the noseand the cheeks, and you look on thelittle Victor who is dying, and say'non,' and pouf! the red death is gone,and the little baby has got only whatyou call chickiepok! See! Even nowhe is laughing!"

"He's all right," smiled Connie."But you're way off about my curinghim. He'd have been well as ever in afew days anyhow and you'd have hadyour scare for nothing."

The woman's voluble protest wasinterrupted by a wail from the infant,and again her mood changed and shebegan to pace the floor wringing herhands. "See, now he is hungry andthere is nothing to feed him! René isa devil! He has taken the milk."

"Hold on!" interrupted Connie."Was it canned milk? 'Cause if it wasyou don't need to worry. I've gotabout a dozen cans out there on the

toboggan. Wait and I'll get it." Heturned to the Indian who had been asilent onlooker. "Come on, Joe, crawlinto your outfit. While I get the gruband blankets off the toboggans, yourustle the wood and water—and gokind of heavy on the wood, 'cause,believe me, there ain't anythermometer going to tell us howcold it will get tonight."

A quarter of an hour later Conniedragged in a heavy canvas sack andtwo rolls of blankets just as 'MericanJoe stacked his last armful of woodhigh against the wall. "I fed thedogs," said the boy as he rummaged

in the bag and handed the cans ofmilk one by one to the woman, "and Icould tell your husband is an old-timer by the looks of his dog shelter—warm and comfortable, and plentyof room for two teams. I can find outall I want to know about a man bythe way he uses his dogs."

"He is the best man on the rivers,"repeated the woman, her eyesshining, as she opened a can of milk,carefully measured an amount, addedwater, and stirred it as it heated onthe stove. Connie watched withinterest as she fed it to the baby froma spoon. "Again you have saved his

life," she said, as the last spoonfuldisappeared between the little lips.

"Aw, forget that!" exclaimed theboy, fidgeting uncomfortably. "WhatI want is the dope on this Rainy—how did he come to swipe the kid'smilk? And where is he heading for?I'm in something of a hurry to get toFort Norman, but I've got a hunchI'm due for a little side trip. He ain'tgoing to be far ahead of metomorrow. If he holes up today andtonight I'll catch up with him alongabout noon—and if he don't hole up—the white death will save me quite abit of trouble."

"Ah, that René!" exclaimed thewoman, her face darkling withpassion, "he is Victor's brother, andhe is no good. He drinks and gamblesand makes the big noise with hismouth. Bou, wou, wou! I am the bigman! I can do this! I can do that! Iam the best man in the world!Always he has lived in the towns inthe winter and spent his money butthis winter he came and lived with usbecause his money was gone. That isall right he is the brother of myhusband. He is welcome. But onedoes not have to like him. But whenmy husband tells him to go to FortNorman for food because we did not

know there would be three, he madeexcuse, and my husband went andRené stayed. Then the next day thelittle Victor was sick, and I saw thehand of the red death upon him and Itold René that he should run fastafter Victor and tell him. But hewould not! He swore and cursed athis own ill luck and he ran from thehouse into the woods. I made theplague flag and hung it out so that notraveller should come in and be indanger of the red death.

"By and by René came in from thewoods in a terrible rage. He began topack his outfit for the trail and I

stayed close by the side of my littleone for fear René would do him harmin his anger. At last he was ready andI was glad to see him go. I lookedthen and saw that he had taken allthe food! Even the baby's milk he hadtaken! I rushed upon him then, but Iam a woman and no match for a bigman like René, and he laughed andpushed me away. I begged him toleave me some food, and he laughedthe more—and on my knees Iimplored him to leave the baby'smilk. But he would not. He said hehad sworn vengeance upon Victor,and now he would take vengeance.He said, 'The brat will not need the

milk for he will die anyway, and youwill die, and Victor will follow me,and I will lead him to a place I know,and then he will die also.' It was thenI rushed for the gun, but René hadplaced it in his pack. And I told himhe must not go from a plague house,for he would spread the terrible reddeath in all the North. But helaughed and said he would show theNorth that he, René Bossuet, was agod who could spread death along therivers. He would cause it to sweeplike a flame among the rivermen whohated him, and among the men of theMounted."

The woman paused and Conniesaw that a look of wonderfulcontentment had come into her eyes.

"The good God did not listen tothe curses of René," she said, simply,"for as I lay on the floor I prayed toHim and He sent you to me, straightout of the frozen places where in thewinter no men are. Tell me, did notthe good God tell you to come to me—to save the little baby's life?" Therewas a look of awed wonder in thewoman's eyes, and suddenly Connieremembered the mirage with theblazing plague flag in the sky.

"Yes," he answered, reverently, "I

guess maybe He did."

That night the wind came, theaurora flashed and hissed in theheavens, and early in the morningwhen Connie opened the door the airwas alive with the keen tang of theNorth. Hastily he made up his packfor the trail. Most of the grub he leftbehind, and when the womanprotested he laughed, and lied nobly,in that he told her that they had fartoo much grub for their needs. While'Merican Joe looked solemnly on andsaid nothing.

With the blessing of the woman

ringing in their ears they started onthe trail of René Bossuet. When theywere out of sight of the cabin, theIndian halted and looked straightinto the boy's eyes.

"We have one day's grub, for athree-day's trail if we hit straight forFort Norman," he announced. "Whythen do we follow this man's trail?He has done nothing to us! Why doyou always take upon yourself thetroubles of others?"

"Where would you have been if Ididn't?" flashed the boy angrily. "Andwhere would the trapper have beenand that woman and little baby?

When I first struck Alaska I was justa little kid with torn clothes and onlyeight dollars and I thought I didn'thave a friend in the world. And then,at Anvik, I found that every one ofthe big men of the North was myfriend! And ever since that time Ihave been trying to pay back the debtI owe the men of the North—and I'llkeep on trying till I die!"

With a shrug 'Merican Joe startedhis dogs and took up the trail. Twohours later Connie took the lead, andpointed to the tracks in the snow."He's slowing up," he exclaimed. "Ifwe don't strike his camp within a half

an hour, we'll strike—somethingelse!"

A few minutes later both haltedabruptly. Before them was a wideplace in the snow that had beentrampled by many feet—the softpadded feet of the wolf pack. Atoboggan, with its pack still securelylashed, stood at the end of RenéBossuet's trail. Small scraps ofleather showed where the dogs hadbeen torn from the harness. Connieclosed his eyes and pictured tohimself what had happened there, inthe night, in the sound of the roaringwind, and in the changing lights of

the brilliantly flashing aurora. Thenhe opened his eyes and stepped outinto the trampled space and gazedthoughtfully down upon the fewscattered bits that lay strewn aboutupon the snow—a grinning skull,deeply gored here and there withfang marks, the gnawed ends ofbones, and here and there ravellingsand tiny patches of vivid blue cloth.And as he fastened the tobogganbehind his own and swung the dogsonto the back-trail, he paused oncemore and smiled grimly:

"He had always lived in theNorth," he said, "but he didn't know

the North. He ran like the coward hewas from the red death when therewas no danger. And not only that, buthe stole the food from a woman anda sick baby. He thought he could getaway with it—'way up here. Butthere's something in the silent placesthat men don't understand—andnever will understand. I've heardmen speak of it. And now I have seenit—the working of the justice of theNorth!"

CHAPTER VII

AT FORT NORMAN

No trading post in all the North ismore beautifully situated than FortNorman. The snug buildings of theHudson's Bay Company and theNorthern Trading Company arelocated upon a high bank, at the footof which the mighty Mackenzierushes northward to the frozen sea.On a clear day the Rocky Mountainsare plainly visible, and a half milebelow the post, Bear River, the swiftrunning outlet to Great Bear Lake,flows into the Mackenzie. It is to FortNorman that the Indians from upand down the great river, from the

mountains to the westward, and fromGreat Bear Lake, and a thousandother lakes and rivers, named andunnamed, to the eastward, come eachyear to trade their furs. And it wasthere that Connie Morgan and'Merican Joe arrived just thirty-sevendays after they pulled out of Dawson.

Except at the time of the holidaytrading, winter visitors are few at theisolated post, and the two wereheartily welcomed by the agents ofthe rival trading companies, and bythe two priests of the little RomanCatholic Mission.

Connie learned from the

representatives of both companiesthat from all indications fur would beplentiful that year, but bothexpressed doubt that Fort Normanwould get its share of the trading.

"It's this way," explainedMcTavish, a huge, bearded Scot, asthey sat about the fur trader's roaringstove upon the evening of theirarrival. "The mountain Indians—themoose eaters, from the westward—are trading on the Yukon. They claimthey get better prices over there an'maybe they do. The Yukon tradersget the goods into the countrycheaper, an' they could sell them

cheaper, an' I ain't blamin' theIndians for tradin' where they can dobest. But, now comes reports of a freetrader that has trailed up theCoppermine from the coast to tradeamongst the caribou eaters to theeastward. If that's so—an' he gets 'emto trade with him—God help thoseIndians along towards spring."

The man relapsed into silence andConnie grinned to himself. "They'vehad it all their way up here for solong it makes them mad if anybodyelse comes in for a share of theirprofits," thought the boy. Aloud, heasked innocently:

"What's the matter with the freetraders?"

McTavish frowned, and BerlHansen, the Dane who managed theaffairs of the Northern TradingCompany's post, laughed harshly.

"Go down along the railroads,boy," he said, "if you want to see thehandiwork of the free traders, an'look at the Indians that has dealtwith 'em. You can see 'em hangingaround them railroad towns, that wasonce posts where they handled goodclean furs. Them Injuns an' theirfathers before 'em was good trappers—an' look at 'em now!"

"Yes," interrupted Connie, "butthey are the victims of thebootleggers and the whiskey runners!How about the free trader that won'thandle liquor?"

"There ain't no such a free trader!"exclaimed Hansen, angrily. "They're apack of lying, thievin'——"

"There, there, Berl, lad!" rumbledMcTavish, checking the irate Dane,who had fairly launched upon hisfavourite theme. "Ye're right, in themain—but the lad's question was afair one an' deserves a fair answer.I'm an older man, an' I've be'n thirty

years in the service of the Company.Let me talk a bit, for there are a fewtraders that for aught I know arehonest men an' no rum peddlers. But,there's reasons why they don't lastlong." The old Scotchman paused,whittled deliberately at his plugtobacco, and filled his pipe. "It's thisway," he began. "We'll suppose thistrader over on the Coppermine is alegitimate trader. We will handle hiscase fairly, an' to do that we mustconsider first the Hudson's BayCompany. For two hundred an' fiftyyears we have been traders of theNorth—we know the needs of theNorth—an' we supply them. The

Indian's interests are our interests,and we trade nothing but the bestgoods. For two centuries an' a half wehave studied the North and we havedealt fairly. And may I say here," witha glance toward Hansen, "that thereare several other companies withsound financial backing andestablished posts that have profitedby our experience and also supplyonly the best of goods, and dealfairly. With them we have no quarrel—honest competition, of course, wehave—but no quarrel. Comes now thefree trader. He is a man of smallcapital. His goods are cheap, they areof inferior quality. He cannot give

'debt,' as the credit of the North iscalled. He cannot carry a largenumber of Indians for six months ora year as we do. If he attempts it, hiscreditors press him and he goes tothe wall—or the Indians find outbefore time for payment comes thatthe goods are inferior, and theyrepudiate their debt. It is bad allaround—bad for the Indians, bad forthe free traders, and bad for us——"

"I should think it would be goodfor you," interrupted Connie.

The factor shook his head: "I toldyou the Indians' interests are ourinterests. I will show you. Take it at

this very post. We will suppose thatthe beaver are becoming scarcearound here; what do we do? We sayto the Indians, 'Do not kill any beaverthis year and next year.' And theyobey us—why? Because we will notbuy any beaver here during that time.They will not kill what they cannotsell. Then, when the beavers havebecome numerous again, we resumetrade in them. Were it not for thispolicy, many fur-bearing animals thatonce were numerous would now beextinct.

"But—suppose there are freetraders in the country—we will pay

nothing for beavers, so they begin tobuy them cheap—they can nametheir own price, and the Indians willkeep on killing them. The Indiansays: 'It is better that I should sellthis beaver now at six skins than thatmy neighbour should sell him in twoyears at twelve skins.' Then, soon,there are no more beavers left in thatpart of the country. Another thing, inthe fur posts our word is law. We tellthe Indians when they can begin totake fur, and when they must stop.The result is we handle only clean,prime pelts with the flesh side whiteas paper. With the free trader a pelt isa pelt, prime or unprime, it makes no

difference. So the killing goes merrilyon where the free traders are—andsoon all the fur-bearing animals areexterminated from that section.What does the free trader care? Heloads his fly-by-night outfit intocanoes or a York boat, and passes onto lay waste another section, leavingthe poor Indians to face the rigoursof the coming winter with ruinedcredit, cheap, inadequate clothing,cheap food, and worthless trinkets,and their hunting grounds barren ofgame."

"But," objected Connie, "suppose afree trader dealt in goods as good as

yours——"

McTavish laughed. "I have yet tosee that trader in thirty years'experience. Admit that his goods didmeasure up to our standard. Whatwould he have to charge for them?We buy in vast quantities—in somecases we take the entire output offactories, and we have an establishedsystem of transportation to get it intothe wilds. No free trader can competewith us—cost plus freight would ruinhim, especially as he must allow theIndians a debt."

"How much debt do they get?"

"That depends upon severalthings. First of all upon the Indian—his reputation for honesty, and hisreputation as a hunter. It alsodepends upon the size of his family,the distance of his hunting groundfrom the post, and his generalprospects for the season. It variesfrom one hundred to five or sixhundred, and in exceptional caseseven to a thousand skins."

"What do you mean by a skin?"

"A skin," explained McTavish, "isour unit of trade. Instead of saying acertain thing is worth so manydollars, we say it is worth so many

'skins' or 'made beaver.'. At this postthe value of the made beaver is ahalf-dollar." The factor opened adrawer and drew forth a handful ofbrass tokens which he handed toConnie for inspection. "These areskins, or made beaver. We offer anIndian so many skins for his pack offurs. He has little idea of what wemean when we tell him he has fivehundred skins' worth of fur, so wecount out five hundred of these madebeaver—he can see them, can feelthem—the value of his catch isimmediately reduced to somethingconcrete—something he canunderstand—then we take away the

amount of his debt, and if there arestill some made beaver remaining, heknows he has something left over tospend for finery and frippery. Rarelydoes he use these extra skins for thepurchase of food or necessaryclothing—he contracts a new debt forthat. But, wait till spring when theIndians come in, and you will witnessthe trading for yourself. It is then youwill see why it is that the free traderhas small chance of doing business ata profit north of sixty."

"But, why wouldn't it be just aseasy to figure it in dollars?" asked theboy.

McTavish laughed. "There wereseveral reasons, although, with thegovernment paying treaty in cashnowadays, the Indians are beginningto know something of money. Butthe main reason is that when themade beaver was first invented, noone seems to know just when orwhere or by whom, there was nomoney in the country—everythingwas traded or bartered for someother thing. And because the skin,and particularly the beaver skin, wasthe thing most bartered by Indians,the unit of value came to be knownas a 'skin' or 'made beaver.' Anotherreason why money has never been

popular with us is because of itsdestructibility. Take this post, forinstance. Suppose we were compelledto ship silver dollars back and forthbetween here and Edmonton? Tenthousand of them would weigh closeto six hundred pounds! Six hundredpounds would mean, on scows, sixpieces—and mighty valuable piecestoo, to be loaded and unloaded adozen times, carried over portages,shot through dangerous rapids,carried up and down slippery riverbanks and across slippery planks tothe scows. Suppose one of thesepieces were dropped overboard byone of the none too careful half-

breed rivermen? The Company wouldlose just so many dollars. Or,suppose the riverman veryconveniently dropped the piece intothe water where he could recover itagain? A dollar is a dollar—it can bespent anywhere. But suppose that thepiece contained only a supply ofthese brass 'made beaver'—the wholeten thousand would only make onepiece—and if it dropped into the riverthe Company would lose only somuch brass. Then if the rivermanafterward recovered it, instead offinding himself possessed of dollarswhich he could spend anywhere, hewould only have a hundred pounds

or so of brass tokens whose valuehad been cancelled. And, again, theexpense of transportation, evengranted the consignment arrivedsafely at its destination, would beagainst the dollar. One hundredpounds, where freight costs sixteencents a pound to move, is muchcheaper to move than six hundredpounds."

"Yes," agreed Connie, "but howabout using paper money?"

"Worse, and more of it!"exclaimed McTavish. "In the firstplace the piece, or package, would belighter and of greater value—

therefore much easier to make awaywith. Some lone bandit, or gang ofbandits, might find it well worth theirwhile to hold up the scow brigadeand make off with that little piece.And, besides, until very recently, theIndians have had no sense of thevalue of paper money. An Indiancannot see why one piece of papershould be worth five dollars, andanother exactly like it in size andcolour should be worth ten, ortwenty, or fifty—and another piece ofpaper be worth nothing at all. I amsure no one at the posts wouldwelcome the carrying on of businessupon a cash basis—I know I should

not. The Canadian North is thecleanest land in the world, in so faras robbery is concerned, thanks tothe Mounted. But with its vastwilderness for hiding places and itslack of quick transportation andfacility for spreading news, I amafraid it would not long remain so, ifit became known that every tradingpost possessed its cash vault. As it is,the goods of the North, in a greatmeasure, protect themselves fromtheft by their very bulk. A man couldhardly expect to get out of thiscountry, for instance, with even avery few packs of stolen fur. TheMounted would have him before he

could get half way to the railroad."

"It seems funny," grinned Connie,"to find an outfit that doesn't like todo business for cash!"

"Funny enough, till you know thereason—then, the most natural thingin the world. And, there is yet onemore reason—take the treaty money.The Indians bring the treaty moneyto us and buy goods with it. We makethe profit on the goods—but if theyhad bought those same goods for fur—we would have made the profit onthe fur, also—and primarily, we are afur company—although every year weare becoming more and more of a

trading company and a landcompany. I am glad I shall not live tosee the last of the fur trade—I lovethe fur—it speaks a language I know."

A short time later the companybroke up, Berl Hansen returned tohis own quarters, and Connie and'Merican Joe were given the spareroom in the factor's house where forthe first time since leaving Dawsonthey slept under a roof.

CHAPTER VIII

BAIT—AND A BEAR

The business of outfitting for thebalance of the winter occupied twowhole days and when it was finisheddown to the last item Connie viewedthe result with a frown. "It's going totake two trips to pack all that stuff.And by the time we make two tripsand build a cabin besides, we won'thave much time left for trapping."

"Where you headin' for?" queriedMcTavish.

"Somewhere over on theCoppermine," answered the boy. "Idon't know just where—and I guess it

don't make much difference."

The big Scotchman laughed. "No,lad, it won't make no great difference.What put it in your head to trap onthe Coppermine?"

"Why, the truth is, it isn't so muchthe trapping I'm interested in. I wantto try my hand at prospecting overthere."

"Gold?"

"Yes—mainly."

McTavish shook his headforebodingly.

Connie smiled. "You don't believethere's any gold there?" he asked."'Gold's where you find it,' youknow."

"There must be lots of it there,then. Nobody's ever found it. But, it'sa bad time of year to be hittin' for theCoppermine country. It's bleak, an'barren, an' storm ridden. An' as fortrappin' you'll find nothin' there totrap but foxes this time of year, an'you won't be able to do anyprospectin' till summer. You mightbetter trap in closer to the post thiswinter, an' when the lake opens youcan take a York boat an' a canoe an'

cover most of the distance by water."

Connie frowned. "I started out forthe Coppermine," he began, but thefactor interrupted him with a gesture.

"Sure you did—an' you'll get there,too. It's this way, lad. You're asourdough, all right, I knew that theminute I saw you. An' bein' asourdough, that way, you ain't goin'to do nothin' that it ain't in reason todo. There's a deal of differencebetween a determination to stick to athing an' see it through in the face ofall odds when the thing you'restickin' to is worth doin'; an' stickin'to a thing that ain't worth doin' out of

sheer stubbornness. The first is a finething an' the second is a foolish thingto do."

"I guess that's right," agreedConnie, after a moment of silence.

"Of course it's right!" interruptedMcTavish. "You ought to find a goodtrappin' ground down along the southshore, somewheres between theBlackwater and Lake Ste. Therese.Ought to be plenty of caribou in theretoo, an' what with droppin' a few netsthrough the ice, an' what you canbring in with your rifles you won'tneed to draw in your belts none."

"How far is it from here?" askedthe boy.

"Not over a hundred an' fifty milesat the outside, an' if you'll waitaround a couple of days, there'll besome of the Bear Lake Indians inwith some fish from the Fisheries.They're due now. You can hire themfor guides. They'll be bringin' down acouple of tons of fish, so they'll haveplenty sled room so you can make itin one trip."

And so it was decided that Connieand 'Merican Joe should wintersomewhere on the south shore ofGreat Bear Lake, and for a certain

band of Indians that had establishedtheir camp upon the river that flowsfrom Lake Ste. Therese into theextreme point of McVicker Bay, itwas well they did.

The Bear Lake Indians appearedthe following day, delivered their fishat the post, and Connie employed twoof them with their dog teams to makethe trip. The journey was uneventfulenough, with only one storm to breakthe monotony of steady trailing withthe thermometer at forty and evenfifty below—for the strong cold hadsettled upon the Northland inearnest.

Upon the sixth day 'Merican Joehalted the outfit upon the shore of alittle lake which lay some five milesfrom the south shore of Keith Bay."Build camp here," he said, indicatinga low knoll covered with a densegrowth of spruce. Connie paid off theguides with an order on the Hudson'sBay Company, and hardly had theydisappeared before he and 'MericanJoe were busy clearing away thesnow and setting up the tent that wasto serve as temporary quarters untilthe tiny cabin that would be theirwinter home could be completed.

The extra sled provided by the

Indians, and the fact that they wereto go only a comparatively shortdistance from the post, had inducedConnie to add to his outfit a fewconveniences that would have beenentirely out of the question had heinsisted in pushing on to theCoppermine. There was a real sheetiron stove with several lengths ofpipe, a double window—small to besure, but provided with panes of glass—and enough planking for a smallsized door and door frame. Althoughthe snow all about them showedinnumerable tracks of the furbearers, the two paid no attention tothem until the cabin stood finished

in its tiny clearing. And a snug littlecabin it was, with its walls bankedhigh with snow, its chinks all sealedwith water-soaked snow that frozehard the moment it was in place, andits roof of small logs completelycovered with a thick layer of thesame wind-proof covering.

On the morning following thecompletion of the cabin Connie and'Merican Joe ate their breakfast bycandlelight. Connie glanced towardthe pile of steel traps of assortedsizes that lay in the corner. "We'll besetting them today, Joe. The foxtracks are thick all along the lake,

and yesterday I saw where a big lynxhad prowled along the edge of thatwindfall across the coulee."

'Merican Joe smiled. "Firs' we gotto git de bait. Dat ain' no good we setde trap wit'out no bait."

"What kind of bait? And where dowe get it?" asked the boy.

"Mos' any kin'—rabbit, bird,caribou, moose. Today we set 'boutwan hondre snare for de rabbit. Wetak' de leetle gun 'long, mebbe-so wegit de shot at de ptarmigan."

"Why can't we take a few fox traps

with us? We could bait 'em withbacon, or a piece of fish."

"No, dat ain' no good for ketch defox. Dat leetle fox she too moochsmart. She hard to trap. She ain' goin'fool wit' bacon an' fish. She stick outde nose an' smell de man-smell on debacon an' she laugh an' run away.Same lak de fish—she say: 'De fishb'long in de wataire. How he gitt'rough de ice an' sit on de snow, eh?'An' den she run 'way an' laugh som'mor'. We ain' goin' trap no fox yetannyhow. Novembaire, she mos' gon'.Decembaire we trap de marten an' deloup cervier. In Janueer de marten

curl up in de stump an' sleep. Den wetrap de fox. She ain' so smart den—she too mooch hongre."

At daylight the two started,'Merican Joe leading the way to adense swamp that stretched from thelake shore far inland. Once in thethicket the Indian showed Conniehow to set snares along theinnumerable runways, or well-beatenpaths of the rabbits, and how tosecure each snare to the end of a bentsapling, or tossing pole, which, whenreleased by the struggles of the rabbitfrom the notch that held it down,would spring upright and jerk the

little animal high out of reach of theforest prowlers. During the forenoonConnie succeeded in shooting four ofthe big white snowshoe rabbits, andat the noon camp 'Merican Joeskinned these, being careful to leavethe head attached to the skin.

"I didn't know rabbit skins wereworth saving," said Connie, as theIndian placed them together with thecarcasses in the pack.

"You wait—by-m-by I show yousomet'ing," answered the Indian. Andit was not long after the snare settinghad been resumed that Connielearned the value of the rabbit skins.

As they worked deeper into theswamp, lynx, or loup cervier tracksbecame more numerous. Near one ofthe runways 'Merican Joe paused,drew a skin from his pack, andproceeded to stuff it with brush.When it had gained something theshape of the rabbit, he placed it in anatural position beneath the low-hanging branches of a young spruceand proceeded to set a heavier snarewith a larger loop. The setting of thissnare was slightly different from thesetting of the rabbit snares, forinstead of a tossing pole the snarewas secured to the middle of a clog,or stout stick about two inches in

diameter and four feet long. The endsof this clog were then supportedupon two forked sticks in suchmanner that the snare hungdownward where it was secured inposition by tying the loop to a lightswitch thrust into the snow at eitherside. The snare was set only a foot ortwo from the stuffed rabbit skin andsticks and brush so arranged that inorder to reach the rabbit the lynxmust leap straight into the snare. Theremaining rabbit skins were similarlyused during the afternoon, as werethe skins of two ptarmigan thatConnie managed to bring down.

"Use de skin for bait de loupcervier, an' de meat for bait demarten—dat de bes' way," explained'Merican Joe, as they worked theirway toward the edge of the swampafter the last snare had been set.

"The snare was set only a foot or two from the stuffed rabbitskin and sticks and brush so arranged that in order to reach the

rabbit the lynx must leap straight into the snare."Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover

The early darkness was alreadybeginning to fall when Conniestopped suddenly and stared down atthe snow at the base of a huge massof earth and moss that had beenthrown upward by the roots of afallen tree. The thing that caught theboy's attention was a round hole inthe snow—a hole hardly larger indiameter than a silver quarter, andedged with a lacy filigree of frostspicules. The boy called to 'MericanJoe who had paused to refasten the

thongs of his rackets. At the firstglance the Indian's eyes lighted:

"Bear in dere!" he exclaimed. "Wedig um out. We git plenty meat—plenty bait—an' de good skinbesides."

"Hadn't we better wait tilltomorrow and bring the heavy rifle?"Connie asked. "We can't kill a bearwith this dinky little twenty-two."

"We ain' need no gun. Me—I cutde good stout club, an' you tak' de ax.De bear she too mooch sleepy to dono fightin'. Den we git de tobogganan' haul um in. We only 'bout wan

half-mile from camp. Tomor' we gotplenty bait, we set de marten trap.We skin de bear tonight we save wanwhole day." As he talked, the Indianfelled a small birch and trimmedabout five feet of its trunk whichmeasured about two inches and ahalf in thickness. "Dat fix um good,an' den we cut de t'roat," heexplained, brandishing the club inthe air.

"I don't know," replied Connie,dubiously. "Waseche and I havekilled several bears, and there was atime or two when a couple of goodthirty-forty's came near not being big

enough."

'Merican Joe grinned. "Dat wasgrizzlies. I ain' t'ink de grizzly com' sofar from de montaine. Dis leetleblack bear, she ain' lak to fightmooch."

"I hope you're right," grinned theboy, as he fell to work helping theIndian to trample the snow into goodsolid footing for a space of ten feet ormore about the airhole. This done,they removed snowshoes and coatsand with ax and pole attacked thesnow that covered their quarry.

"I feel um!" cried the Indian, as he

thrust his pole deep into the snowafter five minutes of hard work. "Wewake um up firs', an' when he stickout de head we bang um good."'Merican Joe continued to ram hispole into the snow where he had feltthe yielding mass of the bear's body,all the time haranguing the bear injargon, addressing him as "cousin,"and inviting him to come out and bekilled, and in the same breathapologizing for the necessity oftaking his life.

Then—very suddenly—"cousin"came out! There was a mightyupheaval of snow, a whistling snort,

and a mountain of brown furprojected itself into the rapidlygathering dusk. 'Merican Joe struckvaliantly with his club at themonstrous head that in the half-lightseemed to Connie to measure twofeet between the ears. The boy heardthe sharp crack of the weapon as itstruck the skull, and the next instanthe heard the club crashing throughthe limbs of a small spruce. Theinfuriated bear had caught it fairlywith a sweep of his giant paw. ThenConnie struck with his ax, just as'Merican Joe, with the bear almostupon him, scrambled into thebranches of a tree. The boy's blow fell

upon the bear's hip, and with a roarthe great brute whirled to meet thenew attack as Connie gatheredhimself to strike again.

Then, a very fortunate thinghappened. When 'Merican Joe hadremoved his snowshoes he had stuckthem upright in the snow and hunghis coat over them. The figure thusformed caught the bear's attention,and with a lurch he was upon it.There was a crackling of ash bows asthe snowshoes were crushed in theponderous embrace. And, seeing hischance, Connie darted forward, forthe momentum of the bear's lurch

had carried him on to all fours in thesoft snow at the edge of the trampledspace. As the huge animal struggled,belly deep, the boy brought the bit ofhis ax down with all his force uponthe middle of the brute's spine. Thefeel of the blow was good as the keenblade sank to the helve. The nextinstant the ax was jerked from hishands and the boy turned to collidewith 'Merican Joe, who hadrecovered his club and was rushing into renew the attack. Both wentsprawling upon the trodden snow,and before they could recover theirfeet the bear was almost upon them.They sprang clear, the Indian waiting

with upraised club, but the bearadvanced slowly, ripping and tearingat the snow with his huge forepawswith their claws as long as a man'sfingers. Down came the Indian's clubupon the broad skull, but there wasno rearing upward to ward off theblow, and then it was that both sawthat the animal was dragging itsuseless hinder part. Connie's ax hadsevered the animal's backbone, andso long as they kept out of reach ofthose terrible forepaws they weresafe. While the Indian continued tobelabour the bear's head, Conniemanaged to slip around behind theanimal and recover his ax, after

which it was but the work of a fewmoments to dispatch the huge bearwith a few well-directed blows.

It was almost dark when the twostood looking down upon the carcassof the great barren ground grizzly.

"So that's your little black bearthat don't like to fight much!"grinned Connie.

'Merican Joe returned the grin."All de tam kin learn somet'ing new.Nex' tam we dig out de den bear webring de big gun 'long. Annyhow, wegit mor' bait an' dog feed, an' de goodmeat, an' de bigger skin, an' we git

mor', w'at you call, excite!" He placedhis foot upon the head of the deadbear. "Dat too bad we got to kill you,cousin. But Injun an' white boy got togit de meat to eat, an' de bait to ketchde leetle marten. We mooch oblig'you ain' kill us."

'Merican Joe's crushed snowshoesand his coat were dug out of thesnow, and together the two managedto work the carcass on to its back.The Indian proceeded to build a fireby the light of which he could skinthe bear while Connie fastened onhis own rackets and hit out for thecabin to procure the toboggan and

dogs, and an extra pair of snowshoes.An hour later he returned, just as'Merican Joe was stripping the hidefrom the hind legs. While Conniefolded it into a convenient pack, theIndian took the ax and chopped offthe bear's head which he proceededto tie to the branches of a smallspruce at the foot of which theanimal had been killed.

"What in thunder are you doing?"asked the boy.

'Merican Joe regarded himgravely. "Mus' hang up de skull rightwhere he git kill," he answered.

"Why?"

"Cause Sah-ha-lee Tyee, w'at youcall, de Great Spirit, he com' 'long an'count de bears in de springtime. Hecount de Injun, too, an' de moose, an'de beaver' an' all de big people. S'posehe ain' fin' dat bear. He ain' know datbear git kill. He t'ink dat bear ain'wake up yet, or else he hide in deden. If de skull ain' hang up she gitcover up wit' leaves, or sink in deswamp, an' Sah-ha-lee Tyee no kinfin'. But, w'en he see skull hang up,he say: 'De Injun kill de bear an' gitmeat. Dat good. I sen' um nodderbear.' So de bear always plenty in de

Injun country. De white men com''long an' kill de bear. Dey ain' hangup de skull—an' by-m-by, w'ere dewhite man live de bears is all gon'."

The duty performed to 'MericanJoe's satisfaction, the carcass andskin were loaded on to the tobogganand by the thin light of the little starsthey started the dogs and wendedtheir way across the narrow lake tothe little cabin in the spruce grove,well satisfied with their first day oftrapping.

CHAPTER IX

OUT ON THE TRAP LINE

Connie Morgan was anxious to beoff on the trap line early in themorning following the adventurewith the bear. But 'Merican Joeshook his head and pointed to thecarcass of the bear that for want of abetter place had been deposited uponthe floor of the cabin. "First we got tobuild de cache. We ain' got no roomin de cabin—an' besides, she toowarm for keep de meat good. De dog,an' de wolf, an' de loup cervier, an' decarcajo, w'at you call 'Injun devil,'

dey all hongre an' hunt de meat. Wegot to build de cache high up."

The first thing, of course, was tolocate the site. This was quickly doneby selecting four spruce trees aboutthree inches in diameter and ten feetapart, and so situated as to form thecorner posts of a rude square. Takinghis ax, the Indian ascended one ofthese trees, lopping off the limbs ashe went, but leaving the stubs forfoot and hand holds. About twelvefeet from the ground he cut off thetrunk just above the place where agood stout limb stub formed aconvenient crotch. The other three

trees were similarly treated. Fourstrong poles were cut and placedfrom one crotch to another to formthe frame of the cache. These poleswere cut long enough to extend aboutfour feet beyond the corner posts.Upon this frame-work lighter poleswere laid side by side to form theplatform of the cache—a platformthat protruded beyond the cornerposts so far that no animal whichmight succeed in climbing one of theposts could possibly manage toscramble over the edge. The cornerposts were trimmed smooth, and arude ladder, which consisted simplyof a young spruce with the limb stubs

left on for the rungs was made. Thelast step in the completion of thecache was to cut down all treeswhose limbs over-hung in suchmanner that a carcajo could crawlout and drop down upon theplatform, and also those trees whoseproximity might tempt a lynx to try aflying leap to the cache.

When the carcass of the bear hadbeen quartered and deposited uponthe platform, the brush and limbscleared away, and the ladderremoved, the two trappers gazed insatisfaction at their handiwork. Thestout cache, capable of protecting

several tons of meat from the inroadsof the forest prowlers, had beenconstructed without the use of asingle nail, or bit of rope, or thong,and with no tool except an ax!

It was noon when the task wascompleted, and after a hasty lunch oftea, bear's liver, and bannock,'Merican Joe selected fifteen smallsteel traps which he placed in hispack sack. He also carried a light beltax, while Connie shouldered thelarger ax and reached for the 30–40rifle. 'Merican Joe shook his head.

"Dat ain' no good to tak' de biggun. Tak' de leetle wan an' mebbe-so

you git som' mor' bait."

"Yes, and what if we run on toanother one of your little black bearsthat don't like to fight? And what ifwe should see a caribou? Andsuppose we found a lynx in one ofthose snares?"

"We ain' goin' hunt no caribou. Wegoin' set marten traps, an' if we com'on de bear den we wait an' com' backsom' odder time."

"But suppose there is a lynx in oneof those snares?" persisted the boy.

"Let um be in de snare. We ain'

goin' to de swamp. Dat ain' no goodto go 'long de trap line too mooch.Let um be for week—mebbe-so tenday. We go runnin' t'rough de woodsevery day same place, we scareeveryt'ing off. Anyhow, we ain' needde big gun for de loup cervier. Deleetle gun better, he don' mak' so bighole in de skin. An' if de loup cervieris in de snare, we ain' need no gun atall. She choke dead."

A half mile from camp, 'MericanJoe set his first trap. The placeselected for the set was the trunk of alarge spruce that had been uprootedby the wind, and leaned against

another tree at an angle of forty-fivedegrees. Two blows of the light beltax made a notch into which the smallsteel trap fitted perfectly. The baitwas placed upon the tree trunk justabove the trap and a small barrier ofbark was constructed close below thetrap in such a manner that themarten in clambering over thebarrier must almost to a certaintyplant at least one fore foot upon thepan of the trap. The trap chain wassecured to the tree so that when themarten was caught he would leapfrom the trunk and hang suspendedin the air, which would give him nochance to free himself by gnawing his

leg off above the jaws of the trap.This leaning tree set was 'MericanJoe's favourite with the steel traps.

A particularly ingenious set wasmade upon the trunk of a standingtree whose bark showed tiny scarsand scratches that indicated to thepractised eyes of the Indian that itwas frequently ascended by martens.In this case two short sticks weresharpened and driven into the treetrunk to form a tiny platform for thetrap. Some slabs were then cut froma nearby dead spruce and these alsowere sharpened and driven into thetrunk on either side of the trap. Then

a piece of bark was laid over the topfor a roof, and the bait placed in theback of the little house thus formed.The marten must enter from thebottom and in order to reach the bait,the only possible spot for him toplace his feet would be upon the panof the trap.

Several sets were also made on theground in places where the signshowed right. These ground sets weremade generally at the base of a treeor a stump and consisted of littlehouses made of bark, with the bait inthe back and the trap placed betweenthe door and the bait. In the case of

these sets, instead of securing thechain to the tree or stump, it wasmade fast to a clog, care being takento fasten the chain to the middle ofthe stick.

Three or four sets were made formink, also. These sets were verysimple, and yet the Indian madethem with elaborate care. Theyconsisted in placing the trap justwithin the mouth of a hole thatshowed evidence of occupation, afterfirst scooping out a depression in thesnow. The trap was placed in thebottom of the depression andcarefully covered with light, dry

leaves that had been previouslycollected. 'Merican Joe took greatcare to so arrange these leaves thatwhile the jaws, pan, and spring werecovered, no leaves would be caught inthe angle of the jaws and thusprevent their closing about the leg ofthe mink. The leaves were nowcovered with snow, and the chaincarried outward, buried in the snow,and secured to a tossing pole.

The short sub-arctic day haddrawn to a close even before the lastset was made, and in the darknessthe two swung wide of their trap line,and headed for the cabin.

"Fifteen sets isn't so bad for anafternoon's work," opined Connie,"especially when you had to do all thework. Tomorrow I can help, and weought to be able to get out all the restof the marten traps. There are onlyfifty all told."

"Fifty steel traps—we git dem setfirst. We gon 'bout t'ree, four miletoday. We use up de steel trap in'bout fifteen mile. Dat good—dey toomooch heavy to carry. Den we beginto set de deadfall."

"Deadfalls!" cried Connie. "Howmany traps are we going to put out?"

"Oh, couple hondre marten an'mink trap. We git de trap line 'boutfifty mile long. Den we set lot moreloup cervier snare."

They swung out on to their littlelake about a mile above the camp andas they mushed along near shoreConnie stopped suddenly and pointedto a great grey shape that wasrunning swiftly across the mouth of asmall bay. The huge animal ran in asmooth, easy lope and in the starlighthis hair gleamed like silver.

"Look!" he whispered to theIndian. "There goes Leloo!" Even ashe spoke there came floating down

the wind from the direction of thetimber at the head of the lake, thelong-drawn howl of a wolf. Leloohalted in his tracks and stood earserect, motionless as a carved statue,until the sound trailed away intosilence. A fox trotted out of thetimber within ten yards of where thetwo stood watching and, catchingsight of Connie as the boy shifted histwenty-two, turned and dashed alonga thin sand point and straight acrossthe lake, passing in his blind haste soclose to Leloo that his thick brushalmost touched the motionlessanimal's nose. But the big ruffedwolf-dog never gave so much as a

passing glance.

"That's funny," whispered Connie"Why didn't he grab that fox?"

"Leloo, he ain' fool wit' no foxtonight," answered 'Merican Joe. "Hegoin' far off an' run de ridges wit' debig people." And even as the Indianspoke, Leloo resumed his long, silentlope.

"I sure would like to follow himtonight," breathed the boy, as hewatched the great dog until hedisappeared upon the smooth, whitesurface of the lake where the auroraborealis was casting its weird,

shifting lights upon the snow.

The weather had moderated toabout the zero mark and by themiddle of the following afternoon'Merican Joe set the last of theremaining marten traps. Connieproved an apt pupil and not only didhe set fourteen of the thirty-fivetraps, but each set was minutelyexamined and approved by thecritical eye of 'Merican Joe. When thelast trap was set, the Indiancommenced the construction ofdeadfalls, and again Connie became amere spectator. And a very interestedspectator he was as he watched every

movement of 'Merican Joe who, withonly such material as came to handon the spot, and no tools except hisbelt ax and knife, constructed andbaited his cunningly deviseddeadfalls. These traps were builtupon stumps and logs and were ofthe common figure-of-four typefamiliar to every schoolboy. Theweight, or fall log, was of sufficientsize to break the back of a marten.

"De steel trap she bes'," explainedthe Indian. "She easy to set, an' sheketch mor' marten. Wit' de steel trapif de marten com' 'long an' smell debait he mus' got to put de foot in de

trap—but in de deadfall she got tograb de bait an' give de pull to springde trap. But, de deadfall don't costnuttin', an' if you go far de steel traptoo mooch heavy to carry. Dat why Iset de steel trap in close, an' dedeadfall far out."

For four days the two continued toset deadfalls. The last two days theypacked their sleeping bags, campingwhere night overtook them, and theevening of the fourth day found themwith an even two hundred traps andthirty lynx snares set, and a trap linethat was approximately fifty mileslong and so arranged that either end

was within a half mile of the cabin.

"We go over de snare line in deswamp tomor'," said 'Merican Joe, asthey sat that night at their little tablebeside the roaring sheet-iron stove,"an' next day we start over de trapline."

"About how many marten do youthink we ought to catch?" askedConnie.

The Indian shrugged: "Can't tell'bout de luck—sometam lot of um—sometam mebbe-so not none."

"What do you mean by a lot?"

persisted the boy.

"Oh, mebbe-so, twenty—twentyfive."

"About one marten for every eightor ten traps," figured the boy.

The Indian nodded. "You set sevensteel trap an' catch wan marten, datgood. You set ten deadfall an' ketchwan marten, dat good, too."

"We've got six lynx snares down inthe swamp to look at tomorrow. Howmany lynx are we going to get?"

'Merican Joe grinned. "Mebbe-sonot none—mebbe-so one, two. Dat all

tam bes' we count de skin w'en we githom'."

"Don't count your chickens beforethey're hatched, eh?" laughedConnie.

The Indian looked puzzled. "W'atyou mean—chicken hatch?" Andwhen the boy explained to the best ofhis ability the old saw, 'Merican Joe,who had never seen a chicken in hislife, nodded sagely. "Dat right—an'you ain' kin count de fur hatch first,nieder."

CHAPTER X

THE TRAIL OF THE CARCAJO

At daylight next morning theycrossed the narrow lake, travellinglight, that is, each carried only hislunch in his pack sack, and Conniecarried the light rifle, while 'MericanJoe dragged an empty toboggan uponwhich to haul home the rabbits andthe lynx if they were lucky enough toget one.

The toboggan was left at the edgeof the swamp and the two enteredand plunged into the maze of rabbit

paths that crisscrossed the snow inall directions. The first two snareswere undisturbed, the third waspushed aside and had to bereadjusted. Where the fourth andfifth snares had been a whitesnowshoe rabbit dangled from eachtossing pole, and they were promptlytransferred to the pack sacks and thesnares reset.

Numerous new snares were set,the old ones adjusted, and the rabbitstaken from the tossing poles of thelucky ones. One snare was missingaltogether, and 'Merican Joe pointedto the tracks of a large wolf. "He run

'long an' git de foot or de nose in desnare, but she ain' strong 'nough tohold um," he explained. At noon theycamped at the place where 'MericanJoe had skinned the rabbits on thefirst trip. They had twelve rabbits inthe packs and these they cached topick up on the return.

It was not long after they resumedoperations on the snare line thatConnie, with a whoop of delight,dashed toward the spot where thefirst lynx snare had been set. Thesparse underbrush had been brokendown, and for a considerable spacethe snow had been torn up and

trampled in a manner that told of afurious struggle. And right in themiddle of the trampled space lay thebody of a huge lynx doubled into acurious ball and frozen to thehardness of iron. The struggle hadevidently been brief but furious, andterminated with the lynx sealing hisown doom. Finding himself caughtand held by the ever tighteningnoose, he had first tried to escape byflight, but the clog immediatelycaught on the underbrush and heldhim fast. The infuriated animal hadthen begun a ferocious attack uponthe clog, which showed the deepscars of teeth and claws, and had

wound up by catching his powerfulhind feet upon the clog, one on eitherside of the center where the snarewas fastened, and by straining thegreat muscles of his legs, literallychoked himself to death.

More rabbits were added to thepacks, and a short time later anothercache was made. Connie wanted toset some more lynx snares, but theyhad shot no rabbits, and it wasimpossible to skin the frozen onesthey had taken from the snareswithout wasting time in thawingthem out.

"Let's use a whole one," suggested

the boy. "We've got lots of 'em, and alynx is worth a rabbit, any time."

'Merican Joe objected. "We gotplenty rabbit today—mebbe-so nex'tam we ain' got none. It ain' no goodwe waste de rabbit. S'pose we leavede rabbit for bait; de wolf an' de foxhe com' long an' he too mooch smartto git in de snare, but he git de rabbitjes' de sam'. Anyhow, we ain' kinmake de rabbit look lak he sittin'down w'en de hine legs is stickin'down straight lak de sawbuck. Nex'tam we got plenty rabbit skin for setde snare—de loup cervier she run allwinter, anyhow."

The next four lynx snares wereundisturbed, but the sixth and lasthad disappeared altogether.

"It held him for a while, though,"said Connie, as he gazed indisappointment at the snow whichhad been scratched and thrown in alldirections by the big cat.

The Indian laughed aloud at theevident disappointment that showedin the boy's face.

"I don't see anything so funnyabout it!" frowned Connie.

"Dat mak' me laugh I see you

sorry 'bout lose de loup cervier. Yourich. You got plenty money. An' whenyou lose wan loup cervier, you looklak you los' de gol' mine."

"It isn't the value of the skin!"exclaimed the boy, quickly. "Butwhen I start to do a thing I like to doit. It don't make any difference whatit is, and it don't make any differencewhether the stakes are high or low. Ifit's worth doing, it's worth doingright. And if it's worth starting, it'sworth finishing."

'Merican Joe nodded: "I know. Wego finish um loup cervier, now."

"What do you mean—finish him?"cried Connie, pointing to the tracksin the snow that led from the sceneof the brief struggle with the snare—tracks that showed where the lynxhad fled in powerful, fifteen-footleaps. "That don't look much likewe'd finish that fellow, does it?Believe me, he left here in a hurry!He's probably climbing the NorthPole right now!"

"I ain' know nuttin' 'bout no Nort'Poles. W'ere you t'ink de stick go w'atwe fix on de snare?"

Connie examined the scene of thestruggle minutely, kicking the loose

snow about, but failed to find theclog.

"Why, he skipped out, clog and all!That clog wasn't very heavy."

"No, she ain' heavy, but she fastenin de middle, an' she ketch in debrush an' hol' loup cervier tight, youbet! You ain' see no track w'ere destick drag, eh?"

Connie scrutinized the trail of thelynx, but the snow gave no sign of theclog. He turned a puzzled glanceupon the Indian. "That's funny. Hecertainly didn't leave it here, and hecouldn't have dragged it without

leaving a trail, even if it hadn't caughton the brush."

Again 'Merican Joe laughed. "No,he ain' leave it—an' he ain' drag it. Heol' man loup cervier—he smart. Hefin' out he ain' kin break loose, an' heain' kin drag de stick, so he pick himup an' carry him in de mout'. But heain' so mooch smart lak he t'ink. Defirs' t'ing de loup cervier do w'en youchase um—he climb de tree. He t'inkde snare chase um—so he climb detree. Den, by-m-by he git tire to hol'de stick in de mout' an' he let him go.Den he set on de limb long time an'growl. Den he t'ink he go som' mor',

an' he start to climb down de tree. An'den de stick ketch on de limb an' hecan't git down. He pull an' fight, butdat ain' no good—so he giv' de bigjump—an' den he git hung—lak demans do w'en dey kill nodder mans.Com' on—he ain' lak to go far. He lakto climb de tree. We fin' um queek."

That 'Merican Joe knew what hewas talking about was soondemonstrated. For several hundredyards the tracks led straight throughthe swamp. Suddenly the Indianhalted at the foot of a spruce thatreared high above its neighbours andpointed to the snow which was

littered with needles and bits of bark.There were no tracks beyond the footof the tree, and Connie peeredupward, but so thick were thebranches that he could see nothing.Removing his snowshoes and pack,'Merican Joe climbed the tree and afew moments later Connie heard theblows of his belt ax as he hacked atthe limb that held the clog. There wasa swish of snow-laden branches, andamid a deluge of fine snow the frozenbody of the lynx struck the ground atthe boy's feet.

Loading himself with as much ashis pack sack could hold, the Indian

struck off to get the toboggan, leavingConnie to pack the carcass of the lynxand the remaining rabbits back to thenoon-time cache. This necessitatedtwo trips, and when Connie returnedwith the second load he found'Merican Joe waiting. "Thirty-tworabbits and two lynx," countedConnie as they loaded the toboggan."And let's beat it and get 'em skinnedso we can start out in the morning onthe real trap line."

The rabbits were placed just asthey were upon the platform of thecache, to be used as needed, and theevening was spent in thawing and

skinning the two lynx.

"Why don't you rip him up thebelly like you did the bear?" askedConnie, as the Indian started to slitthe animal's head.

"No. Skin um, w'at you call, case.De bear an' de beaver skin flat. Caseall de rest. Start on de head lak dis.Den draw de skin down over de body.You see she com' wrong side out. Denyou finish on de tail an' de hine legsan' you got um done—all de furinside, and de flesh side out."

Connie watched with interestwhile the Indian skillfully drew the

pelt from the carcass and stretched itupon splints prepared with his beltax.

"Now you skin nex' wan," smiledthe Indian. "I bet you mak' de goodjob. You learn queek."

Connie set to work with a will and,in truth, he did a very creditable job,although it took him three times aslong as it had taken the Indian, andhis pelt showed two small knife cuts."Now what do we do with 'em?" heasked when he had his skin allstretched.

"Dry um."

Connie started to place them closeto the hot stove, but 'Merican Joeshook his head.

"'Merican Joe climbed the tree and a few minutes later Connieheard the blows of his belt ax as he hacked at the limb that held

the clog."Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover

"No! Dat ain' no good!" heexclaimed. "Dat fat she melt an' deheat she dry de skin too queek, an'she git, w'at you call, grease burnt.Dat why we nail de bear skin on deoutside of de cabin. De skin she gotto dry in de cold. W'en de frost dryum, den we mus' got to scrape all defat an' de meat off, an' wash um, anddry um ag'in—den we got de goodprime skin." The Indian fastened astout piece of line into the nose ofeach pelt, and climbing the ladder,

secured them to one of the poles ofthe cache in such manner that theyhung free to the air, and yet out ofreach of any prowling animals. Whenthey returned to the cabin 'MericanJoe proceeded to cut thick slices fromthe hams of the two lynx carcasses.

"Is that good for bait?" asked theboy.

'Merican Joe laughed. "Dat toomooch good for bait!" he exclaimed."We goin' have dat meat for debreakfas'."

"For breakfast!" cried Connie."You don't mean you're going to eat

lynx meat! Why, a lynx is a cat!"

"Mebbe-so cat—mebbe-so ain't.Dat don't mak' no differ' w'at you callum. You wait, I fry um an' I bet yout'ink dat de bes' meat you ever eat."

"I don't believe I could tackle acat," grinned the boy.

"Dat better you forgit dat catbusiness. If it good, it good. If it ain'good, it ain' good. W'at you care youcall um cat—dog—pig? Plenty t'inggood to eat w'en you fin' dat out. Deowl, she good meat. De musquash,w'at you call de mushrat—dat don'hurt de meat 'cause you call um rat!

De skunk mak' de fine meat, an' deporkypine, too."

"I guess Injuns ain't so particularwhat they eat," laughed Connie.

"De Injun know w'at de good meatis," retorted 'Merican Joe. "By golly, Iseen de white mans eat de rottencheese, an' she stink so bad dat mak'de Injun sick."

"I guess you win!" laughed theboy. "I've seen 'em too—but you bet Inever ate any of it!"

"You try de loup cervier steak inde mornin'," the Indian urged

earnestly. "If you don' lak him I betyou my dogs to wan chaw tobac'!"

"I don't chew tobacco," Conniegrinned, "but seeing you've gone toall the trouble of slicing the meat up,I'll take a chance."

"How you lak him, eh?" 'MericanJoe grinned across the little table atConnie next morning, as the boygingerly mouthed a small piece oflynx steak. Connie swallowed themorsel, and, without answering, tookanother bite. There was nothinggingerly about the action this time,and the Indian noted that the boy'sjaws worked with evident relish.

"Well," answered Connie, whenthe second morsel had gone the wayof the first, "if the rest of the thingsyou were telling me about are asgood as this, all I've got to say is:Bring 'em along!"

Daylight found them on the trapline with sleeping bags andprovisions in their packs, for it wouldrequire at least two days to "fresh up"the line.

At noon they camped for lunchalmost at the end of the line of steeltraps. So far they had been unusuallylucky. Only two traps had beensprung empty, and eight martens and

a mink were in the pack sacks. Onlytwo of the martens, and the minkwere alive when found and Conniequickly learned the Indian method ofkilling a trapped animal—a methodthat is far more humane and verymuch easier when it comes toskinning the animal than the whiteman's method of beating him on thehead with the ax handle. With thelatter practice the skull is crushedwith the result that there is a nastymess which discolours the flesh sideof the pelt and makes verydisagreeable work for the skinner.

The first live marten was in one of

the "ground set" traps and upon theapproach of the trappers he archedhis back and stood at bay, emittingsharp squalls and growls of anger.'Merican Joe simply planted hissnowshoe on him, pressing him intothe snow, then with one hand hereached down and secured a firmhold on the animal's neck andgradually worked the fore part of hisbody from under the snowshoe,taking care to keep the hinder partheld fast by the web. Snapping themitten from his other hand, theIndian felt just behind the lower ribsfor the animal's heart, and grasping itfirmly between thumb and fingers he

pulled quickly downward. The heartwas thus torn from its position andthe animal died instantly andpainlessly. The mink which wassuspended by the tossing pole, andthe other marten which had fallenvictim to one of the "tree sets," ofcourse, could not be held by thesnowshoe. As both were caught bythe fore leg, a loop of copper wire wasslipped about their hind legs and theanimals thus stretched out anddispatched in the same manner asthe first.

As these three animals were notfrozen, 'Merican Joe skinned them at

the noon camp, thereby doing awaywith the weight of the uselesscarcasses.

"What are we going to do when wefinish up this trap line?" askedConnie. "It won't be time to look atthe snares again."

"No. We tak' a day an' res' up, an'skin de martens an' stretch um. Denwe mus' got to git som' dog feed. Weput out de fish nets an' hunt decaribou. Leloo, he be'n killing caribouwit' de wolf pack—he ain' hongrew'en we feed de dogs."

But the revelation of the next few

miles drove all thought of a day ofrest or a caribou hunt from the mindof the Indian, for real trouble beganwith the second trap visited in theafternoon. This trap which had beenset upon the trunk of a leaning tree,was found dangling empty by itschain, and held firmly between itsjaws was the frozen leg of a marten.The keen eyes of 'Merican Joe saw ata glance that the animal had neithergnawed nor twisted its own way outof the trap but had been torn from itby violence. The Indian scowleddarkly at certain telltale tracks in thesnow, and an exclamation of angerescaped him.

Connie laughed. "Now who'sgrowling about the loss of a skin?One marten more or less won't makemuch difference."

'Merican Joe continued to scowl."No, one marten don't mak' moochdiffer', but we ain' goin' to git nomore marten on dis trap line s'posewe ain' kill dat carcajo! He start inhere an' he clean out de whole line.He steal all de marten, an' he bust upde deadfalls. An' we got to ketch umor we got got to move som' nodderplace!" And in all truth, the Indian'sfears were well justified. For of allthe animals of the North, the carcajo

is the most hated by the trappers.And he has fairly earned every bit ofhatred he gets because for absolutemalicious fiendishness this thick-bodied brute of many names has noequal. Scientists, who have nopersonal quarrel with him, havegiven him the dignified Latin nameo f gulo luscus—the last syllable ofthe last word being particularly apt.In the dictionaries and encyclopædiashe is listed as the glutton. In theUnited States he is commonly knownas the wolverine. The lumberjackscall him the Injun devil. Whileamong the trappers and the Indiansthemselves he is known as the

carcajo, or as bad dog—which is theIndian's idea of absolute cussednessand degeneracy.

Connie broke the silence that hadfallen upon the two as they stared atthe empty trap. "Well, we won'tmove!" he cried. "There's no measlycarcajo going to run me out of here!We'll get busy, and in two or threedays from now we'll have thatscoundrel's hide hanging up on thecache with the lynx skins!"

The Indian nodded slowly."Mebbe-so—mebbe-so not. Decarcajo, she smart. She hard toketch."

"So are we smart!" exclaimed theboy. "Come on—let's go!"

"Ain' no good we go 'long de trapline. De trap she all be bust up. Wego back to de cabin an' git som'beaver trap, an' we start out on deodder end an' back-track 'long de trapline. Mebbe-so de carcajo ain' hadtime to git over de whole line yet.Anyhow, we got to set plenty trap forhim."

Hastening back to the cabin, thefrozen martens were thawed out andskinned, and 'Merican Joe made uphis pack for the trail. Connierefrained from asking questions, as

the Indian solemnly made up hisqueer pack, but the boy resolved tokeep his eyes open the following day,for of all the things the Indian placedin his pack sack, there was nothingthat appeared to be of any usewhatever except the six stout beavertraps.

Daylight next morning foundthem at the end of the trap linewhich they back-trailed for some fiveor six miles without seeing any signsof the presence of the carcajo. Theyhad four martens in their packs, andConnie was beginning to believe thatthe outlook was not so bad after all,

when they suddenly came upon oneof the deadfalls literally torn topieces. There had been a marten inthis trap, but nothing remained ofhim except a few hairs that clung tothe bark of the fall-log. The bait wasgone, the bait house was brokenapart, and the pieces strewn about inthe most savage and wanton manner.The tracks were only a few hours old,and Connie was for following themand killing the marauder with therifle. But 'Merican Joe shook hishead: "No, we ain' kin fin' him. Heclimb de tree and den git in noddertree an' keep on goin' an' we losetime an' don' do no good. He quit

here las' night. He start in ag'intonight w'ere he leave off. We goback, now, an' set som' trap w'ere heain' be'n."

Retracing their steps to the firstunmolested deadfall, the Indian setone of the beaver traps. But insteadof baiting it, or setting it at theopening of the bait house, hecarefully scooped a depression in thesnow at the back of the house.Placing the trap in this depression sothat it lay about two inches below thelevel of the snow, he carefully laidsmall clusters of needles from thepan outward so that they rested upon

the jaws. This was to keep the snowfrom packing or freezing on the trapwhich would prevent it fromspringing. When the trap wascompletely covered the Indian tooktwo pieces of crust from the snowand, holding them above the trap,rubbed them together, thus grindingthe snow and letting it fall upon theneedles until the whole was coveredwith what looked like a natural fall ofsnow. "De carcajo he com' to de trapat de back an' break it up," heexplained as he stood up andexamined his handiwork critically.

"I hope he tries it on that one,"

grinned Connie, as he followed theIndian who had already started forthe next set.

This set was different, in that itwas not made at any trap. The Indianpaused beside a fallen log and withthe ax cut a half-dozen green poles.These he cut into three-foot lengthsand laid them one on top of the otherin the shape of a three-cornered crib.Then he took from the pack some ofthe articles that had excited Connie'scuriosity. An old coat, tightly rolled,was first placed within the enclosureof the crib. Then several empty tincans were placed on top of the coat,

and covered with an old scrap ofcanvas. On top of the canvas wereplaced the snowshoes that had beencrushed by the bear. Four of thebeaver traps were now set, one oneach side of the crib, close to the walland one on top of the snowshoesinside the enclosure. The traps on theoutside were covered in exactly thesame manner as the trap set at thedeadfall, and the one inside wassimply covered with an old worn-outsock.

"Where does the bait go?" askedConnie, as he glanced curiously atthe contrivance.

"De bait she all ready. We ain'want no meat bait. De carcajo com''long, she see de leetle log house. Shesniff 'roun' an' she say: 'Dis is wancache. I bust him up an' steal all det'ings.' An' so he go to bust up decache an' de firs' t'ing she know shegot de leg in de trap. Dat mak' himmad an' he jump 'roun' an' by-m-byanodder leg gits in odder trap, an' bygolly, den he ain' kin git away nomor'!"

"Why don't you fasten the chainsto the big log, instead of to thoselight clogs?" asked the boy.

"Dat ain' no good way to do,"

replied the Indian. "If she fasten onde big solid log, de carcajo git chanceto mak' de big pull. He git w'at youcall de brace, an' he pull an' pull, an'by-m-by, he pull hees foot out. Butw'en you mak' de trap on de clog heain' kin git no good pull. Every tamhe pull, de clog com' 'long a leetle, an'all he do is drag de stick."

The remaining trap was set atanother deadfall, and the twotrappers returned home to awaitresults. But while they waited, theywere not idle. The dog food wasrunning low, so armed with icechisels and axes they went out on to

the snow-covered lake and busiedthemselves in setting their whitefishnets through the ice.

CHAPTER XI

THE CARIBOU HUNT

Connie Morgan and his trappingpartner, 'Merican Joe, bolted ahurried breakfast. For both wereeager to know the result of theirattempt to trap the carcajo that hadworked such havoc with their line ofmarten and mink traps.

"Suppose we do catch this one?"asked Connie as he fastened hisrackets. "Won't there be an other onealong in a day or two, so we'll have todo it all over again?"

"No," explained the Indian."Carcajo no like nodder carcajo. Inde winter tam de carcajo got he'sown place to hunt. If nodder wancomes 'long dey mak' de big fight, an'wan gits lick an' he got to go off an'fin' nodder place to hunt. Injun hatecarcajo. Marten hate um. Mink, anfox hate um. Deer hate um. All depeoples hate um—de big peoples, an'de leetle peoples. Carcajo so mean

even carcajo hate carcajo!"

A yell of triumph escaped Connieas, closely followed by 'Merican Joe,he pushed aside the thick screen ofspruce branches and came suddenlyupon the crib-like cache that theIndian had constructed to entice themalicious night prowler. For right inthe midst of the wreckage of thecache, surrounded by the brokensnowshoes, the tin cans, the old coat,and the sticks that had formed thecrib, was the carcajo himself, aforeleg in one trap and his thickshaggy tail in another! When hecaught sight of the trappers the

animal immediately showed fight.And never had Connie seen such anexhibition of insensate ferocity as thecarcajo, every hair erect, teeth bared,and emitting squall-like growls ofrage, tugged at the rattling trapchains in a vain effort to attack.Beside this animal the rage of eventhe disturbed barren ground grizzlyseemed a mild thing. But, of course,the grizzly had been too dopey anddazed from his long sleep, to reallyput forth his best efforts.

"Shoot um in de ear," advised'Merican Joe, "an' it ain' no hole in dehide an' it kill um queek." And,

holding the muzzle of the littletwenty-two close, Connie dispatchedthe animal with one well-placed shot.The next instant, 'Merican Joe waslaughing as Connie held his nose, forlike the skunk, the carcajo has thepower to emit a yellowish fluid withan exceedingly disagreeable odour—and this particular member of thefamily used his power lavishly.

"He too mooch smart to git in detrap in de snow," said the Indian,pointing to the dead carcajo. "Heclimb up on de log an' den he jump'cross de leetle space an' put de footin de trap on top of de pile. Den w'en

he git mad an tear up de cache an' tryto git loose, he sit down in wan moretrap, an it ketch him on he's tail."

While 'Merican Joe drew theshaggy brownish-black skin from thethick body, Connie recovered thetraps, removed the clogs, and cachedthem where they could be picked uplater. Neither of the two traps thathad been set at the backs of themarten traphouses had beendisturbed, and as Connie gatheredthese and placed them with theothers, he learned of the extremewariness and caution of the carcajo.For the snow told the story of how

the prowler had circled thetraphouses several times, and thenlumbered on, leaving themuntouched.

"It's a wonder you don't cut somesteaks out of him," grinned the boyas he looked at the fat carcass.

The Indian shook his head. "No.D e carcajo, an' de mink, an' demarten, an' de fisher, an' de otter ain'no good to eat. W'en you fin' de Injunw'at eat 'em—look out! Dat one badInjun, you bet!"

The work of "freshing up" the trapline in the wake of the carcajo took

almost as long as the laying of a newline. For the marauder had done hiswork thoroughly and well. Hardly atrap was left unmolested. In someplaces the snow showed where hehad eaten a marten, but in mostinstances the traps were simplydestroyed apparently from sheerwantonness. Three or four martensand one lynx were recovered wherethey had been taken from the traps,carried off the line for some distance,and buried in the snow.

By evening of the third day thetask was finished and the twotrappers returned to their cabin.

The following day was spent ingetting ready a trail outfit for thecaribou hunt. Both of the toboggansand dog teams were to be taken tohaul home the meat, and provisionsfor a week's trip were loaded. Only afew caribou tracks had been seen onthe trap line and 'Merican Joebelieved that more would be found tothe south-eastward.

The first night on the trail theycamped at the edge of a wide brule,some twenty miles from the cabin.No caribou had been sighted duringthe day, although tracks were muchmore numerous than they had been

in the vicinity of the cabin. 'MericanJoe had not brought his heavy rifle,preferring instead the twenty-two,with which he had succeeded inbringing down four ptarmigan. Andas they sat snug and cozy in the littletent and devoured their supper ofstew and tea and pilot bread, Conniebantered the Indian.

"You must think you're going tosneak up as close to the caribou as Idid to the carcajo, to get one withthat gun."

'Merican Joe grinned. "You wait.You see I git mor' caribou wit' deknife den you git wit' de big gun," he

answered. "Me an' Leloo, we ain'need no gun, do we, Leloo?" Thegreat wolf-dog had been secured inthe tent to prevent his slipping offduring the night, and at the mentionof his name he pricked up his earsand searched the faces of the two, asif trying to figure out what all the talkwas about. Far away in the timber awolf howled, and Leloo's eyes at onceassumed an expression of intenselonging and he listened motionlessuntil the sound died away, then witha glance at the babiche thong thatsecured him, settled slowly to therobe and lay with his long pointedmuzzle upon his outstretched

forepaws, and his dull yellow eyesblinking lazily.

Early the following morning theyskirted the south shore of Lake Ste.Therese, crossed the river, andheaded for a range of hills that couldbe seen to the south-eastward. Theday was warm, ten to fifteen degreesabove zero, and the gusty south-eastwind was freighted with frequentsnow squalls. Toward noon, as theywere crossing a frozen muskeg,Connie, who was in the lead, stoppedto examine some fresh caribou tracksthat led toward the timber of theopposite side in a course nearly

parallel with their own. 'Merican Joehalted his team and came forward.Leloo nosed the tracks and, with nomore show of interest than a slighttwitching of the ears, raised his headand eyed first 'Merican Joe, thenConnie. The trail was very fresh andthe scent strong so that the otherdogs sniffed the air and whined andwhimpered in nervous eagerness.The trail was no surprise to Leloo. Sokeen was his sense of scent that for aquarter of a mile he had known thatthey were nearing it. Had he beenalone, or running at the head of thehunt-pack, he would even now havebeen wolfing down huge mouthfuls

of the warm, blood-dripping meat.But this case was different. At thismoment he was a dog, and not a wolf.His work was the work of theharness. Leloo's yellow eyesscrutinized the faces of his twomasters as they talked, for he hadbeen quick to recognize Connie as hisnew master, although he never quiterenounced allegiance to the Indian.He obeyed alike the command ofeither, and both were too wise in theway of dogs to try him out withconflicting commands just to see"which he would mind."

Leloo knew that his masters

would do one of two things. Eitherthey would follow the caribou andkill them, or they would ignore thetrail and hold their own course. Hehoped they would decide to followthe caribou. For two or three days hehad been living on fish, and Leloo didnot like fish and only ate them whenthere was nothing else to eat. Hewatched 'Merican Joe return to hisdogs, and fairly leaped into the collaras Connie swung him on to the trail.Two bull caribou had gone that wayscarcely an hour before. There wouldbe a kill, and plenty of meat.

A quarter of a mile before reaching

the timber, Connie, who was in thelead, swerved sharply from the trailand headed toward a point thatwould carry them to the bush welldown wind from the place thecaribou had entered. Leloo cheerfullyfollowed for he understood thismove, and approved it. Arriving inthe scrub, Connie and 'Merican Joequickly unharnessed the dogs andtied all except the wolf-dog to trees.The boy removed the rifle from thetoboggan and threw a shell into thechamber.

"Hadn't we better put a line onLeloo?" he asked as they started in

the direction of the trail.

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

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

"Sure, he git him—you see! If youshoot wan an' wound him, Leloo gitde good wan first, an' den he go git dewounded wan."

They cut the trail at the edge ofthe muskeg and immediately circled

down wind. Leloo trotted quietlybeside them, and now and thenConnie noted twitching of thedelicate nostrils. Suddenly the animalhalted, sniffing the air. The ruffbristled slightly, and turning at aright angle to the course, the dogheaded directly into the wind.

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

The spruce gave place to willows,and creeping to the edge of a frozenmarshy stream, they saw the twocaribou feeding upon the oppositeside.

Connie set for two hundred yardsand fired. The larger bull reared highin front, pitched sidewise, and afterseveral lurching leaps, fell to thesnow. The other headed diagonallyacross the open at a trot. Beside himConnie heard a low growl, there wasa flash of silver, and Leloo shot intothe open like an arrow. For severalseconds the bull trotted on,unconscious of the great grey shapethat was nearly upon him. When hedid discover it and broke into a run itwas too late. As if hurled from a gunthe flying wolf-dog rose from thesnow and launched himself at theexposed flank of the fleeing caribou,

which was whirled half way aroundat the impact. Leloo sprang clear asthe stricken animal plunged andwobbled on his fast weakening legs.The caribou staggered on a few stepsand lay down. And the wolf-dog, afterwatching him for a moment to makesure he was really done for, trottedover and sniffed at the bull Conniehad shot.

While 'Merican Joe, with a quicktwist of his sheath knife, cut thestricken animal's throat, Connieexamined the wound that hadbrought him down. Leloo hadreturned to his kill, and as the boy

glanced up the great wolf-dog openedhis mouth in a prodigious yawn thatexposed his gleaming fangs, andinstantly the boy remembered thewords of Waseche Bill, "Keep youreye on him ... if he ever turns wolfwhen he'd ort to be dog ... good-night." "It would be 'good-night,' allright," he muttered, as he turnedagain to look at the wound—a longslash that had cut through the thickhide, the underlying muscles, and theinner abdominal wall and literallydisembowelled the animal as cleanlyas though it had been done with apowerful stroke of a sharp knife.

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

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

"Don't need no gun w'en we gotLeloo," answered 'Merican Joe,proudly. "De gun too mooch heavy.Injun ain' so good shot lak de w'iteman. Waste too mooch shell—datcost too mooch."

The butchering and cutting up ofthe two caribou took less than an

hour, during which time 'Merican Joefound that no matter how much of achechako Connie was in regard to thefur-bearers, he had had plenty ofexperience in the handling of meat.When the job was finished, the meatwas covered with the hides, andtaking only the livers and hearts withthem, the two started for thetoboggans. The low-banked, marshyriver upon which they foundthemselves made a short turn to thenorthward a short distance fartheron, and they decided to circle aroundfar enough to see what lay beyondthe wooded point. Rounding thebend, they came upon what was

evidently a sluggish lake, orbroadening of the river, its whitesurface extending for a distance oftwo or three miles toward the north.Far beyond the upper end of the lakethey could make out another ridge ofhills, similar to the one to thesouthward toward which they wereheading. They were about to turnback when Connie pointed to Leloowho was sniffing the air with evidentinterest. "He smells something!"exclaimed the boy, "maybe there aresome more caribou in the willows alittle farther on."

The Indian watched the dog

narrowly: "Noe he ain' git de bodyscent—dat de trail scent. Mus' be destrong scent. He smell um downwind. We go tak' a look—mebbe-sowe git som' mor' meat."

Keeping close to shore they strucknorthward upon the surface of thelake and ten minutes later, 'MericanJoe uttered an exclamation andpointed ahead. Hastening forwardthey came upon a broad trail. As faras they could see the surface of thesnow was broken and trampled bythe hoofs of hundreds and hundredsof caribou. The animals had crossedthe lake on a long slant, travelling

leisurely and heading in a north-westerly direction for the hills thatcould be seen in the distance. Thetwo bulls they had killed wereevidently stragglers of the main herd,for the trail showed that the animalshad passed that same day—probablyearly in the morning.

"We go back an git de dogs and deoutfit, an' follow um up. We gitplenty meat now. Dat good place wecamp right here tonight an' in demornin' we follow 'long de trail." Theshort afternoon was well advancedand after selecting a camping site, theIndian hung the livers and hearts

upon a limb, and the two struck outrapidly for the toboggans.

After hastily swallowing a coldlunch, they harnessed the dogs andworked the outfit through the timberuntil they struck the river at thepoint where they had slipped uponthe two caribou. As they steppedfrom the willows Connie pointedtoward the opposite shore. "There'ssomething moving over there!" heexclaimed. "Look—right between themeat piles! A wolf I guess."

'Merican Joe peered through thegathering dusk. "No, dat loup cervier.De wolf ain' hunt dead meat." Leloo

had caught a whiff of the animal andthe hairs of his great ruff stood outlike the quills of an enragedporcupine. Stooping, the Indianslipped him from the harness and thenext instant a silver streak wasflashing across the snow. The loupcervier did not stand upon the orderof his going but struck out for thetimber in great twenty-foot bounds.He disappeared in the willows withthe wolf-dog gaining at every jump,and a moment later a young spruceshivered throughout its length, as thegreat cat struck its trunk a good tenfeet above the snow. Connie startedat a run, but 'Merican Joe called him

back.

"We tak' de outfit long an' load demeat first. We got plenty tam. Leloohold um in de tree an' den we go gitum." Picking up Leloo's harness theIndian led the way across the riverwhere it was but the work of a fewminutes to load the meat on to thetoboggans.

When the loads were firmly lashedon, the toboggans were tipped over toprevent the dogs from running away,and taking the light rifle the twowent to the tree beneath which Leloosat looking up into the glaring yelloweyes of the lynx. One shot placed

squarely in the corner of an eyebrought the big cat down with a thud,and they returned to the outfit andharnessed Leloo. When they wereready to start, 'Merican Joe swungthe two caribou heads to the top ofhis load.

"What are you packing thoseheads for?" asked Connie.

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

"Well, hang them up back there inthe woods. There's a couple of handylimb stubs on that tree we got thelynx out of."

The Indian shook his head. "No,dat ain' no good. De bear head mus'got to git hang up right where shefall, but de deer an' de moose and decaribou head mus' got to hang upright long de water where de canoesgo by."

"Why's that?"

The other shrugged. "I ain' know'bout dat. Mebbe-so w'en Sah-ha-leeTyee com' to count de deer, he com'in de canoe. I ain' care I know somooch 'bout why. W'en de Injunshang up de head in de right place,den de deer, an' de bear, an' all de bigpeoples ain' git all kill off—an' w'en

de w'ite mans com' in de country an'don't hang up de heads, de bigpeoples is all gon' queek. So dat'snuff, an' don't mak' no differ' 'boutwhy."

"As darkness settled over the North Country, a little firetwinkled in the bush, and the odour of sizzling bacon and frying

liver permeated the cozy camp."Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover

At the bend of the river 'MericanJoe hung up the heads upon a coupleof solid snags, and a short time laterthey were pitching their little tentupon the camp site selected besidethe caribou trail. As darkness settledover the north county, a little firetwinkled in the bush, and the odourof sizzling bacon and frying liverpermeated the cozy camp.

CHAPTER XII

THE TRAIL IN THE SNOW

It was noon the following daywhen they overtook the caribou herd,half way between the northernextremity of the lake and the range ofhills. A halt was called upon themargin of a small lake along theshores of which the stragglers couldbe seen feeding slowly along.

"Dat bes' we ain' kill only 'bout six—seven today. Dat mak' us workpretty good to git um cut up before denight com' long an' freeze um.

Tomorrow we kill eight—nine mor'an' dat be nuff."

The dogs were unhitched and tiedto trees, and Connie started to loosenthe rifle from its place on top of oneof the packs. But the Indian stayedhim: "No, dat ain' no good we mak' deshoot. We scare de herd an' dey travelfast. We let Leloo kill um, an' datdon't chase um off. Dey t'ink Leloowan big wolf, an' dey all de tam gitkill by de wolf, an' dey don't care."

So armed only with their belt axesand knives, they struck out for theherd accompanied by Leloo whofairly slavered in anticipation of the

coming slaughter. And a slaughter itwas, as one by one the strickenbrutes went down before the deadlyonslaught. What impressed Conniemore even than the unerringaccuracy of the death stroke was theominous silence with which the greatwolf-dog worked. No whimper—nogrowl, nor whine, nor bark—simply anoiseless slipping upon the selectedanimal, and then the short silentrush and a caribou staggered weaklyto its knees never to rise again. Oneor two bawled out as the flashingfangs struck home, but the soundcaused no excitement among theothers which went on feeding as if

nothing had happened. This was dueto the cunning of Leloo—partly nodoubt a native cunning inheritedfrom his father, the great white wolffrom the frozen land beyond thefrozen sea—partly, too, this cunningwas the result of the careful trainingof 'Merican Joe, who had taught thewolf-dog to strike only those animalsthat were separated from theirfellows. For had the killer rushedblindly in, slashing right and left theherd would have bunched fordefence, and later have travelled farinto the hills, or struck out for theopen tundra.

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

"I see where we're going to makeabout two more trips for this meat,"said Connie. "We've got more thanwe can pack now, and with what wekill tomorrow, it will take at leastthree trips."

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

de cabin."

The killing and cutting up wasfinished by noon next day, and whendarkness fell the two gorged anenormous meal of bannocks andliver, and retired to their sleepingbags for a well-earned rest. For thetwo toboggans stood loaded withmeat covered tightly with green hidesthat had already frozen into place,and formed an effective protectionagainst the pilfering of the dogs,three or four of which wereamazingly clever sneak-thieves—while at least two were out-and-outrobbers from whose depredations

even the liver sizzling in the fryingpan was not safe. The sameprecaution of covering was takenwith the meat on the platform of thepole cache, for while its height fromthe ground protected it from theprowlers, the frozen hides alsoprotected it from the inroads of the"whiskey jacks," as the voracious andpestiferous Canada jays are called inthe Northland. For they are theboldest robbers of all, not evenhesitating to fly into a tent and grabsome morsel from the plate of thecamper while he is eating his meal.These birds scorn the cold, remainingin the far North all winter, and woe

betide the unprotected piece of meatthey happen to light upon, for thoughit be frozen to the hardness of iron,the sharp bills of these industriousmarauders will pick it to the bone.

The pace was slow next day owingto the heavy loads, each toboggancarrying more than one hundredpounds to the dog. But the trail to thecabin was not a long one and thetrappers were anxious to carry withthem as much meat as possible, toavoid making another trip until wellinto fox trapping time. It was late inthe afternoon when Connie who wastravelling ahead breaking trail,

paused at the edge of a clump ofspruce and examined some tracks inthe snow. The tracks were made by apair of snowshoes, and the man whowore them had been heading north-east. 'Merican Joe glanced casually atthe tracks. "Som' Injun trappin'," heopined.

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

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

"Not by a long shot! If there wasany patrol in here there'd be sledtracks—or at least he'd be carrying a

pack, and this fellow was travellinglight. Besides you wouldn't catch anymen in the Mounted fooling withsnowshoes like that!" The boypointed to the pattern of a track."Those are bought rackets from theoutside. I saw some like 'em in thewindow of a store last winter down inMinneapolis. They look nice andpretty, but they're strung too light.Guess we'll just back track him for awhile. His back trail don't dip muchsouth, and we won't swing far out ofthe way."

'Merican Joe expressedindifference. "W'at you care 'bout de

man? We ain' los' nuttin'. An' we ain'got to run way from de p'lice."

Connie grinned. "No, and believeme, I'm glad we haven't got to!They're a hard bunch to run awayfrom. Anyway, this fellow is nopoliceman, and I've just got a hunchI'd like to know something abouthim. I can't tell why—just a hunch, Iguess. But somehow I don't like thelooks of that trail. It don't seem to fit.The tracks are pretty fresh. We oughtto strike the remains of his nooncamp before long."

The Indian nodded. "All right, wefollow um. You know all 'bout de

man trail. Som' tam you know all'bout de fur trail, too—you be de gran'trapper."

The back trail held its course for afew miles and then swung from thewestward so that it coincided withtheir own direction. At the pointwhere it bent from the westward,they came upon the man's noon-timecamp.

"Here's where he set his packwhile he built his fire," pointed theboy. "He didn't have much of a pack,just a sleeping bag and a couple ofday's grub rolled up in it. Here'swhere he set his rifle down—it was a

high power—little shorter andthinner butt than mine—a thirty-thirty, I guess. He ain't a chechakothough, for all he's got boughtsnowshoes. He tramped out his firewhen he went, and he didn't throwaway his tea-grounds. Whoever he is,he's got a camp not farther than twodays from here, or he'd never betravelling that light in this country."

A few miles farther on Connieagain halted and pointed to anothertrail that converged with the one theywere following. They had beentravelling upon the ice of a smallriver and this new trail dipped into

the river bed from the north-eastward.

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

They had proceeded but a shortdistance when 'Merican Joe called a

halt. He came forward, and lookedintently at Leloo who was the leaderof Connie's team. Connie saw thegreat wolf-dog was sniffing the airuneasily.

"What is it?" he asked of 'MericanJoe.

"Injuns. Big camp. Me—I kin smellde smoke."

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

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

The banks of the small river they

were following became lower as theyadvanced and finally disappearedaltogether as the stream wound itsway through a frozen swamp. In theswamp they encounteredinnumerable trails of snowshoes thatcrossed each other at everyconceivable angle.

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

"Children—kids," supplied Connie.

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

"Why don't they go after caribou?"

"Yes, dey hunt de caribou w'en decaribou com' roun'. But dey can't gomebbe-so hondre mile to hunt decaribou. Dey live on de rabbit, anptarmigan, an' fish in de winter tam,an' w'en de bad rabbit year com' 'longden de Injun he's belly git empty an'de ribs stick out an' he too mooch diefrom de big hongre."

They were nearing the village.Sounds of a dog fight reached theirears, the savage growls of thecombatants, and the yapping andbarking of the pack that crowdedabout them. Then the hoarse call ofan Indian, and a yelping of dogs asthe man evidently worked on themindustriously with a club.

They emerged suddenly from thethick growth of the swamp on to theice of the broader stream whichconnects Lake Ste. Therese withMcVicker Bay of Great Bear Lake.The village was located upon theopposite bank which rose some

twelve or fifteen feet above the riverice. Through the gathering darknessConnie made out some five or six logcabins, and many makeshiftdwellings of poles, skins and snowblocks.

Their appearance upon the riverwas the occasion for a pandemoniumof noise as the Indian dogs swept outupon the ice to greet them withbarks, yaps, growls, whines, andhowls. Never had the boy seen such amotley collection of dogs. Big dogsand little dogs, long tailed, shorttailed, and bob tailed—white dogsand black dogs, and dogs of every

colour and all colours between. Inonly two particulars was there anyuniformity—they all made some sortof a noise, and they were all skin-poor.

Heads appeared at the doors ofvarious dwellings, and a little knot ofIndians gathered at the top of thebank, where they waited, staringstolidly until two heavily loadedtoboggans came to a halt at the footof the steep bank.

Greetings were exchanged andseveral invitations were extended tothe travellers to spend the night—oneIndian in particular, who spoke a few

words of English and appeared to berather better dressed than the others,was very insistent, pointing withevident pride toward the largest ofthe log houses. But they declinedwith thanks, and indicated that theywould camp a short distance belowthe village where a more gentlysloping bank gave promise of ascentfor the heavily loaded toboggans. Asthey proceeded along the foot of thebank, an Indian lurched from one ofthe skin dwellings, and leeredfoolishly at them from the top of thebank. Sounds issued from the shackas of voices raised in quarrel, andConnie and 'Merican Joe exchanged

glances as they passed on to theircamping place.

An hour later as they werefinishing their supper, an Indianstepped abruptly out of the darkness,and stood blinking at them justwithin the circle of light from thelittle fire. He was the Indian they hadseen lurch from the dwelling.

"Hello," said Connie, "what do youwant?" The Indian continued tostare, and Connie tried jargon. "Iktahmika tika?" But still the man did notanswer so the boy turned him over to'Merican Joe who tried out severaldialects and gave it up. The Indian

disappeared as abruptly as he hadcome, and a few moments laterstepped again into the firelight. Thistime he carried a large beaver skinwhich he extended for inspection.Connie passed it over to 'MericanJoe.

"Is it a good skin?" he asked.

"Good skin," assented 'MericanJoe, "Wan' ver' big beaver ..."

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

The Indian grunted a single word."Hooch!"

"Oh—ho, so that's it!" cried theboy. "I knew it when I saw him thefirst time. And I knew that trail we'vebeen following this afternoon didn'tlook right. I had a hunch!"

He handed the Indian his skin andshook his head. "No got hooch." Ittook the man several minutes torealize that there was no liquorforthcoming, and when he did, heturned and left the fire with everyevidence of anger. Not long after hehad gone, another Indian appearedwith the same demand. In vainConnie tried to question him, butapparently he knew no more English

or jargon than the first.

"We've got to figure out somescheme to gum that dirty pup'sgame!" cried the boy. "I just wish Iwas back in the Mounted for about aweek! I'd sure make that bird livehard! But in the Mounted or out of it,I'm going to make him quit hiswhiskey peddling, or some one isgoing to get hurt!"

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

"What do I care! I care because it'sa dirty, low-lived piece of work!

These Injuns need every bit of furthey can trap to buy grub and clotheswith. When they get hooch, they paya big price—and they pay it in gruband clothes that their women andchildren need!"

'Merican Joe shruggedphilosophically, and at that momentanother Indian stepped into thefirelight. It was the man who hadinsisted upon their staying with him,and who Connie remembered hadspoken a few words of English.

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

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

Connie shoved the teapot into thecoals and motioned the man to beseated, and there beside the little fire,over many cups of strong tea, the boyand 'Merican Joe, by dint of muchquestioning and much sign talk tohelp out the little English and thefew words of jargon the man knew,succeeded finally in learning themeaning of the white man's trail inthe snow. They learned that theIndians were Dog Ribs who haddrifted from the Blackwater country

and settled in their present locationlast fall because two of their numberhad wintered there the previous yearand had found the trapping good, andthe supply of fish and rabbitsinexhaustible. They had done wellwith their traps, but they had killedvery few caribou during the winter,and the current of the river had takenmany of their nets and swept themaway under the ice. The rabbits werenot as plentiful as they had beenearlier in the fall, and there wasmuch hunger in the camp.

They traded as usual, and hadgotten "debt" at Fort Norman last

summer before they moved theircamp. Later in the summer two menhad come along in a canoe and toldthem that they would come backbefore the mid-winter trading. Theysaid they would sell goods muchcheaper than the Hudson's BayCompany, or the Northern TradingCompany, and that they would alsohave some hooch—which cannot beobtained from the big companies.

Yesterday one of these men cameinto the camp. He had a few bottleso f hooch which he traded for somevery good fox skins, and promised toreturn in six days with the other man

and two sled loads of goods. He toldthem that they did not have to paytheir debt to the companies at FortNorman because everything at thefort had burned down—all the storesand all the houses and the men hadgone away down the river and thatthey would not return. The Indianshad been making ready to go to thefort to trade, but when they heardthat the fort was burned they decidedto wait for the free traders. Alsomany of the young men wanted totrade with the free traders becausethey could get the hooch.

The Indian said he was very sorry

that the fort had burned, because hedid not like the free traders, and hewanted to pay his debt to thecompany, but if there was nobodythere it would be no use to make thelong trip for nothing.

When he finished Connie sat forsome time thinking. Then, producinga worn notebook and the stub of apencil from his pocket he wrote upona leaf and tore it from the book.When he spoke it was to 'MericanJoe. "How long will it take you tomake Fort Norman travelling light?"he asked.

"'Bout fi', six, day."

"That will be ten or twelve daysthere and back," figured the boy, ashe handed him the note.

"All right. You start in themorning, and you go with him," headded, turning to the Indian.

"That white man lied! There hasbeen no fire at the fort. He wants toget your skins, and so he lied. You goand see for yourself. The rest of themhere won't believe me if I tell themhe lied—especially as the young menwant the hooch. I have writtenMcTavish to send someone, backwith you who has the authority toarrest these free traders. I'm going to

stay to get the evidence. In themeantime you send your hunters onour back trail and they will find manycaribou. Divide the meat we have onthe sleds among the people—thewomen and the children. It will lasttill the men return with the meat. Iam going to follow the free traders totheir camp."

It took time and patience toexplain all this to the Indian but oncehe got the idea into his head he wasanxious to put the plan into effect.He slipped away and returned withtwo other Indians, and the wholematter had to be gone over again. At

the conclusion, one of them agreed toaccompany Connie, and the other todistribute the meat, and to lead thecaribou hunt, so after unloading thesleds and making up the light trailoutfits, they all retired to get a fewhours' sleep for the strenuous workahead. How well they succeeded andhow the free traders—but, as Mr.Kipling has said, that is anotherstory.

CHAPTER XIII

AT THE CAMP OF THE HOOCH-

RUNNERS

The late winter dawn had not yetbroken when the little camp on theoutskirts of the Indian village wasstruck and two dog teams drawinglightly loaded toboggans slippedsilently into the timber. When out ofsight and sound of the village the twooutfits parted.

Connie Morgan, accompanied byan Indian named Ton-Kan, swung hisgreat lead-dog, Leloo, to theeastward, crossed the river, andstruck out on the trail of the freetrader; while 'Merican Joe with

Pierre Bonnet Rouge, the Indian whohad told them of the free trader'splans, headed north-west in thedirection of Fort Norman.

It was nearly noon six days laterthat they shoved open the door of thetrading post and greeted McTavish,the big bewhiskered Scotchman whowas the Hudson's Bay Company'sfactor.

"What are ye doin' back here—you? An' where is the lad that waswith ye? An' you, Pierre BonnetRouge, where is the rest of yourband? An' don't ye ken ye're twoweeks ahead of time for the tradin'?"

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

He was interrupted by 'MericanJoe who had been fumbling throughhis pockets and now produced thenote Connie had hastily scribbledupon a leaf of his notebook.

McTavish carried the scrap ofpaper to the heavily frosted windowand read it through slowly. Then heread it again, as he combed at hisbeard with his fingers. Finally, he laidthe paper upon the counter andglanced toward a man who sat withhis chair tilted back against the balesof goods beyond the roaring stove.

"Here's something for ye, Dan," herumbled. "Ye was growlin' aboutfightin' them ice bourdillons, here's ajob t'will take ye well off the river."

"What's that?" asked DanMcKeever—Inspector Dan McKeever,now, of N Division, Royal NorthwestMounted Police. "It better besomethin' important if it takes me offthe river, 'cause I'm due back at FortFitzgerald in a month."

"It's important, all right,"answered McTavish, "an lucky it isye're here. That's one good thing therough ice done, anyhow. For, if it

hadn't wore out your dogs you'd be'ngone this three days. D'ye mind I toldye I'd heard they was a free traderover in the Coppermine country?Well, there's two of 'em, an' they'reworkin' south. They're right nowsomewheres south of the big lake.They've run onto the Dog Ribs overnear Ste. Therese, an' they're tradin'em hooch!"

"Who says so?" asked theInspector, eying the two Indiansdoubtfully.

"These two. Pierre Bonnet Rouge Ihave known for a good many years.He's a good Indian. An' this other—he

come in a while back with hispardner from over on the Yukon side.His pardner is a white man, an' aboutas likely a lookin' lad as I've seen.He's over there now on the trail ofthe free traders an' aimin' to standbetween them 'an the Indians tillsomeone comes with authority toarrest them."

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

"He's just a lad. An' him an' hispardner, here, are trappin'. Name'sMorgan, an——"

Big Dan McKeever's two feet hit

the floor with a bang, and he stroderapidly forward. "Morgan, did yousay? Connie Morgan?"

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

The big inspector's fist smote thecounter and he grinned happily. "I'llsay he's skookum tillicum!" he cried."But what in the name of Pat Feeneyis he doin' over here? I heard he'dgone outside."

"D'ye know him?" askedMcTavish, in surprise.

"Know him! Know him, did yousay? I do know him, an' love him! An'I'd rather see him than the AngelGabriel, this minute!"

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

"Angels, or no angels, there's a kidthat's a man! An' his daddy, SamMorgan, before him was a man!Didn't the kid serve a year with meover in B Division? Sure, Mac, I'vetold you about the time he arrestedInspector Cartwright for a whiskeyrunner, an'——"

McTavish interrupted. "Yes, yes, I

mind! An' didn't he fetch inNotorious Bishop, whilst all the restof you was tearin' out the bone out inthe hills a-huntin' him?"

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

"But, ye're goin' to hurry overthere, ain't you? I hate to think of thelad there alone. There's two of themtraders, an' if they're peddlin' hooch,they ain't goin' to care much whatthey do to keep from gittin' caught."

Dan McKeever grinned. "You don'tneed to worry about him. That kidwill out-guess any free trader, or anyother crook that ever was born. He'shandled 'em red hot—one at a time,an' in bunches. The more they is of'em, the better he likes 'em! Didn't heround up Bill Cosgrieve an' hisCameron Creek gang? An' didn't hebring in four of the orneriest cussesthat ever lived when they busted theHart River cache? An' he done italone! Everyone's got brains, Mac, an'most of us learns to use 'em—in away. But, that kid—he starts infigurin' where fellers like us leavesoff!"

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

McKeever regarded the Scotchmanwith an almost pitying glance. "Mac,you don't know that kid. But don'tyou go losin' no sleep over how muchauthority he ain't got. 'Cause, whenthe time comes to use it, he'll havethe authority, all right—if he has toappoint himself Commissioner! An'when it comes right down to cases,man to man, there's times when asix-gun has got more authority to itthan all the commissions in the

world."

"But they're two to one againsthim——"

"Yes, an' the kid could shootpatterns in the both of 'em while theywas fumblin' to draw, if he had to.But the chances is there won't be ashot fired one way or another. He'lljest naturally out-guess 'em an' ease'em along, painless an' onsuspectin'until he turns 'em over to me, withthe evidence all done up in a package,you might say, ready to hand to thejudge."

McTavish smote his thigh with his

open palm. "By the great horn spoon,I'll go along an' see it done!" he cried."We'll take my dogs an' by the timewe get back yours will be in shapeagain. My trader can run the post, an'I'll bring in them Dog Ribs with meto do their tradin'."

The Indian, Ton-Kan, whoaccompanied Connie proved to be agood man on the trail. In fact, the boywondered, as he followed with thedog team, if the Indian did not showjust a little too much eagerness.Connie knew something of Indians,and he knew that very few of thempossessed the zeal to exert

themselves for the good of the tribe.Their attitude in regard to thetroubles of others was the attitude of'Merican Joe when he had shruggedand asked, "W'at you care?" PierreBonnet Rouge, Connie knew to be anexception, and this man might be too,but as he understood no word ofeither English or jargon, and Connieknew nothing of the Dog Rib dialect,the boy decided to take no chances,but to keep close watch on theIndian's movements when the timefor action came.

In the afternoon of the second dayConnie exchanged places with the

Indian, he himself taking the leadand letting Ton-Kan follow with thedogs. The boy figured that if thetrader had expected to be back at thevillage in six days, his camp could notbe more than two days away,travelling light. That would allow himone day to pack his outfit for thetrail, and three days to reach theIndian village travelling heavy.Therefore, he slowed the pace andproceeded cautiously.

Connie's experience as an officerof the Royal Northwest MountedPolice had taught him something ofthe law, and of the value of securing

evidence. He knew that if he himselfcould succeed in buying liquor fromthe free traders he would haveevidence against them under theNorthwest Territories Act upon twocounts: having liquor in possessionin prohibited territory, and sellingliquor in prohibited territory. Butwhat he wanted most was to getthem under the Indian Act forsupplying liquor to Indians, and itwas for this purpose he had broughtTon-Kan along. The boy hadformulated no plan beyond the firststep, which was to have the Indianslip into the traders' camp andpurchase some liquor in payment for

which he would give a beautiful foxskin, which skin had been carefullyand cunningly marked the nightbefore by himself and Pierre BonnetRouge. With the liquor as evidence inhis possession his course would bedetermined entirely bycircumstances.

The early darkness was justbeginning to fall when, topping aridge, Connie caught the faintglimmer of a light at the edge of aspruce thicket beyond a strip of opentundra. Drawing back behind theridge Connie motioned to the Indianto swing the dogs into a thick clump

of stunted trees where they weresoon unharnessed and tied.Loosening the pack Connie producedthe fox skin while the Indian lighteda fire. A few moments later the boyheld out the skin, pointed toward thecamp of the free traders, and utteredthe single word "hooch."

Notwithstanding the Indian'sevident eagerness to reach thetrader's camp, he hesitated and madesigns indicating that he desired to eatsupper first—and Connie's suspicionof him immediately strengthened.The boy shook his head, andreluctantly Ton-Kan obeyed, but not

without a longing look toward thegrub pack.

When he had disappeared over theridge Connie hastily bolted somebannocks and a cold leg of rabbit.Then he fed the dogs, looked to hisservice revolver which he carriedcarefully concealed beneath hismackinaw, slipped Leloo's leash, andmoved silently out on to the trail ofthe Indian. Skirting the tundra, hekept in the scrub, and as he workedhis way cautiously toward the lighthe noted with satisfaction that hisown trail would excite no suspicionamong the network of snowshoe

tracks that the free traders had madein visiting their rabbit snares. In thefast gathering darkness the boyconcealed himself in a bunch ofwillows which commanded a view ofthe door and window of the tinycabin that lay half-buried in thesnow. It was an old cabin evidently,rechinked by the free traders. Thelight shone dully through the littlesquare window pane of greasedpaper. The Indian had already beenadmitted and Connie could see dimshadows move across the pane. Thegreat wolf-dog crept close and,throwing his arm about the animal'sneck, the boy cuddled close against

the warm shaggy coat. A few minuteslater the door opened and Ton-Kanreappeared. Immediately it slammedshut, and Connie could dimly makeout that the Indian was fastening onhis snowshoes. Presently he stooderect and, as the boy had expected,instead of striking out for campacross the open tundra, he gave ahurried glance about him andplunged into the timber.

Instantly the boy was on his feet."I thought so, Leloo," he grinned. "Ithought he was awfully anxious toget that hooch. And when he wantedto wait and eat supper first, I knew

that he figured on pulling out andwanted a full belly to travel on."

"He won't travel very far nor veryfast," muttered the boy, as he circledthe little clearing. "Because it's acinch he didn't get anything to eatout of those birds—they'd take thefox skin for the hooch, and they'renot giving away grub." Leloo walkedbeside him, ears erect, and every nowand then as they glanced into theboy's face, the smouldering yelloweyes seemed to flash understanding.

Darkness had settled in earnest,and it was no easy task to pick up thetrail in the scrub among the

crisscrossed trails of the free traders,especially as the boy did not dare tostrike a light. He had carefullystudied the Indian's tracks as he hadmushed along behind the dogs untilhe knew every detail of theirimpression, but in the darkness alltrails looked alike. Time and again hestooped and with his face close to thesnow, examined the tracks. Time andagain he picked up the trail only tolose it a moment later. Then Lelootook a hand in the game. Connie'sattention was drawn to the dog by alow whine, and stopping he found thegreat animal sniffing the fresh trail."Good old dog!" whispered the boy,

patting the great head.Understanding what was wanted thewolf-dog bounded off on the trail, butConnie called him back. "If I onlydared!" he exclaimed under hisbreath. "You'd run him down in fiveminutes—but when you did—whatthen?" The boy shuddered at therecollection of the stricken caribouand the swift silent rush with whichthe great silvered brute had launchedhimself upon them. "I'm afraid youwouldn't savvy the difference," hegrinned, "and I don't want old Ton-Kan cut plumb in two. If you'd onlythrow him down and hold him, ortree him like you did the loup cervier,

we'd have him in a hurry—and sometime I'm going to train you to do it."A sudden thought struck the boy ashe met the glance of the glowingyellow eyes. "If I had something totie you with, I'd start the trainingright now," he exclaimed. A hastysearch of his pockets produced alength of the heavy line that he and'Merican Joe used for fishing throughthe ice.

It was but the work of a momentto secure the line about the neck ofthe wolf-dog and lead him to the spotwhere he had nosed out the Indian'strail. With a low whine of

understanding the great beast struckstraight into the timber, theconfusion of tracks that had thrownConnie completely off in thedarkness, offering no obstaclewhatever to the keen-scented dog. AsConnie had anticipated, Ton-Kan didnot travel far before stopping tosample the contents of the bottle. Ahalf-hour after the boy took the trailhe pulled the straining Leloo to astand and peered through the scrubtoward a spot at the edge of a thickwindfall where the Indian squattedbeside a tiny fire. Holding Leloo closein, Connie silently worked his way towithin twenty feet of where the

Indian sat, bottle in hand, beside hislittle fire. The man drank from thebottle, replaced the cork, rose to hisfeet, and with a grunt of satisfaction,rubbed his stomach with hismittened hand. Then he carefullyplaced the bottle in the snow, andmoved toward a small dead spruce toprocure firewood. It was but the workof a moment for Connie to secure thebottle, and at the sound Ton-Kanwhirled to find himself confronted bythe smiling boy. With an exclamationof rage the Indian sprang to recoverhis bottle, and the next instant drewback in terror at sight of Leloo whohad stepped in front of the boy, the

hair of his huge ruff a-quiver, thedelicately pointed nose wrinkled toexpose the gleaming white fangs, andthe yellow eyes glowing like livecoals.

"Thought you'd kind of slip oneover on me, did you?" smiled the boyas he made signs for the Indian tofollow, and headed for the sled. "Youdid drink part of the evidence, butwe've got enough left to hold thosebirds for a while—and I'm going toget more."

The boy led the way back to thesled with Ton-Kan followingdejectedly, and while the Indian ate

his supper, Connie did some rapidthinking. The meal over he took theIndian's blankets from the sled and,together with a two days' supply ofgrub, made them into a pack, whichhe handed to Ton-Kan and motionedfor him to hit the back trail. At firstthe Indian feigned not to understand,then he protested that he was tired,but the boy was unmoved. WhenTon-Kan flatly refused to leave campConnie drew his watch from hispocket, held up three fingers,meaningly, and called Leloo to hisside. One glance at the great whitewolf-dog with his bristling ruffsettled the argument, and with a

grunt of fear, the Indian snatched uphis pack and struck out on the backtrail with an alacrity that belied anythought of weariness. Alone in thecamp the boy grinned into theembers of the little fire. "The nextquestion," he muttered to himself, "iswhere do I go from here? Getting ridof Ton-Kan gets the odds down totwo to one against me, but what will Ido? I haven't got any right to arrest'em. I can't stay here, because they'llbe hitting the back trail for theIndian camp in the morning, and thefirst thing they'll do will be to run onto my trail. Then they'll figure theMounted is on to them and they'll

beat it, and make a clean get-away.That would keep the hooch awayfrom this bunch of Indians, butthey'd trade it to the next bunch theycame to. I ain't going to let 'em getaway! I started out to get 'em and Iwill get 'em, somehow. Guess thebest way would be to go straight tothe shack and figure out what to dowhen I get there." Suiting the actionto the word, the boy carefully cachedthe bottle of liquor and packed hisoutfit. Then he harnessed his dogs.When it came the turn of the leader,he whistled for Leloo, but the greatwolf-dog was not to be found. With asudden fear in his heart, the boy

glanced toward the back trail. Hadthe great brute understood thatConnie and the Indian were at outsand had he struck out on the trail tosettle the matter in his own way?Swiftly the boy fastened on hissnowshoes, and overturning the sledto hold the other dogs, he headedback along the trail. He had gone buta few steps, however, before hehalted and pushing the cap from hisears, listened. From a high ridge tothe northward, in the oppositedirection from that taken by theIndian, came the long howl of a greatgrey caribou-wolf, and a momentlater came an answering call—the

weird blood-chilling, terrible cry ofthe big white wolf-dog. And thenConnie returned to his outfit, for heknew that that night Leloo would runwith the hunt-pack.

CHAPTER XIV

THE PASSING OF BLACK MORAN

A string of curses that consignedall Indians to regions infra-mundane, greeted Connie's knockupon the door of the cabin of the freetraders.

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

Connie could hear mutteredconversation, as one of the occupantsstumbled about the room. Presently alight was struck and the door flewopen. "Who be you, an' what d'yewant? An' what you doin' trailin' thistime o' night, anyway?"

The man who stood framed in thedoorway was of huge build, andscowling countenance, masked forthe most part by a heavy black beard.

Connie smiled. "My partner and I

are trapping over beyond the Injunvillage, about forty miles southwestof here, and the Injuns told us thatthere were some free traders up heresome place. We're short of grub andwe thought that if we could getsupplies from you it would save us atrip clear to Fort Norman."

"Turn yer dogs loose an' come in,"growled the man, as he withdrew intothe cabin and closed the door againstthe cold. If Connie could have seen,as he unharnessed his dogs, the swiftglances that passed between the twooccupants of the cabin, and heardtheir muttered words, he would have

hesitated a long time before enteringthat cabin alone. But he did not seethe glances, nor did he hear themuttered words.

As he stepped through thedoorway, he was seized violentlyfrom behind. For a moment hestruggled furiously, but it was child'splay for the big man to hold him,while a small, wizened man sat in hisunderclothing upon the edge of hisbunk and laughed.

"Frisk him!" commanded the bigman, and the other rose from thebunk and removed the servicerevolver from its holster. Then, with

a vicious shove, the big man sentConnie crashing into a chair thatstood against the opposite wall. "Sitthere, you sneakin' little pup!Thought you could fool us, did you,with yer lies about trappin'? Thoughtwe wouldn't know Constable Morgan,of the Mounted, did you? You wassome big noise on the Yukon, coupleyears back, wasn't you? Most alwaysgoin' it alone an' makin' grandstandplays. Thought you was some stuff,didn't you?" The man paused forbreath, and Connie scrutinized hisface, but could not remember to haveseen him before. He shifted hisglance to the other, who had returned

to the edge of the bunk, and wasregarding him with a sneering smirk.

"Hello, Mr. Squigg," he said, in avoice under perfect control. "Still upto your old crookedness, are you? It'sa wonder to me they've let you livethis long."

The big man interrupted. "Knowhim, do you? But you don't know me.Well, I'll tell you who I be, and Iguess you'll know what yer upagainst. I'm Black Moran!"

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

"As he stepped through the doorway he was seized violently from behind."Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover

"Was drounded when he tried to

shoot them Pelly Rapids about threejumps ahead of the police boat, washe? Well, that's what they said but hewasn't, by a long sight. When thecanoe smashed I went under all rightbut the current throw'd me into aeddy, an' when the police boat wentdown through the chute I washangin' by my fingers to a rock. Thefloater they found later in the lowerriver an' said was me, was someoneelse—but I didn't take the trouble toset 'em right—not by a jug full, Ididn't. It suited me to a T."

"So you're the specimen thatmurdered old man Kinney for his

dust and——"

"Yup, I'm the party. An' they's aheft of other stuff they've got chargedup agin me—over on the Yukon side.But they ain't huntin' me, 'cause theythink I'm dead." There was a coldglitter in the man's eye and his voicetook on a taunting note. "Still playin'a lone hand, eh? Well, it got you atlast, didn't it? Guess you've saw thehandwritin' on the wall by this time.You ain't a-goin' no place from here.You've played yer string out. Thishere country ain't the Yukon. Theyain't nobody, nor nothin' here toprevent a man's doin' just what he

wants to. The barrens don't tell notales. Yer smart, all right—an' you'vegot the guts—that's why we ain't a-goin' to take no chances. Bytomorrow night it'll be snowin'. An'when the storm lets up, they won't beno cabin here—just a heap of ashes inunder the snow—an' you'll be part ofthe ashes."

Connie had been in many tightplaces in his life, but he realized ashe sat in his chair and listened to thewords of Black Moran that he was atthat moment facing the mostdangerous situation of his career. Heknew that unless the man had fully

made up his mind to kill him hewould never have disclosed hisidentity. And he knew that he wouldnot hesitate at the killing—for BlackMoran, up to the time of hissupposed drowning, had beenreckoned the very worst man in theNorth. Escape seemed impossible,yet the boy showed not the slightesttrace of fear. He even smiled into theface of Black Moran. "So you thinkI'm still with the Mounted do you?"he asked.

"Oh, no, we don't think nothin'like that," sneered the man. "Sure, wedon't. That there ain't no service

revolver we tuk offen you. Thatthere's a marten trap, I s'pose.'Course you're trappin', an' don'tknow nothin' 'bout us tradin' hooch.What we'd ort to do is to sell yousome flour an' beans, an' let you goback to yer traps."

"Dangerous business bumping offan officer of the Mounted," remindedthe boy.

"Not over in here, it ain't. Special,when it's comin' on to snow. No.They ain't no chanct in the world togit caught fer it—or even to gitblamed fer it, 'cause if they ever findwhat's left of you in the ashes of the

cabin, they'll think it got afire whileyou was asleep. Tomorrow mornin'yo git yourn. In the meantime,Squigg, you roll in an' git some sleep.You've got to take the outfit an' pullout early in the mornin' an' unloadthat hooch on to them Injuns. I'llketch up with you 'fore you git there,though. What I've got to do herewon't take me no longer than noon,"he glanced meaningly at Connie, "an'then, we'll pull out of this neck of thewoods."

"Might's well take the kid's dogsan' harness, they might come inhandy," ventured Mr. Squigg.

"Take nothin!" roared BlackMoran, angrily. "Not a blame thingthat he's got do we take. That's thetrouble with you cheap crooks—grabbin' off everything you kin layyer hands on—and that's what gitsyou caught. Sometime, someonewould see something that theyknow'd had belonged to him in ourpossession. Then, where'd we be? No,sir! Everything, dogs, gun, sled,harness an' all goes into this cabinwhen she burns—so, shut up, an' gitto bed!" The man turned to Connie,"An' now, you kin roll up on the floorin yer blankets an' pertend to sleepwhile you try to figger a way out of

this mess, or you kin set there in thechair an' figger, whichever you want.Me—I'm a-goin' to set right here an'see that yer figgerin' don't 'mount tonothin'—see?" The evil eyes of BlackMoran leered, and looking straightinto them, Connie deliberately raisedhis arms above his head and yawned.

"Guess I'll just crawl into myblankets and sleep," he said. "I won'tbother to try and figure a way outtonight—there'll be plenty of time inthe morning."

The boy spread his blankets andwas soon fast asleep on the floor, andBlack Moran, watching him from his

chair, knew that it was no feignedsleep. "Well, of all the doggone nerveI ever seen, that beats it a mile! Is hefool enough to think I ain't a-goin' tobump him off? That ain't hisreputashion on the Yukon—bein' afool! It ain't noways natural heshould take it that easy. Is he workin'with a pardner, that he expects'll githere 'fore mornin', or what? Mebbethat Injun comin' here after hooch awhile back was a plant." The morethe man thought, the more uneasy hebecame. He got up and placed thetwo rifles upon the table close besidehim, and returned to his chair wherehe sat, straining his ears to catch the

faintest night sounds. He startedviolently at the report of a frost-riventree, and the persistent rubbing of abranch against the edge of the roofset his nerves a-jangle. And so it wasthat while the captive slept, thecaptor worried and fretted the longnight through.

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

When the man was gone, Black

Moran turned to Connie who wasagain seated in his chair against thewall. "Want anything to eat?" heasked.

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

"Say!" exploded the man, "whatails you anyway? D'you think I'mbluffin'? Don't you know that youain't only got a few hours to live—mebbe only a few minutes?"

"So I heard you say;" answered theboy, dryly. "But, how aboutbreakfast?"

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

Connie prepared breakfast, whilethe other eyed him closely. And, ashe worked, he kept up his air ofbravado—but it was an air he was farfrom feeling. He knew Black Moranby reputation, and he knew thatunless a miracle happened his ownlife was not a worth a gun-wad. Allduring the meal which they ate withBlack Moran's eyes upon him, and a

gun in his hand, Connie's wits werebusy. But no feasible plan of escapepresented itself, and the boy knewthat his only chance was to play fortime in hope that something mightturn up.

"You needn't mind to clean upthem dishes," grinned the man."They'll burn dirty as well as clean.Git yer hat, now, an' we'll git thisbusiness over with. First, git themdogs in the cabin, an' the sled an'harness. Move lively, 'cause I got togit a-goin'. Every scrap of stuff you'vegot goes in there. I don't want nothin'left that could ever be used as

evidence. It's clouded up already an'the snow'll take care of the tracks."As he talked, the two had stepped outthe door, and Connie stood beside hissled about which were grouped hisdogs. The boy saw that Leloo wasmissing, and glanced about, but nosign of the great wolf-dog was visible."Stand back from that sled!" orderedthe man, as he strode to its side."Guess I'll jest look it over to see ifyou've got another gun." The manjerked the tarp from the pack, andseizing the rifle tossed it into thecabin. Then he slipped his revolverinto its holster and picked upConnie's heavy dog-whip. As he did

so Connie caught just a glimpse of agreat silver-white form glidingnoiselessly toward him from amongthe tree trunks. The boy noted in aflash that the cabin cut off the man'sview of the wolf-dog. And instantly aray of hope flashed into his brain.Leloo was close beside the cabin,when with a loud cry, Connie dartedforward and, seizing a stick offirewood from a pile close at hand,hurled it straight at Black Moran. Thechunk caught the man square in thechest. It was a light chunk, and couldnot have possibly harmed him, but itdid exactly what Connie figured itwould do—it drove him into a sudden

rage—with the dog-whip in his hand.With a curse the man struck out withthe whip, and as its lash bit intoConnie's back, the boy gave a loudyell of pain.

At the corner of the cabin, Leloosaw the boy throw the stick. He sawit strike the man. And he saw theman lash out with the whip. Also, heheard the boy's cry of pain. As theman's arm drew back to strike again,there was a swift, silent rush ofpadded feet, and Black Moran turnedjust in time to see a great silvery-white shape leave the snow andlaunch itself straight at him. He saw,

in a flash, the red tongue and thegleaming white fangs, and the hugewhite ruff, each hair of which stuckstraight out from the great body.

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

It was long past noon. The stormpredicted by Black Moran had beenraging for hours, and for hours thelittle wizened man who had left thecabin before dawn had been ploddingat the head of his dogs. At intervals ofan hour or so he would stop and

strain his eyes to pierce the boilingwhite smother of snow that curtainedthe back-trail. Then he would plodon, glancing to the right and to theleft.

The over-burden of snow slippingfrom a spruce limb brushed his parkaand he shrieked aloud, for the feel ofit was a feel of a heavy hand upon hisshoulder. Farther on he brought uptrembling in every limb at the fall ofa wind-broken tree. The snapping ofdead twigs as the spruce wallowed toearth through the limbs of thesurrounding trees sounded in hisears like—the crackling of flames—

flames that licked at the dry logs of a—burning cabin. A dead limb crackedloudly and the man crouched in fear.The sound was the sound of a pistolshot from behind—from the directionof Black Moran.

"Why don't he come?" whisperedthe wizened man. "What did he sendme alone for? Thought I didn't havethe nerve fer—fer—what he was goin'to do. An' I ain't, neither. I wisht Ihad—but, I ain't." The manshuddered: "It's done by this time,an'—why don't he come? What did Ithrow in with him fer? I'm afraid ofhim. If he thought I stood in his way

he'd bump me off like he'd squ'sh afly that was bitin' him. If I thought Icould git away with it, I'd hit out rightnow—but I'm afraid. If he caught me—" The wizened man shuddered andbabbled on, "An' if he didn't, theMounted would. An' if they didn't—"again he paused, and glancedfurtively into the bush. "They isthings in the woods that men don'tknow! I've heered 'em—an' seen 'em,too. They is ghosts! And they do ha'ntmen down. They're white, an—it'sbeginnin' to git dark! Why don'tMoran come? I'd ruther have him,than them—an' now there's anotherone of 'em—to raise out of the ashes

of a fire! I'd ort to camp, but if I keepa pluggin' along mebbe I kin git tothe Injun village. 'Taint fur, now—acrost this flat an' then dip downonto the river—What's that!" Theman halted abruptly and stared. "It'sone of 'em now!" he faltered, withtongue and lips that felt stiff. "An' it'scovered with fine white ashes!" Heknew that he was trembling in everylimb, as he stared at the snow-covered object that stood stifflybeside the trail only a few yardsahead. "Nuthin' but a stump," hesaid, and laughed, quaveringly. "Sure—it's a stump—with snow on it. Iremember that stump. No—it wasn't

here where the stump was. Yes, itwas. It looks different with the snowon it. Gosh, a'mighty, it's a ghost! No'taint—'taint moved. That's thestump. I remember it. I says toMoran, 'There's a stump.' An' Moransays, 'Yup, that's a stump.'" He cutviciously at his dogs with the whip."Hi yu there! Mush-u!"

At the door of the little cabinConnie Morgan stared wide-eyed atthe thing that lay in the snow.Schooled as he was to playing aman's part in the drama of the lastgreat frontier, the boy stood horror-stricken at the savage suddenness of

the tragedy that had been enactedbefore his eyes. A few seconds before,he had been in the power of BlackMoran, known far and wide as thehardest man in the North. And, now,there was no Black Moran—only agrotesquely sprawled thing—and aslush of crimson snow. The boy wasconscious of no sense of regret—nothought of self-condemnation—forhe knew too well the man's record.This man who had lived in opendefiance of the laws of God and ofman had met swift death at the handof the savage law of the North. Thelaw that the men of the outlands donot seek to explain, but believe in

implicitly—because they have seenthe workings of that law. It is aninexorable law, cruel, and cold, andhard—as hard as the land it governswith its implacable justice. It is thelaw of retribution—and its sentenceis Pay.

Black Moran had paid. He hadplayed his string out—had come tothe end of his trail. And Connie knewthat justice had been done.Nevertheless, as the boy stood therein the silence of the barrens andstared down at the sprawling form,he felt strangely impressed—horrified. For, after all, Black Moran

had been a human being, and one—the boy shuddered at the thought—who, with murder in his heart, hadbeen ill equipped for passingsuddenly into the presence of hisGod.

With tight-pressed lips the boydragged the body into the cabin andcovered it with a blanket, and then,swiftly, he recovered his rifle andrevolver, harnessed his dogs, andstruck out on the trail of Squigg. Anhour after the storm struck, the trailwas obliterated. Here and there,where it cut through thick sprucecopses, he could make it out but by

noon he knew he was following onlyits general direction. He knew alsothat by bearing slightly to thesouthward he would strike the riverthat led to the village of the Indians.

It was nearly dark when he cameout upon a flat that even in thegloom and the whirling snow herecognized as the beaver meadowfrom which the trail dipped to theriver. Upon the edge of it he halted toexamine the spruce thickets along itswestern side, for signs of the trail ofSquigg, and it was while so engagedthat he looked up to see dimly in thewhite smother the form of the man

and his dog-team. The man haltedsuddenly and seemed to be staring athim. Connie stood motionless in histracks, waiting. For a long time theman stood peering through the flyingsnow, then the boy saw his arm raise,heard the crack of his whiplash, andthen the sound of his voice—high-pitched and unnatural it soundedcoming out of the whirling gloom:"Hi yu, there! Mush-u!"

Not until Squigg was within tenfeet of him did the boy move, then hestepped directly into the trail. A low,mewling sound quavered from theman's lips, and he collapsed like an

empty bag.

"Stand up!" ordered the boy, indisgust. But instead of obeying, theman grovelled and weltered about inthe snow, all the while emitting anincoherent, whimpering wail. Conniereached down to snatch the man tohis feet, when suddenly he startedback in horror. For the wailingsuddenly ceased, and in his ears, highand shrill, sounded a peal ofmaniacal laughter. The eyes of theman met his own in a wild glare,while peal after peal of the horriblelaughter hurtled from between theparchment-like lips that writhed back

to expose the snaggy, gum-shrunkenteeth.

Horrible as had been the sight ofBlack Moran lying in the blood-reddened snow, the sight of Squiggwallowing in the trail and the soundof his weird laughter, were far morehorrible. The laughter ceased, theman struggled to his feet and fixedConnie with his wild-eyed stare, ashe advanced toward him with apeculiar loose-limbed waddle: "Iknow you! I know you!" he shrilled."I heard the flames cracklin', an'snappin'! An' now you've got me, an'Moran's comin' an' you'll git him, an'

we'll all be ghosts together—all of us—an' we'll stand like stumps by thetrail! I'm a stump! I'm a stump! Ha,ha, ha. He, he, he! I'm a stump! I'm astump!"

"Shut up!" cried Connie indesperation, as he strove to masteran almost overwhelming impulse toturn and fly from the spot. "Crazy asa loon," thought the boy, with ashudder, "and I've got to take himclear to Fort Norman, alone!" "I'm astump, I'm a stump," chanted theman, shrilly, and the boy saw that hehad come to a rigid stand close besidethe trail.

With a final effort Connie pulledhimself together. "I've got it to do,and I'll do it," he muttered betweenclenched teeth. "But, gee whiz! It willtake a week to get to Fort Norman!"

"I'm a stump, I'm a stump," camethe monotonous chant, from therigid figure beside the trail.

"Sure, you're a stump," the boyencouraged, "and if you'll only stickto it till I get the tent up and a firegoing, you'll help like the dickens."

Hurrying to his dogs the boyswung them in, and in the fastgathering darkness and whirling

snow he worked swiftly and skillfullyin pitching the little tent and buildinga fire. When the task was finishedand the little flames licked about hisblackened teapot, he sliced some fatpork, threw a piece of caribou steakin the frying pan, and set it on thefire. Then he walked over to whereSquigg stood repeating hismonotonous formula.

"Grub's ready," announced theboy.

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

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

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

Connie took hold of him andessayed to lead him to the fire, butthe man refused to budge.

"As long as you stay as stiff as thatI could pick you up and carry you tothe tent, but suppose you changeyour mind and think you're a buzzsaw? Guess I'll just slip a babicheline on you to make sure." The mantook not the slightest notice as theboy wound turn after turn of lineabout his arms and legs and securedthe ends. Then he picked him up andcarried him to the tent where he laid

him upon the blankets. But try as hewould, not a mouthful of food wouldthe man take, so Connie ate hissupper, and turned in.

In the morning he lashed Squiggto the sled and with both outfits ofdogs struck out for Fort Norman. Andnever till his dying day will the boyforget the nightmare of that longsnow-trail.

Two men to the sled, alternatingbetween breaking trail and handlingthe dogs, and work at the gee-pole, islabour enough on the trail. ButConnie had two outfits of dogs, and

no one to help. He was in a snow-buried wilderness, back-trailing frommemory the route taken by the BearLake Indians who had guided himinto the country. And not only was hecompelled to do the work of fourmen on the trail, but his camp workwas more than doubled. For Squigghad to be fed forcibly, and eachmorning he had to be lashed to thesled, where he lay all day, howling,and laughing, and shrieking. At nighthe had to be unloaded and tendedlike a baby, and then put to bedwhere he would laugh and scream,the whole night through or else lieand whimper and pule like a beast in

pain.

On the fifth day they camesuddenly upon the noon camp of theparty from Fort Norman, and beforeConnie could recognize the big manin the uniform of an Inspector of theMounted he was swung by strongarms clear of the ground. The nextmoment he was sobbing excitedlyand pounding the shoulders of BigDan McKeever with both his fists inan effort to break the bear-likeembrace.

"Why, you doggone little tillicum!"roared the man, "I know'd you'd doit! Didn't I tell you, Mac? Didn't I tell

you he'd out-guess 'em? An' he's gotthe evidence, too, I'll bet a dog! But,son—what's the matter? Gosh sakes!I never seen you cryin' before! Tellme quick, son—what's the matter?"

Connie, ashamed of the sobs thatshook his whole body, smiled intothe big man's face as he leanedheavily against his shoulder: "It's—nothing, Dan! Only—I've been fivedays and nights on the trail with—that!" He pointed toward thetrussed figure upon the sled, just as awild peal of the demoniacal laughterchilled the hearts of the listeners."And—I'm worn out."

"For the love of Mike!" cried thebig Inspector, after Connie lay asleepbeside the fire. "Think of it, Mac!Five days an' five nights! An' twooutfits!"

"I'm sayin' the lad's a man!"exclaimed the Scotchman, as heshuddered at an outburst of ravingfrom Squigg. "But, why did he bringthe other sled? He should haveturned the dogs loose an' left it."

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

evidence."

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

The boy shook his head. "No, hedidn't get away. Leloo, there, caughthim. He couldn't get away fromLeloo."

"Where is he?"

Connie glanced at the big officercuriously: "Do you know who theother one was?" he asked.

"No. Who was it?"

"Black Moran."

"Black Moran! What are youtalkin' about! Black Moran wasdrowned in the Pelly Rapids!"

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

"But—but, son," the big Inspector'seyes were serious, "if I had known itwas him—Black Moran—he was thehardest man in the North—by allodds."

"Yes—I know," replied the boy,thoughtfully. "But, Dan, he paid. Hisscore is settled now. I forgot to tellyou that when Leloo caught him—hecut him half in two."

CHAPTER XV

SETTING THE FOX TRAPS

After turning over the prisoner toInspector McKeever, Connie Morganand 'Merican Joe accompanied themen from Fort Norman back to theIndian village where they found that

the party of hunters had succeeded inlocating the caribou herd and hadmade a big kill, so that it had beenunnecessary for the men to use anyof the cached meat.

Preparation was at once started bythe entire population to accompanyMcTavish back to the post for themid-winter trading. In the Indian'sleisurely method of doing thingsthese preparations would take threeor four days, so Pierre Bonnet Rouge,who seemed to be a sort of chiefamong them, dispatched some of hisyoung men to haul in all the meatthat the two partners had cached.

Meanwhile, leaving Mr. Squigg at thevillage in the care of McTavish,Connie piloted Inspector McKeeverto the little cabin of the free traders.For McKeever had known BlackMoran over on the Yukon, and hadspent much time in trying to run himdown in the days before his reporteddrowning, and he desired to makeabsolutely sure of his ground beforeturning in his report upon the deathof so notorious a character.

Connie had placed the man's bodyin the cabin, and as the two pushedopen the door Dan McKeever steppedforward and raised the blanket with

which the boy had covered it. The bigofficer stooped and peered into theface of the dead man. Finally, he roseto his feet with a nod: "Yes, that'sBlack Moran, all right. But, gosh,son! If I'd know'd it was him that youwas up against over here, I wouldn'thave been so easy in my mind. Yousure done a big thing for the Northwhen you got him."

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

McKeever stooped again andbreaking back the blood-soakedclothing examined the long deep gashthat extended from the man's lower

ribs to the point of his hip. Then heturned and eyed Leloo who stoodlooking on with blazing eyes, hisgreat silver ruff a-quiver. "Somedog!" he exclaimed. "Or is he a dog?Look at them eyes—part dog, partwolf, an' mostly devil, I'd say. Lookout, son, if he ever goes wrong. BlackMoran looks like he'd be'n gashedwith a butcher's cleaver! But, at that,you can't lay all the credit on the dog.He done his share all right, but thehead work—figurin' out jest whatBlack Moran would do, an' jest whatthe dog would do, an' throwin' thatchunk at jest the right second tomake 'em do it—that's where the

brains an' the nerve comes in——"

"It was mostly luck," interruptedConnie.

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

"What will we do with him?"asked the boy after McKeever hadfinished photographing the body, andthe wolf-dog, and Connie, and suchof the surroundings as should be of

interest in connection with hisreport.

"Well, believe me," answered theofficer, "I ain't goin' to dig no gravefor him in this frozen ground. We'lljest throw a platform together in thatclump of trees, an' stick him up Injunfashion. I'd cremate him, like he wasgoin' to do to you, but he was sodoggone tough I don't believe nothin'would burn but his whiskers, an'besides I don't want to burn thecabin. It's got a stove, an' it mightsave some poor fellow's lifesometime."

The early winter darkness had

fallen when the work was finished,and Connie and McKeever decided towait until morning before strikingout for the village.

After supper the big Inspectorfilled his pipe and glanced about thelittle room. "Seems like old times,son—us bein' on trail together. Don'tyou never feel a hankerin' to be backin the service? An' how comes ityou're trappin' way over here? Didyou an' Waseche Bill go broke? If youdid, you've always got a job in theservice, an' it beats trappin' at that."

Connie laughed. "You bet, Dan, if Iever need a job I'll hit straight for

you. But the fact is Waseche and Ihave got a big thing over at Ten Bow—regular outfit, with steam pointdrills and a million dollars' worth offlumes and engines and buildingsand things——"

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

"Oh, just wanted to have a look atthe country. I'll tell you, Dan,hanging around town gets on mynerves—even a town like Ten Bow. Ilike to be out in the open where afellow has got room enough to take agood deep breath without getting it

second-handed, and where you don'thave to be bumping into someoneevery time you turn around. Youknow what I mean, Dan—a long trailthat you don't know the end of.Northern lights in the night-sky.Valleys, and mountains, and rivers,and lakes that maybe no white manhas ever seen before, and a goodoutfit of dogs—that's playing thegame. You never know what's goingto happen—and when it does happenit's always worth while, whether it'sstriking a colour, or bringing inhooch-runners."

The big Inspector nodded. "Sure, I

know. There ain't nothin' that youknow the end of that's worth doin'.It's always what lies jest beyond thenext ridge, or across the next valleythat a man wants to see. Mostly,when you get there you'redisappointed—but suppose you are?There's always another ridge, oranother valley, jest beyond. An' if youkeep on goin' you're bound to findsomethin' somewheres that's worthall the rest of the disappointments.And sometime, son, we're goin' tofind the thing that's bigger, orstronger, or smarter than we are—an'then it'll get us. But that's where thefun comes in."

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

"Down in the cities, they don'tthink like we do. They'd ruther plugalong—every day jest like the daysthat's past, an' jest like all the daysthat's comin'."

Connie interrupted him: "Down inthe cities I don't care what theythink! I've been in cities, and I hate'em. I'm glad they don't think like wedo, or they'd be up here plastering

their houses, and factories, andstores all over our hills and valleys."

"Wonder who stuck this shack uphere," smiled McKeever, glancinginquisitively around the room."Looks like it had been here quite awhile. You can see where BlackMoran an' Squigg rammed in freshchinkin'."

Connie nodded. "Some prospectoror trapper, I guess. I wonder whatbecame of him?"

McKeever shook his head. "MaybeMcTavish would know. There'snothin' here that would tell. If he

pulled out he took everything alongbut the stove, an' if he didn't theInjuns an' the Eskimos have carriedoff all the light truck. There was afellow name of Dean—James Dean,got lost in this country along aboutsix or seven years back. I was lookin'over the records the other day, an'run across the inquiry about him.That was long before my time in NDivision. There was a note or two inthe records where he'd come into thecountry a couple of years before he'ddisappeared, an' had traded at FortNorman an' at Wrigley. The last seenof him he left Fort Norman withsome supplies—grub an' powder. He

was prospectin' an' trappin'—an' noone ever seen him since. He was agood man, too—accordin' to reports.He wasn't no chechako."

"There you are!" exclaimedConnie, "just what we were talkingabout. I'd give a lot to know whathappened at the end of his trail. I'veseen the end of a lot of those trails—and always the signs told the story ofthe last big adventure. And always itwas worth while. And, good or bad, itwas always a man's game they played—and they came to a man's end."

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

Upon the evening before thedeparture of the Indians who were toaccompany McTavish and McKeeverback to Fort Norman for the mid-winter trading, Connie Morgan, thefactor, and the big officer sat in thecabin of Pierre Bonnet Rouge andtalked of many things. The owner ofthe cabin stoked the fire and listenedin silence to the talk, proud that thewhite men had honoured his housewith their presence.

"You've be'n in this country quite awhile, Mac," said InspectorMcKeever, as he filled his pipe from abuckskin pouch. "You must have

know'd something about a partyname of James Dean. He's be'nreported missin' since six or sevenyears back."'

"Know'd him well," answeredMcTavish. "He was a good man, too.Except, maybe a leetle touched in thehead about gold. Used to trap some,an' for a couple of years he come intwice a year for the tradin'. Then, onetime he never come back. TheMounted made some inquiries acouple years later, but that's all Iknow'd. He had a cabin down in thiscountry some place, but they couldn'tfind it—an' the Injuns didn't seem to

know anything about him. Pierre,here, would know, if anyone did." Heturned to the Indian and addressedhim in jargon. "Kumtux Boston mannem James Dean?"

The Indian fidgeted uneasily, andglanced nervously, first toward onewindow and then the other. "S'posememaloose," he answered shortly,and putting on his cap, abruptly leftthe room.

"Well, what do you think of that?"exclaimed McKeever. "Says he thinkshe's dead, and then up an' beat it. Thecase might stand a little investigatin'yet. Looks to me like that Injun knew

a whole lot more than he told."

McTavish shook his head. "No,Dan, I don't think ye're right.Leastways, not altogether. I've knownthis band of Indians for years.They're all right. And Pierre BonnetRouge is the best one of the lot. Hisactions were peculiar, but they wereactions of fear, not of guilt or of aman trying to cover up guiltyknowledge. He believes Dean is dead—and for some reason, he fears hisghost."

"The factor is right," agreedConnie. "There's some kind of atamahnawus that he's afraid of—and

somehow he believes it's connectedwith Dean."

McKeever nodded. "That's aboutthe size of it. And when you run upagainst their superstitions, you mightas well save your time as far as anyinvestigatin' goes. I'd like to knowwhat's on his mind, though."

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

"Maybe you will, son," assentedMcKeever. "An' if you do, be sure tolet me know. I'd kind of like to cleanup the record."

Good-byes were said the followingmorning, and Connie and 'MericanJoe, their sleds piled high withcaribou meat, pulled out for theirlittle cabin where for the next threedays they were busy freshening uptheir trap line, and resetting rabbitand lynx snares.

"Dat 'bout tam we start in to trapde fox, now," observed 'Merican Joe,as he and Connie finished skinningout the last of the martens that hadbeen taken from the traps. "Dat debes' kin' trappin'. De leetle fox she desmartes' of all de people, an' w'en youset de fox trap you never kin tell w'at

you goin' git."

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

"Yes—but de fox, she so many kin'.An' every kin' some differ'. De bes'fox of all, he is de black wan, dencom' de black silver, an' de silvergrey. Dem all fine fox, an' git de bigprice for de skin. Den com' de crossfox. Lots of kin' of cross fox. Firs'com' de black cross, den de darkcross, den de common cross, den delight cross. All de cross fox pret' goodfox, too. Den com' de blue fox—dark

blue, an' light blue. Den com' de redfox—bright red, an' light red, an' palered—de pale red ain' no mooch good.She de wors' fox dere is. Even dewhite fox is better, an' de white fox ismor' differ' as all de fox. She de onlyfox w'at is good to eat, an' she de onlyfox w'at is easy to trap. She ain't gotno sense. She walk right in de trap.But de res' of de fox she plent' hard totrap—she ain' goin' roun' where shegit de man-scent. Dat why I hang detwo pair of moccasins an' de mittensout on de cache, so she don' git nocamp-scent on 'em."

The following morning 'Merican

Joe took from the cache the dozensteel traps he had placed there whenthe platform was first built. Also hebrought down the moccasins andmittens that had lain exposed to theair. Then, drawing on the mittens, heproceeded to cut into small chunksportions of the carcass of the bearwhich he placed in a bag of greencaribou skin.

"Those traps look pretty small forfoxes," opined Connie, as he reachedto pick one up from the snow.

'Merican Joe pushed back hishand before it touched the trap."Don't pick 'em up!" he cried, "Dey git

de man-scent on 'em. W'at you t'inkI'm keep 'em out on de cache for?W'en you touch dem trap you got toput on de mitten lak I got—de mittendat ain' be'n in de cabin. An' dem trapain' too leetle. If you set de beeg trapfor de fox, dat ain' no good. She gitcaught high up on de leg, an' de beegspring bre'k de leg an den de legfreeze an' in wan hour de fox giv' depull an' de leg twist off, an' de fox runaway—an' nex' tam you bet you ain'ketch dat fox no mor'. Any fox shehard to ketch, but de t'ree legged foxshe de hardes' t'ing in de worl' to trap—she too mooch smart. You got to gitde trap jes right for de fox. You got to

ketch 'em right in de pads where defoot is thick an' strong an' don' bustan' freeze. Den you hol' 'em good."

Slipping on the outside moccasinsover their others, the two trappersstruck out for a small lake they hadpassed on the caribou hunt—a lakethat lay between the foot of a highridge and the open tundra uponwhich they had struck the trail of thetwo caribou bulls. Connie carried thelight rifle, and Leloo accompaniedthem, running free.

That night they campedcomfortably upon the shore of thelake, with their blankets spread

beneath a light fly. They slept lateand it was long after sunrise thefollowing morning when they startedout with their traps. Fox tracks werenumerous along the shore, some ofthem leading back onto the ridge, andothers heading across the lake in thedirection of the open tundra. Conniewas beginning to wonder why'Merican Joe did not set his traps,when the Indian paused and carefullyscrutinized a long narrow point thatjutted out into the lake. Theirregularity of the surface of thesnow showed that the point wasrocky, and here and there along itsedge a small clump of stunted

willows rattled their dry branches inthe breeze. The Indian seemedsatisfied and, walking to the ridge,cut a stick some five or six feet longwhich he slipped through the ring ofa trap, securing the ring to the middleof the stick. A few feet beyond one ofthe willow clumps, nearly at the endof the point, the Indian stooped, andwith his ax cut a trench in the snowthe length of the stick, and abouteight or ten inches in depth. In thistrench he placed the stick, andpacked the snow over it. He nowmade a smaller trench the length ofthe trap chain, at the end of which hepressed the snow down with the back

of his mitten until he had made adepression into which he could placethe trap with its jaws set flat, so thatthe pan would lie some two inchesbelow the level of the snow. From hisbag he drew some needles which hecarefully arranged so that theyradiated from the pan to the jaws insuch manner as would prevent snowfrom packing down and interferingwith the springing of the trap. Thenhe broke out two pieces of snow-crust and, holding them over thedepression which held the trap,rubbed them together until the trapwas completely covered and the snowmounded slightly higher than the

surrounding level. He then rubbedother pieces of crust over thetrenches which held the clog, and thetrap-chain. When that was finishedhe took from the bag a brush-broom,which he had made of light twigs ashe walked along, and dusted themounded snow lightly until thewhole presented an unbrokensurface, which would defy thesharpest-eyed fox to discover it hadbeen tampered with. All this theIndian had done without movingfrom his tracks, and now from thebag he drew many pieces of bearmeat which he tossed on to the snowclose about the trap. Slowly, he

backed away, being careful to seteach snowshoe in its own track, andas he moved backward, he dusted thetracks full of snow with the brush-broom. For fifty or sixty feet herepeated this laborious operation,pausing now and then to toss a pieceof meat upon the snow.

Connie surveyed the job withadmiration. "No wonder you saidfoxes are hard to trap if you have togo to all that trouble to get 'em,"smiled the boy.

"It ain' hard to do. It is, w'at youcall careful. You mak' de trouble to becareful, you git de fox—you ain' mak'

de trouble you ain' git no fox. Odderpeoples you kin git mebbe-so, if youain' so careful, but de fox, an' de wolf,you ain' git."

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

'Merican Joe shook his head. "No.Leloo, he ain' git caught. He toosmart. He know w'at de bait for. Heain' goin' for smell dat bait. If demeat is 'live, an' run or fly, Leloo hegrab him if he kin. If de meat dead

Leloo he ain' goin' fool wit' dat meat.You feed him dead meat—me feedhim dead meat—he eat it. But, if hefin' dead meat, he ain' eat it. He toomooch smart. He smart lak de wolf,an' he smart lak de dog, too."

CHAPTER XVI

THE VOICE FROM THE HILL

The shore of the lake wasirregular, being a succession of rockypoints between which narrow baysextended back to the foot of the ridge

which grew higher and higher as thetwo progressed toward the upper endof the lake, where it terminated in ahigh hill upon the sides of which boldoutcroppings of rock showed atintervals between thick patches ofscrub timber.

It was well toward the middle ofthe afternoon when the two reachedthe head of the lake, a distance ofsome five or six miles from thestarting point. All the steel traps hadbeen set, and 'Merican Joe hadconstructed two deadfalls, whichvaried from those set for marten onlyby being more cunningly devised, and

more carefully prepared.

"The other shore ain't so rough,"said Connie, when the seconddeadfall was finished. "We can makebetter time going back."

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

"Look, what's that?" exclaimedConnie pointing toward a rocky ledgethat jutted from the hillside a fewrods back from the lake. "It looks like

a cache!"

'Merican Joe scrutinized thearrangement of weather-worn polesthat supported a sagging platform,and with a non-committal grunt, ledthe way toward the ledge. The spotwas reached after a short climb, andby ascending to another ledge closebehind the first, the two were able tolook down upon the platform, whichwas raised about eight feet from thefloor of its rock-ledge.

"Funny bunch of stuff to cache!"exclaimed the boy. "I'll tell you whatit is, there's a grave here. I've seenthe Indians over on the Yukon put

stuff out beside a grave. It's for thedead man to use in the HappyHunting Ground."

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

"Maybe they buried him therebeside the rock," ventured the boy.

"No. Injun ain' bury lak' whiteman. If de man ees here, she wouldbe on de rocks, lak de cache. Injunlay de dead man on de rock an' mak'de leetle pole house for um."

"Well, what in thunder wouldanyone want to cache that stuff 'way

out here for? Look, there's a blanket,and it's been here so long it's aboutrotted to pieces, and a pipe, andmoccasins, and there's the stock of arifle sticking out beneath the blanket—those things have been there a longtime—a year or two at least. Butthere's grub there, too. And the grubis fresh—it hasn't been there morethan a month."

'Merican Joe was silent, and as theboy turned toward him, he caughthim glancing furtively over hisshoulder toward the dark patches oftimber that blotched the hillside. "Iain' lak dis place. She no good," he

muttered, as he caught the boy'sglance.

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

For answer, 'Merican Joe turnedabruptly and descended to the shoreof the lake. At the extremity of arocky point that afforded a sweepingview of the great hillside, he stoppedand waited for Connie to join him."Dis place, she ain' no good," hereiterated, solemnly.

"What's the matter with it?"repeated the boy. "You said all along,

until we came across that cache, thatit was a dandy lake to trap foxes on."

"Good for fox, mebbe—but nogood for Injun. Me—I'm t'ink I'm pullup dem trap, an' fin' som' nudderplace."

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

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

"Tamahnawus cache!" laughedthe boy. "Tamahnawuses don't makecaches. And besides there ain't anytamahnawuses! Don't you rememberthe other tamahnawus—that turnedout to be a man in a moose hide? I'veheard a lot about 'em—but I neversaw one yet."

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

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

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

"All right," smiled Connie. "Wewon't make him mad, but I'm goingto find out about that tamahnawus—you wait and see. I wonder who builtthat cache?"

"Dat Dog Rib cache," promptlyanswered the Indian.

"Probably the Injuns up at thevillage will know about it. They'll be

back from Fort Norman in a fewdays, and I'll ask Pierre BonnetRouge."

Avoiding the rough shore, the twostruck out for camp down the middleof the ice-locked lake where thewind-packed snow gave excellentfooting. The air was still and keen,the sky cloudless, and Conniewatched the sun set in a blaze of goldbehind the snow-capped ridge to thewestward. Suddenly both halted intheir tracks and glanced into eachother's faces. From far behind them,seemingly from the crest of the hillthey had left, sounded a cry: "Y-i-i-e-

e-o-o-o!" Long-drawn, thin,quavering, it cut the keen air withstartling distinctness. Then, asabruptly as it had started, it ceased,and the two stood staring. SwiftlyConnie's glance sought the bald crestof the hill that showed distinctlyabove the topmost patches of timber,as it caught the last rays of thesetting sun. But the hill showed onlyan unbroken sky-line, and in thedead silence of the barrens the boywaited tensely for a repetition of thewild cry. And as he waited he wasconscious of an uncomfortableprickling at the roots of his hair, fornever had he heard the like of that

peculiar wailing cry, a cry that theboy knew had issued from the throatof no wild animal—a wild cry andeerie in its loud-screamed beginning,but that sounded half-human as ittrailed off in what seemed a moan ofquavering despair.

The cry was not repeated andConnie glanced into the face of'Merican Joe who stood with saggingjaw, the picture of abject fear. Withan effort, the boy spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, for he well knew that itwould never do to let the Indian seethat his own nerve had beenmomentarily shaken:

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

The Indian's eyes stared wide withterror, his lips moved stiffly and thewords rasped huskily:"Tamahnawus! She git dark. We gitto camp. Mak' de big fire.Tamahnawus she no lak' de fire."And without waiting for a reply, hestruck off down the lake as fast as hissnowshoes would let him. AndConnie followed, knowing that in theapproaching darkness nothing couldbe done toward clearing up themystery of that loud-drawn wail.

That night the boy slept fitfully,

and each time he awoke it was to see'Merican Joe seated close beside thehuge fire which he kept blazing highall the night through. Breakfast wasfinished just as the first grey light ofdawn showed the outlines of theridge. 'Merican Joe watched insilence as Connie made theremaining grub into a pack. "Takedown the fly," ordered the boy, andthe Indian obeyed with alacrity.Folding the fly, he added the blanketsto the pack, fastened on hissnowshoes and struck out toward thenorth-west.

"Here, where you going?" cried

Connie.

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

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

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

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

The Indian glanced fearfullytoward the hill, the outline of which

was just visible at the head of thelake, and nodded.

"Well, we're going to circle thathill. There has been no fresh snowfor ten days or two weeks, and if wecircle the base of it we'll strike thetrail of whoever is on the hill. Thenwe can follow the trail."

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

"We've got enough grub for todayand tomorrow if we go light on it. Itwon't take us long when we strike thetrail to follow it up on to the hill.Come on, buck up! There may besomeone up there that needs help—maybe someone that is in the samefix you were when I found you backon Spur Mountain."

"Ain't no one up dere. I ain' hangroun' on Spur Mountain an' yell laktamahnawus. Me—I'm too moochdead."

"Come on. Are you going withme?"

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

"Yes," answered the boy, confidentthat they would strike the trail bycircling the hill, "if we don't strike thetrail of whoever or whatever madethat sound, we'll hit back to thecabin."

"All right, me—I'm go 'long—butwe ain' strike no trail. Tamahnawusdon' mak' no trail." Connie struck outwith the Indian following, and asthey reached the summit of the ridgethat paralleled the shore of the lake,

the sun showed his yellow rim over adistant spruce swamp, and at thesame instant, far away—from thedirection of the hill, came once morethe long-drawn quavering yell.'Merican Joe whirled at the soundand started out over the back trail,and it required a full fifteen minutesof persuasion, ridicule, entreaty, andthreat before he reluctantly returnedand fell in behind Connie.

At the base of the hill, the boysuggested that they separate andeach follow its base in oppositedirections, pointing out that muchtime could be saved, as the hill,

which was of mountainousproportions, seemed likely to have abase contour of eight or ten miles.But 'Merican Joe flatly refused. Hewould accompany Connie, as he hadagreed to, but not one foot would hego without the boy. All the way upthe ridge, he had followed so closelythat more than once he had steppedon the tails of Connie's snowshoes,and twice, when the boy had haltedsuddenly to catch some fanciedsound, he had bumped into him.

It was nearly sundown when thetwo stood at the intersection of theirown trail after having made the

complete circuit of the hill. Foxtracks they had found, also the tracksof wolves, and rabbits, and of anoccasional loup cervier—and nothingmore. Connie had examined everyfoot of the ground carefully, and atintervals had halted and yelled at thetop of his lungs—had even persuaded'Merican Joe to launch forth his ownpeculiarly penetrating call, but theironly answer was the dead, sphinx-like silence of the barrens.

"Com' on," urged 'Merican Joe,with a furtive glance into a nearbythicket. "Me—I got nuff. I know weain' goin' fin' no track. Tamahnawus

don' mak' no track."

"Tamahnawus, nothing!"exclaimed Connie, impatiently. "I tellyou there ain't any such thing. If wehad grub enough I'd stay right heretill I found out where that yell comesfrom. There's no sign of a camp onthe hill, and no one has gone up orcome down since this snow fell.There's something funny about thewhole business, and you bet I'mgoing to find out what it is."

"You say we no fin' de track, we goback to de cabin," reminded theIndian.

"Yes, and we will go back. Andthen we'll load up a sled-load of grub,and we'll hit right back here and staytill we get at the bottom of this. Thesun will drop out of sight in aminute, and then I think we'll hear itagain. We heard it last evening atsundown, and at sunrise thismorning."

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

Extending upward clear to thecrest of the hill, directly above wherethe two stood, was an area half a milewide upon which no timber grew.

Here and there a jumbledoutcropping of rock broke the longsmooth sweep of snow upon whichthe last rays of the setting sun werereflected with dazzling brightness. AsConnie waited expectantly he wasconscious of a tenseness of nerves,that manifested itself in a clenchingof his fists, and the tight-pressing ofhis lips. His eyes swept the long up-slanting spread of snow, and even ashe looked he heard 'Merican Joe givea startled grunt, and there beforethem on the snow beside anoutcropping of rocks not more thanthree hundred yards from them, abeautiful black fox stood clean-cut

against the white background, anddaintily sniffed the air. Connie'ssurprise was no less than the Indian'sfor he knew that scarcely a secondhad passed since his eyes had sweptthat exact spot—and there had beenno fox there.

The sunlight played only upon theupper third of the long slope now,and the fox lifted his delicatelypointed muzzle upward as if to catchsome fleeting scent upon the almostmotionless air. Then came that awfulcry, rising in a high thin scream, andtrailing off as before in a quaveringwail of despair.

As Connie stared in amazement atthe black fox, there was a swiftscratching of claws, and a shower ofdry snow flew up, as Leloo like agreat silver flash, launched himselfup the slope. For a fraction of asecond the boy's glance rested uponthe flying grey shape and once moreit sought the fox—but there was nofox there, only the low rock-ledgeoutcropping through the snow.Instantly the boy sprang after Leloo,disregarding the inarticulate protestof 'Merican Joe, who labouredheavily along in his wake, hesitatingbetween two fears, the fear of beingleft alone, and the fear of visiting the

spot at which had appeared the foxwith the voice of a man.

As Connie reached the rock-ledgehe stopped abruptly and stared insurprise at Leloo. The great wolf-dog's nose quivered, and his yelloweyes were fixed with a peculiar glareupon a small irregular hole beneath aprojecting lip of rock—a hole just bigenough to admit the body of the fox.Even as the boy looked, the longhairs of Leloo's great ruff stiffened,and stood quiveringly erect, a lowgrowl rumbled deep in the dog'sthroat, and with a curious tensestiffness of movement, he began to

back slowly from the hole. Never foran instant did the low throaty growlcease, nor did the fixed yellow eyesleave the black aperture. Not until hehad backed a full twenty feet fromthe hole did the dog's tense musclesrelax and then his huge brush of atail drooped, the hair of his ruffflattened, and he turned and trotteddown the back trail, pausing onlyonce to cast a hang-dog glance up theslope.

Connie was conscious of a strangechill at the pit of his stomach. Whyhad Leloo, the very embodiment ofsavage courage, backed away from

that hole with every muscle tense,and why had he hit the back traildisplaying every evidence of abjectterror? The boy had seen him runfoxes to earth before, and he hadnever acted like that. He had alwaystorn at the edges of the hole withfang and claw. A hundred times moreterrifying than even the fox with thestrange human cry, was the action ofthe wolf-dog. Without moving fromhis tracks, the boy examined therock-ledge. It was probably twentyfeet in length, and not more thanfour or five feet high, and he saw at aglance that the small irregular holewas the only aperture in the mass of

solid rock. His eyes swept thesurrounding hillside but with theexception of numerous fox tracksthat led to and from the hole, thesurface of the snow was unbroken.

The sunlight had disappearedfrom the crest of the hill. On thelower levels the fast deepeningtwilight was rendering objectsindistinguishable, when Connieturned to 'Merican Joe, whopresented a pitiable picture of terror."Let's go," he said, shortly. "We'llhave a moon tonight. We can traveltill we get tired."

And 'Merican Joe without waiting

for a second invitation struck offdown the hill after Leloo, at a pacethat Connie found hard to follow.

CHAPTER XVII

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

Leaving 'Merican Joe to look afterthe line of marten and mink traps,Connie Morgan struck out from thelittle cabin and headed for the Indianvillage. Straight to the cabin of PierreBonnet Rouge he went and waswelcomed by the Indian with the

respect that only the real sourdoughever commands in the Indians of theNorth. For Pierre knew of his ownknowledge of the boy's outwitting thehooch-runners, and he had listenedin the evenings upon the trail to FortNorman, while big Dan McKeeverrecounted to McTavish, as he nevertired of doing, the adventures ofConnie in the Mounted.

After supper, which the two ate insilence, while the squaw of BonnetRouge served them, they drew uptheir chairs to the stove. The boyasked questions as to the success ofthe trading, the news of the river

country, and prospects for a goodspring catch. Then the talk drifted tofox trapping, and Connie told theIndian that he and 'Merican Joe hadset some traps on the lake a day'sjourney to the south-eastward. PierreBonnet listened attentively, but bynot so much as the flicker of aneyelash did he betray the fact that hehad ever heard of the lake. Finally,the boy asked him, point-blank, if hehad ever been there. Connie knewsomething of Indians, and, had beenquick to note that Pierre held him inregard. Had this not been so, hewould never have risked the directquestion, for it is only by devious and

round-about methods that oneobtains desired information from hisred brother.

Pierre puffed his pipe in silencefor an interminable time, then henodded slowly: "Yes," he answered, "Ibe'n dere."

"What is the name of that lake?"

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

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

"Yes. I kill um two tam—an' he

com' back."

"Came back!" cried the boy. "Whatdo you mean?"

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

"But surely he couldn't yell afteryou'd killed him. You must havekilled the wrong fox."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No. He tamahnawus fox. He wearde collar."

"What kind of a collar?"

"Ermine skin collar—always he gotit on."

"Look here," exclaimed Connie,shortly. "Are you lying to me? Do youexpect me to sit here and believe anysuch rot as that? Did you save thecollars? I want to look at 'em."

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

"What do you leave the black foxskins out there for, they're worth alot?"

The Indian shrugged. "I ain' wantfor mak' de tamahnawus mad. I put

de skin an' de collar under deblankets on de cache."

"Are they there now?"

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

"But you've been to the cachelately. There was grub on it thathadn't been there more than a monthat the most."

"Yes. I got bad luck w'en I kill demfox, so I build de cache an' mak' detamahnawus de present. All de tam I

tak' mor' grub, an' now I ain' got debad luck."

For a long time Connie was silentas he went over in his mind step bystep the happenings at the lakewhere 'Merican Joe had set the foxtraps. Then he thought over whatPierre Bonnet Rouge had told him,but instead of clearing things up, theIndian's words had only served todeepen the mystery of the fox thatyelled like a man. Suddenly the boyremembered the action of Pierrewhen McTavish had asked him if heknew anything about James Dean,the missing prospector. He glanced at

the Indian who was puffing his pipein silence, and decided to riskanother direct question although heknew that in all probability PierreBonnet Rouge would relapse into astubborn muteness; for in matterstouching upon his superstitions, theIndian is a man of profound silence."I won't be any worse off than I am,now," thought the boy, "if he don'tsay another word—so here goes." Headdressed the Indian gravely.

"Pierre," he began, watching theman narrowly to note the effect ofhis words, "you know I am a friend ofyours, and a friend of the Indians. I

gave them meat, and I saved themfrom being robbed by the hooch-runners." The Indian nodded, andConnie felt encouraged to proceed."Now, I believe there is somethingelse beside a tamahnawus downthere at Hill Lake. And I'm goingback there and find out what it is."

Pierre Bonnet Rouge shook hishead emphatically. "No. I ain' goin''long. I w'at you call, learn lesson forfool wit' tamahnawus."

"That's all right. I won't ask you togo. I am not afraid of thetamahnawus. If 'Merican Joe won'tgo with me, I'll go alone. I want you

to tell me, though, what became ofJames Dean? Is he mixed up in this?"

The Indian smoked withoutanswering for so long a time that theboy feared that he would neverspeak, but after a while he removedthe pipe from his mouth andregarded the boy sombrely. "Youskookum tillicum," he began, gravely."I ain' lak I see you mak' detamahnawus mad. De tamahnawus,she mor' skookum as you. She gityou. I tell you all I know 'bout dattamahnawus. Den, if you goin' backto de lak—" he paused and shruggedmeaningly, and turning to the squaw,

who had finished washing the supperdishes, he motioned with his hand,and the woman threw a brilliant redshawl over her head and passed outthe door.

Pierre Bonnet Rouge refilled hispipe, and hunching his chair closer toConnie, leaned toward him and spokein a low tone. "She start long tam ago—six, seven year. We camp on deBlackwater. Wan tam in de winter,me, an' Ton-Kan, an' John Pickles, wego on de beeg caribou hunt. Weswing up by de beeg lak' an' by-m-bywe com' on de cabin. She w'ite mancabin, an' no wan hom', but de fresh

track lead sout'. Ton-Kan, he t'ink deman got de hooch to trade an' hewant som' hooch, an' John Picklestoo—so we fol' de track. By-m-by wecom' to Hill Lak', an' de man she gotde leetle camp by de hill. He ain' gotno hooch. We got som' fox trap 'long,so we mak' de camp. Plent' fox trackroun' de lak', an' we say tomor' we setde trap. Dat night com' de man to decamp. Say, 'nem James Dean.' Say,'w'at you Injun goin' do?' I say, 'wegoin' trap de fox. He ain' lak dat. By-m-by he say, 'you got look out. Detamahnawus fox here. She talk lakde man.' I ain' b'lieve dat. I t'ink hesay dat 'cos he wan' to trap de fox.

But Ton-Kan an' John Pickles gitscare. I say, 'de tamahnawus ain' gityou, he mebbe-so ain' git me, neider.'He say, 'me—I got de strongmedicine. De tamahnawus she knowme. She do lak I say.' I ain' b'lieve dat,an' he say, 'You wait, I show you. I goback to my camp an' mak demedicine an' I tell de tamahnawus toburn de snow out on de lak'.' He goback to he's camp an' Ton-Kan an'John Pickles is ver' mooch scare. Denight she ver' black. Wan tam I t'ink Ihear som' wan walk out on de lak',but I ain' sure an' Ton-Kan say dattamahnawus. Den he point out on delak' an' I kin see leetle fire lak' de eye

of de fox in de dark. Den she mak deleetle spark, an' she move 'long verslow. I laugh an' I say, 'Dat JamesDean out dere, she mak de fire toscare Injun.' Den rat behine me som'wan laugh, an' stands James Dean,an' he say, 'No, James Dean is here.Dat de tamahnawus out on de lak'.He burn de snow, lak I tell um.' I say,'Mebbe-so, de piece of rope burn lakdat.' An' he say, 'No, dat ain' no rope.Dat tamahnawus burn de snow. Yout'ink you smart Injun—but I showyou. If dat is rope she goin' out pret'queek, ain' it? She can't mak' de bigfire?' I say, 'No, rope can't mak' nobig fire.' 'A'right,' he say, 'I tell de

tamahnawus to mak' de beeg fire datmak' de lak' all light.' Den he yell atd e tamahnawus. He say, 'Mak' debeeg fire! Mak' de beeg fire!' But sheain' mak' no beeg fire, an' de leetlefire crawl slow out on de snow, an' Ilaugh on heem. He say, 'Detamahnawus ain' hear dat. I got yelllouder.' So he yell louder, 'Mak' debeeg fire! Mak' de beeg fire!' An den."Pierre Bonnet Rouge paused andshuddered. "An' den de beeg firecom'! So queek—so beeg you kin seede trees. An' den she all dark, soblack you can't see nuttin'. An' JamesDean laugh. An' Ton-Kan, she soscare she howl lak' de dog. An' John

Pickles, she try to dig de hole in desnow an' crawl in. An' me—I'm soscare I can't talk.

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

"But the cache? And the foxes thatwore the collars?"

"Nex' year I hunt caribou agin, butI ain' go by Hill lak', you bet. YoungInjun 'long nem Clawhammer, an' weswing roun' by de beeg lak' an' com'

by de cabin. Lots of tracks, but I ain'see James Dean tracks. By-m-by, wecom' on de camp of 'bout ten Innuit.Dey mak' de track by de cabin, an' deygot all de stuff out. I ain' see JamesDean. S'pose James Dean dead. Helos' de medicine, an' de tamahnawusgit um.

"So I keep way from Hill Lak'.T'ree, four year go by, an' de foxtrappin' is bad. I ain' so mooch fraido f tamahnawus no mor' an' I t'ink'bout dem plent' fox tracks on HillLak' so me an' Clawhammer we godere. We set 'bout twent' traps de firs'day. Never see so many fox track. We

set um by de hill. We git t'rough earlyan' set up de tent on de shore of delak'. She almos' sundown an' I lookup de hill an' rat beside wan leetlerock-ledge, I see wan fine black fox. Igrab de gun, an' tak' de res' on desled, an' den I hear de yell! It soun'lak' wan man w'at is los'! But it com'from de fox! I shoot queek, an' de foxcom' roll down de hill! Clawhammerhe run an' git um, an' den we see it—de collar of ermine skin! Den I knowdat de tamahnawus fox James Deansay talk lak' de man, an' I ver' moochscare. I ain' tell Clawhammer 'boutJames Dean, an' he t'ink som' wan gitlos' mak' de yell. He ain' see it com'

from de fox. I look on dat leetle fox,an' I see he ver' dead. But no blood.De fur jes' scratch' cross de back of dehead—but, she ver' dead—I lookgood.

"Clawhammer he wan' to skin datfox, but I don' know w'at to do. If deInjun kill de fox, he mus' got to skinum. Dat bad to waste de fox. Sah-ha-lee Tyee don' want de Injun to wastede peoples. I got to t'ink 'bout dat an'so I lay de fox behine de tent an' mak'de supper. After supper I t'ink longtam. Tamahnawus, she bad spirit.Sah-ha-lee Tyee, she good spirit. If Iskin de fox, tamahnawus git mad on

me. If I ain' skin de fox, Sah-ha-leeTyee git mad on me. I ain' know w'atto do. I t'ink som' mor'. By-m-by It'ink dat bes to skin de fox. I ain'know where Sah-ha-lee Tyee liv'. If Imak' um mad I ain' kin giv' um nopresent. Better I mak' tamahnawusmad cos he liv' rat here, an' if I mak'um mad I kin give um de present an'mebbe-so he ain' stay mad on me. So,I go behine de tent to git de fox. But,de fox, she gon'! An' de track showshe gon' back up de hill, an' I ver'mooch scare—cos she was dead!

"In de morning Clawhammer sayhe look at de traps to de wes', an'

swing on roun' de hill to fin' de trackof de man w'at git los' an' yell. I ain'say nuttin', an' he start ver' early. I golook at de traps down de lak', an' w'ende sun com' up, I hear de yell agin!An' I ver' mooch scare, cos I'm fraidde tamahnawus mad on me for killde fox w'at yell lak de man. So I goback, an' I skin two fox w'at I ketch inde trap. Clawhammer ain' back, so Igo an' build de cache. An' I put myblankets an' rifle on it, an' plentygrub, for de present to tamahnawus.Clawhammer com' 'long an' he say heain' fin' no track. He begin to git scare'bout dat yell, w'en he don' fin' detrack. So he show me wan fox what

he took from de trap. It is de blackfox wit' de ermine collar!Clawhammer ver' mooch scare now.He wan' to run away. But I tell um wegot to skin dat fox. If we don' skinum, we goin' to mak' Sah-ha-lee Tyeever' mad. Tamahnawus he ver' madanyhow; so we mak' him de present,an' we skin de fox, an' put de skin an'de collar on de cache too. Denmebbe-so tamahnawus ain' so madw'en he git de guns an' de blankets,an' de fox skin back. So we go 'wayfrom dat lak' ver' fas'.

"Dat day I bre'k my leg. An' nex'day Clawhammer's tepee burn up. So

we git bad luck. Den de bad luck go'way, cos tamahnawus fin' dat cache,an' he ain' so mad. But every tam deleetle moon com' I tak' som' mor'grub to de cache. An' so, I keep deluck good."

"And do you think it's still thereon the cache—the fox skin and thecollar?"

The Indian shrugged. "I ain' know'bout dat. Mebbe-so de tamahnawusfox com' an' git he's skin. 'Bout wanyear ago Bear Lake Injun, nem PeterBurntwood, trap wan fox way up onde beeg lak'. She black fox, an' she gotde collar of ermine skin. Me—I'm

over to Fort Norman w'en he bring inde skin an' de collar, an' trade de skinto McTavish."

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

"He ain' b'lieve dat. He t'ink PeterBurntwood mak' dat collar to foolum. He say Peter Burntwood lak toomooch to tell de beeg lie."

"But didn't you tell McTavishabout the fox you shot, and the oneyou trapped with the collar on?"

"No. I ain' say nuttin'. Dat hurt toomooch to bre'k de leg. I ain' want dat

tamahnawus mad on me no mor'."

Connie was silent for a long timeas he racked his brain for somereasonable explanation of theIndian's strange story, pieced out bywhat he, himself, had actually seenand heard at the lake. But noexplanation presented itself andfinally he shook his head.

"W'at you t'ink 'bout dat?" askedPierre Bonnet Rouge, who had beenwatching the boy narrowly.

"I don't know. There's somethingback of it all—but I can't seem tofigure what it is. I'm going back to

that lake, though, and I'm going tostay there till I do know."

The Indian shook his headforebodingly. "Dat better you keepway from dat lak'. She no good.James Dean he fool wit detamahnawus. An' he hav' de strongmedicine to mak' de tamahnawus dolak' he tell um. But de tamahnawusgit James Dean. An' he git you—too."

Connie waited for two days after'Merican Joe returned from the trapline before he even mentionedreturning to The-Lake-of-the-Fox-That-Yells, as the Indians hadrenamed Hill Lake. Then, one

evening he began to make up a packfor the trail.

"Were you goin'?" asked 'MericanJoe, eying the preparations withdisapproval.

"It's about time we went down andlooked at those fox traps, isn't it?" heasked casually. "And we ought to getsome more out."

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

"Look here!" ripped out the boy,

angrily, "if you're afraid to go you canstay here and snare rabbits like asquaw! I ain't afraid of yourtamahnawus, and I'll go alone! AndI'll stay till I find out what all thisbusiness is about—and then I'll comeback and laugh at you, and at PierreBonnet Rouge, too. You're a couple ofold women!" 'Merican Joe made noanswer, and after puttering a bit hewent to bed.

When Connie awakened, beforedaylight the following morning, thefire was burning brightly in the stove,and 'Merican Joe, dressed for thetrail, was setting the breakfast table.

Connie drew on his clothing andnoticing that the pack he had throwntogether the night before wasmissing, stepped to the door. A packof double the size was lashed to thesled, and the boy turned to 'MericanJoe with a grin: "Decide to take achance?" he asked.

The Indian set a plate of beans onthe table and looked into the boy'seyes. "Me—I'm t'ink you too moochskookum. Wan tam on SpurMountain, I say you good man, an' Isay 'Merican Joe, she good man, too.But she ain' so good man lak you. Shescare for tamahnawus mor' as

anyt'ing on de worl'. Rat now I'm soscare—me—dat de knees shivver, an'de hair com's from de head an' crawlup an' down de back an' de feet is col'lak de piece of ice, an' de belly is sicklak I ain' got nuttin' to eat in my life.But, I'm goin' 'long, an' I stan' ratbeside you all de tam, an' w'en detamahnawus git Connie Mo'gan, byGoss! she got to git 'Merican Joe,too!"

The boy stepped to the Indian'sside and snatched his hand into bothhis own. "'Merican Joe," he cried, in avoice that was not quite steady,"you're a brick! You're the best

doggone Injun that ever lived!"

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

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

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

Travelling heavy, darknessovertook them some six or eightmiles from their destination, andthey camped. The sun was an hourhigh next morning when they pushedout on to the snow-covered ice andheaded for the high hill at the end ofthe lake. 'Merican Joe agreed to lookat the traps on the way up whileConnie held the dogs to a courseparallel to the shore. As the Indianwas about to strike out he pointedexcitedly toward the point where hehad made the first set. Connielooked, and there, jumping about onthe snow, with his foot in the trapwas a beautiful black fox! It is a sight

that thrills your trapper to themarrow, for here is the most valuableskin that it is possible for him totake, and forgetting for the momenthis fear of the lake, 'Merican Joestruck off across the snow. A fewmoments later he halted, stared atthe fox, and turning walked slowlyback to the sled.

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

Connie laughed. "Here, you take

the dogs and I'll look at the traps. Iremember where they all are, and I'lltake out the foxes. But you will haveto reset the traps, later."

As Connie approached, the foxjerked and tugged at the chain in aneffort to free himself from the trap,but he was fairly caught and the jawsheld. Connie drew his belt ax, for'Merican Joe had explained that thefox is too large and lively an animalto be held with the bow of thesnowshoe like the marten, while thetrapper feels for his heart. He mustbe stunned by a sharp blow on thenose with the helve of the ax, after

which it is an easy matter to pull hisheart. As he was about to strike, theboy straightened up and stared at asmall white band that encircled theneck of the fox. It was a collar ofermine skin! And as he continued tostare, little prickly chills shot up anddown his spine. For a moment hestood irresolute, and then, pullinghimself together, he struck. Amoment later the fox's heart-stringssnapped at the pull, and the boyreleased the foot from the trap, andholding the animal in his hands,examined the ermine collar. It wasnearly an inch wide, of untannedskin, and was tied at the throat. "No

Injun ever tied that knot," mutteredthe boy, "and there's no use scaring'Merican Joe any more thannecessary," he added, as with hissheath knife he cut the collar andplaced it carefully in his pocket, andcarrying the fox, proceeded up theshore.

In the fifth trap was another blackfox. And again the boy stared at theermine skin collar that encircled theanimal's neck. He removed this collarand placed it with the first. 'MericanJoe was a half-mile out on the lake,plodding along at the head of thedogs. The two foxes were heavy, and

Connie decided to carry them to thesled.

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

"Dat funny we git two black fox.De black fox, he ain' so many. Youtrap wan all winter, you done good.We got two, sam' day. I ain' neverhear 'bout dat before!"

"I knew this was a good lake forfoxes," smiled the boy. 'Merican Joenodded, sombrely. "Som't'ing wrong.

Dat lak' she too mooch good for fox.Som' t'ing wrong."

The twelfth trap yielded anotherblack fox, and another ermine collar,and as the boy removed it from theanimal's neck he gave way to anexpression of anger. "What inthunder is the meaning of this? Whois out here in the hills tying erminecollars on black foxes—and why? Themost valuable skin in the North—andsome fool catches them and ties acollar on them, and turns themloose! And how does he catch them?They've never been trapped before!And how does it come there are so

many of them and they are so easy totrap?" He gave it up, and returned tothe sled, to show the astounded'Merican Joe the third black fox. Butthe Indian took no joy in the catch,and all the time they were setting upthe tent in the shelter of a thicket atthe foot of the high hill, hemaintained a brooding silence.

"While you skin the foxes, I guessI'll slip over and have another look atthat cache," said the boy, when theyhad eaten their luncheon.

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

want to hear dat yell."

"Oh, I'll be back long beforesundown," assured Connie. "That yellis just what I do want to hear."

At the cache he raised the rottingblanket and peered beneath it andthere, as Pierre Bonnet Rouge hadtold him, was a black fox skin, and itsermine collar. The boy examined thecollar. It was an exact counterpart ofthe three he had in his pocket. Hereplaced the blanket and walkedslowly back to camp, ponderingdeeply the mystery of the collars, butthe more he thought, the moremysterious it seemed.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE MAN IN THE CAVE

It was late afternoon when'Merican Joe finished skinning thethree foxes and stretching the pelts.As the sun approached the horizonConnie seated himself upon the sledat a point that gave him a clear viewof the rock-ledge on the hillside.'Merican Joe went into the tent andseated himself on his blankets, wherehe cowered with his thumbs in his

ears.

The lower levels were in theshadows, now, and the sunlight wascreeping slowly up the hill. Suddenly,from the rock-ledge appeared a blackfox. Connie wondered if he, too, worean ermine skin collar. The fox sniffedthe air and trotted off along thehillside, where he disappearedbehind a patch of scrub. Again theboy's eyes sought the ledge, anotherfox was trotting away and stillanother stood beside the rock. Thenit came—the wild quavering yell forwhich the boy waited. The third foxtrotted away as the yell came to its

wailing termination, and Connieleaped from the sled. "It's just as Ithought!" he cried, excitedly. "The foxnever gave that yell!" The boy hadexpected to find just that,nevertheless, the actual discovery ofit thrilled him with excitement.

The head of 'Merican Joe peeredcautiously from the tent. "Who giv'um den?" he asked in fear andtrembling.

"The man that's at the bottom ofthat fox-hole," answered the boy,impressively, "and if I'm notmistaken, his name is James Dean."

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

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

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

"I'll tell you that tomorrow," heanswered, "after James Dean tellsme."

"If de yell com' from de hole, dende tamahnawus mak' um," impartedthe Indian, fearfully. "An' if he can'tget out dat better we let um stay indere. Ain' no man kin git in dat hole.I ain' know nuttin' 'bout no JamesDean."

A half-hour before sunrise thefollowing morning Connie started upthe slope, closely followed by'Merican Joe, who mumbledgruesome forebodings as he crowdedso close that he had to keep a sharplookout against treading upon thetails of Connie's rackets. When theyhad covered half the distance a black

fox broke from a nearby patch ofscrub and dashed for the hole in therock-ledge, and as they approachedthe place another fox emerged fromthe thicket, paused abruptly, andcircled widely to the shelter ofanother thicket.

Arriving at the ledge, Connie tookup his position squarely in front ofthe hole, while 'Merican Joe, grimlygrasping the helve of his belt ax, sankdown beside him, and with tremblingfingers untied the thongs of one ofhis snowshoes.

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

"Me—I'm so scare w'en dat yellcom', I'm 'fraid I runaway. If I ain' gotjus' wan snowshoe, I can't run."

"You're all right," smiled the boy,as he reached out and laid areassuring hand upon the Indian'sarm, and hardly had the words lefthis lips than from the mouth of thehole came the wild cry that mountedhigher and higher, and then diedaway in a quavering tremolo.Instantly, Connie thrust his faceclose to the hole. "Hello!" he cried atthe top of his lungs, and again:"Hello, in there!"

A moment of tense silence

followed, and then from the holecame the sound of a voice. "Hello,hello, hello, hello, hello! Don't go'way—for God's sake! Hello, hello,hello——"

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

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

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

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

"How did you get in?" insisted theboy. "Come, think, because it'll helpus to get you out."

"Get in—a long time ago—yearsand years ago—James Dean is veryold. The whole hill is hollow andJames Dean is buried alive."

Connie gave up trying to obtaininformation from the unfortunateman whose inconsistent remarkswere of no help. "I'll see if theserocks are loose," he called, as he

scraped the snow away from theedges of the hole and tapped at therock with the back of his belt ax.

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

A hurried examination confirmedthe man's statement. Connie found,under the snow, evidences of themouth of a tunnel, and then he sawthat the whole face of the ledge hadfallen forward, blocking the tunnel atthe mouth. The small triangularopening used by the foxes, had

originally been a notch in the old faceof the ledge. The boy stared at themass of rock in dismay. Fully twelvefeet of solid rock separated the manfrom the outside world! Once morehe placed his mouth to the hole."Hello, James Dean!"

"Hello!"

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

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

"Window," cried Connie. "Where

is your window?"

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

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

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

"Go over there and yell!" repeated

the boy. "I'll let a line down and we'llpull you out."

Turning to 'Merican Joe, whosenerve had completely returned whenhe became convinced that the authorof the strange yell was a man of fleshand blood, the boy ordered him post-haste to the tent to fetch the threecoils of strong babiche line that hehad added to the outfit. When theIndian had gone, Connie struckstraight up the hill, examining thesurface of the snow eagerly for sightof a hole. But it was not until twohours later, after he and the Indianhad circled and spiralled the hill in

every direction, that he was attractedto a patch of scrawny scrub by thefaint sound of a long-drawn yell.

Into the scrub dashed the boy, andthere, yawning black and forbidding,beneath a low rock-ledge, was a holeat least four feet in height, and eightor nine feet wide. And from far downin the depths came the sound of thevoice, loud and distinct now that hestood directly in front of the hole.The boy called for 'Merican Joe, andwhile he waited for the Indian tocome, he noted that the edges of thehole, and all the bushes that over-hung its mouth were crusted thickly

with white frost. Carefully he laid flaton his belly and edged himself alonguntil he could thrust his face into theabyss. The air felt very warm—adank, damp warmth, such as exudesfrom the depths of a swamp insummer. He peered downward buthis eyes could not penetrate theStygian blackness out of which rosethe monotonous wail of the voice.

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

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

"Wait a minute!" called the boy,and began to collect dry twigs whichhe made into a bundle. He lighted thebundle and when it was burningfiercely he shouted, "Look outbelow!" And leaning far inward, hedropped the blazing twigs. Down,down like a fiery comet they rushedthrough the darkness, and thensuddenly the comet seemed toexplode and a million tiny flamesshot in all directions as the bundleburst from contact with the rockfloor. "Pile the sticks together andmake a fire!" called the boy, "and I'lltoss you down some more!" He couldsee the tiny red faggots moving

toward a central spot, and presently asmall blaze flared up, and as moretwigs were added to the pile theflame brightened. Connie collectedmore wood, and calling a warning,tossed it down. Soon a bright fire wasburning far below, and in theflickering light of the flames the boysaw a grotesque shape flitting hereand there adding twigs to the fire. Hecould not see the man clearly but hecould see that his head and face werecovered with long white hair, andthat he was entirely naked except fora flapping piece of cloth that hungfrom his middle.

'Merican Joe arrived with thebabiche lines, and as the boyproceeded to uncoil and knot themtogether, he sent the Indian to thetent for some blankets. When hereturned the line was ready, with afixed loop in the end.

"All right!" called the boy, "herecomes the line. Sit in the loop, andhold on to the rope for all you'reworth, and we'll have you out in afew minutes!" He could hear the mantalking to himself as he hoveredabout the fire so closely that theflames seemed to be licking at hisskin.

The man looked upward, andConnie paid out the line. When itreached the bottom, the boy notedthat there was only about ten feet ofslack remaining, and he heaved asigh of relief. He could feel the mantugging at the rope, and after amoment of silence the voice soundedfrom below: "Haul away!"

Connie and 'Merican Joe bracedtheir feet on the rocks and pulled.They could feel the rope sway like apendulum as the man left the floor,and then, hand over hand they drewhim to the surface. While the Indianhad gone for the blankets, Connie

had cut a stout pole to be used tosupport the load while they got theman out of the hole. Even with thepole to sustain the weight it was nosmall task to draw the man over theedge, but at last it was accomplished,and James Dean stood once more inthe light of day after his years ofimprisonment in the bowels of theearth. With a cry of pain the manclapped his hands to his eyes, andConnie immediately bound hishandkerchief over them, as 'MericanJoe wrapped the wasted form inthickness after thickness of blankets.When the blankets were secured withthe babiche line the Indian lifted the

man to his shoulders, and struck outfor the tent, as Connie hurried onahead to build up the fire and preparesome food.

The bandage was left on the man'seyes, for the daylight had proved toostrong, but after the tent hadwarmed, the two dressed him in theirextra clothing. The man ateravenously of broiled caribou steakand drank great quantities of tea,after which, the day being still young,camp was struck, and the outfitheaded for the cabin.

It was midnight when they drewup at the door, and soon a roaring

fire heated the interior. Connieturned the light very low, andremoved the bandage from the man'seyes. For a long time he sat silent,staring about him, his eyes travellingslowly from one object to another,and returning every few moments tolinger upon the faces of his rescuers.At times his lips moved slightly, as ifto name some familiar object, but nosound came, and his eyes followedevery movement with interest, as'Merican Joe prepared supper.

When the meal was ready the manstepped to the pole-shelf that servedas a washstand, and as he caught

sight of his face in the little mirrorthat hung above it, he started backwith a cry of horror. Then he steppedto the mirror again, and for a longtime he stared into it as thoughfascinated by what he beheld. In adaze, he turned to Connie. "What—what year is it?" he asked, in a voicethat trembled with uncertainty. Andwhen the boy told him, he stood andbatted his squinting eyesuncomprehendingly. "Six years," hemumbled, "six years buried alive. Sixyears living with weasels, and foxes,and fish without eyes. I was thirty,then—and in six years I'm eighty—eighty years old if I'm a day. Look at

me! Ain't I eighty?"

In truth, the man looked eighty,thought Connie as he glanced intothe face with its faded squinting eyes,the brow wrinkled and white aspaper, and the long white hair andbeard that hung about his shoulders.Aloud he said, "No, you'll be all rightagain in a little while. Living in thedark that way has hurt your eyes, andturned your skin white, and theworry about getting out has madeyour hair turn grey but you can cutyour hair, and shave off yourwhiskers, and the sun will tan you upagain. Let's eat now, and after supper

if you feel like it you can tell us howit happened."

The man ate ravenously—soravenously in fact, that Connie whohad learned that a starving manshould be fed slowly at first, uttered aprotest. "You better go a little easy onthe grub," he cautioned. "Not that wehaven't got plenty, but for your owngood. Anyone that hasn't had enoughto eat for quite a while has got to takeit slow."

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

After supper the man begged to beallowed to help wash the dishes, andwhen the task was finished, he drewhis chair directly in front of the stove,and opening the door, sat staring intothe flames. "Seems like I just got tolook at the fire," he explained, "I ain'tseen one in so long."

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

James Dean settled himself in hischair, and shook his head. "No, notraw. I might's well begin at the start.There's times when my head seemsto kind of go wrong, but it's all rightnow."

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

"No, I feel fine—I'd about give upever seein' men again. Let's seewhere'll I begin. I come north eightyear ago. Prospected the Coppermine,but there ain't nothin' there. Then Ibuilt me a cabin south of the big lake.From there I prospected an' trapped,an' traded with McTavish at FortNorman. One time I struck somecolour on the shore of the lake, rightat the foot of the hill where youfound me. Looked like it had come

out of rotted quartz, an' I figured themother lode would maybe be in thehill so I fetched my drills, an' powder,an' run in a drift. I hadn't got very farin when I shot the whole face out andbusted into a big cave. The wholeinside was lined with rotten quartz,but it wasn't poor man's gold. It was astamp mill claim.

"I prodded around in the cave allday, an' that evenin' some Injunscome an' camped near my tent. Theywas goin' to trap fox, an' I didn't want'em around, so I went over to theircamp an' told 'em there was atamahnawus around. Two of 'em was

scairt stiff, but one wasn't. I told 'emthey was a fox that could talk like aman. But one buck, he figured I waslyin', so to make the play good, I told'em I had the medicine to make thetamahnawus do what I told him. Isaid I would make him burn thesnow, so I slips back to my tent andlaid a fuse out on the lake, an' putabout a pound of powder at the endof it, an' while she was burnin' I wentback. The Injuns could see the fusesputterin' out on the lake, but thisone buck said it was a piece of ropeI'd set afire. I told him if it was ropeit would go out, but if it wastamahnawus I'd tell him to make a

big fire. So I yelled at thetamahnawus a couple of times, andwhen the spark got to the powder sheflashed up big, an' like to scairt themInjuns to death. In the morning theybeat it—an' that was the end of them.If you're smart you can out-guessthem Injuns." The man paused, andConnie, although he said nothing,smiled grimly for well he knew thatthe man had paid dearly for his trick.

"Nex' day I decided to shoot downa face of the rotten quartz to see howthick she was, an' I drilled my holesan' tamped in the shots, an' fired 'em.I had gone back in the cave, instead

of steppin' outside, an' when theshots went off the whole ledge tippedover, an' plugged up my tunnel. I'dshoved my drills an' powder into thetunnel, an they was buried.

"Well, there I was. At first I yelled,an' hollered, an' I clawed at the rockwith my hands. Then I come to. Thecave was dark as pitch, the only lightI could see come through under therocks where the foxes use—only theywasn't any foxes then. There I waswithout nothin' to eat an' drink, an'no way out. I had matches, but therewasn't nothin' to burn. Then I startedout to explore the cave. It was an

awful job in the dark. Now an' thenI'd light a match an' hold it till itburnt my fingers. It was a big cave,an' around a corner of rock, five orsix hundred foot back from the hole,I found the window you drug me outthrough. That let in a little light, butit was high up an' no way to get to it.I heard runnin' water, an' found acrick run right through the middle ofthat room, it was the biggest room ofall. In one place there was a rapidsnot over six inches deep where it runover a ledge of rocks. I crossed it, an'found another long room. It was hotin there an' damp an' it stunk ofsulphur. There was a boilin' spring in

there, an' a little crick run from it tothe big cold crick. I heard a splashin'in the rapids an' I was so scairt Icouldn't run. There wouldn't havebeen no place to run to if I could. So Ilaid there, an' listened. The splashin'kept up an' I quit bein' so scairt, an'went to the rapids. The splashin' wasstill goin' on an' it took me quite awhile there in the dark to figure outit was fish. Well, when I did figure it,I give a whoop. I wasn't goin' tostarve, anyhow—not with fish, an' aboilin' spring to cook 'em. I took offmy shoes an' waded in an' stood stillin the rapids. Pretty quick I could feel'em bumpin' my feet. Then I stuck

my hands in an' when they bumpedinto 'em I'd throw 'em out. I got so Inever missed after a couple of years.They run in schools, an' it got so Iknew when they was up the river, an'when they was down. I'd scoop oneor two out, an' carry 'em to thespring, an' I made a sort of pen out ofrocks in the boilin' water, an' I'dthrow 'em in, an' a half-hour or solater, they'd be done. But they stunkof sulphur, an' tasted rotten, an' atfirst I couldn't go 'em—but I got usedto it after a while.

"The first year, I used to yell outthe door, about every couple of

hours, then three times a day, an' atlast I only yelled when the light inthe hole told me the sun was goingdown, an' again when it come up. Insummer a rabbit would now an' thencome in the hole an' I got so I couldkill 'em with rocks when they set fora minute in the light at the end of thehole. They was plenty o' weasels—ermine they call 'em up here, butthey ain't fit to eat. Towards spring acouple of black fox come nosin' intothe hole, an' I slipped in a rock sothey couldn't get out. I done it first,jest to have company. They was sowild, I couldn't see nothin' but theireyes for a long time. But I scooped

fish out for 'em an' fed 'em every dayin the same place an' they got tamer.Then they had a litter of young ones!Say, they was the cutest little fellersyou ever saw. I fed 'em an' after awhile they was so tame I couldhandle 'em. I never could handle theold ones, but they got so tame they'dtake fish out of my hand.

"All this time I used to go to thehole every day, an' two or three timesa day, an' lay with my face in it, so myeyes would get the light. I was afraidI'd go blind bein' all the time in thedark. An' between times I'd carryloose rock an' pile it under that

window. I spent years of work onpilin' them rocks, an' then I used upall the rocks an' had to quit.

"When the little foxes got about aquarter grow'd I took 'em one at atime, an' shoved 'em out the hole, sotheir eyes wouldn't go bad. After awhile I could let 'em all out together,an' they would always come back. Iwas careful to keep 'em well fed. ButI didn't dare let the old ones go, I wasafraid they'd never come back an'would drag off the little ones, too. Itwasn't so long before them six littlefellows could beat me scoopin' outfish. Well, one day the big ones got

out, an' the little ones followed.They'd clawed the rock away where Ihadn't jammed it in tight. I never feltso bad in my life. I sat there in thedark and bawled like a baby. It waslike losin' yer family all to once. Theywas all I had. I never expected to see'em again. They stayed out all night,but in the mornin' back they all come—big ones an' all! After that I left thehole open, an' they come an' went asthey pleased. Well, they had morelittle ones, an' the little ones hadlittle ones, until they was forty orfifty black fox lived with me in thecave—an' I had 'em all named. Theyused to fetch in ptarmigan an' rabbits

an' I'd take 'em away an' eat 'em.Then one or two begun to turn upmissin' an' I figured they'd be'ntrapped. That give me an idea. If Icould tie a message onto 'em, maybesometime someone would trap oneand find out where I was. But I didn'thave no pencil nor nothin' to writeon. So I begun tearin' strips from mycoat an' pants an' tied 'em aroundtheir necks, but the goods was gettin'rottin, an' bushes clawed it off, ormaybe the foxes did. I used up mycoat, an' most of my pants, an' then Iused ermine skins. I figured that ifany one trapped a black fox wearin'an ermine skin collar it would call for

an investigation. If it was a whitetrapper he would tumble right awaythat something was wrong, an' if itwas an Injun he would brag about itwhen he traded the fur, an' then thefactor would start the investigation.But nothin' come of it till you comealong, although they was several ofthem foxes trapped—as long as threeyears back. But I kept on yellin' nightan' mornin'. Sometime, I know'dsomeone would hear. An' that's allthere is to it, except that my clothesan' shoes was all wore out—but Ididn't mind so much because it waswarm as summer all the time, an' nomosquitoes in the cave."

"And now you can rest up for a fewdays, and well take you to FortNorman," smiled Connie, when theman relapsed into silence, "and youcan go out in the summer with thebrigade."

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

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

The man lapsed into a long silenceas he sat with his grey beard restingupon his breast and gazed into thefire. "No," he said, at length, "I'll go toFort Norman, an' get some drills an'

powder, an' shoot me a new tunnel.I'll take a stove so I can have a fire,an' cook. I like the cave. It's all thehome I got, an' someone's got to lookafter them foxes."

"But the gold?" asked the boy."How about bringing in a stamp milland turn your hill into a regularoutfit?"

James Dean shook his head. "No,it would spoil the cave an' besideswhere would me and the foxes go?That hill is the only home we've got—an' I'm gettin' old. I'm eighty if I'm aday. When I'm dead you can have thehill—but you'll look after them foxes,

won't you, boy?"

A week later Connie and 'MericanJoe and James Dean pulled up beforethe Hudson's Bay Post at FortNorman, and, as the boy entered thedoor, McTavish greeted him insurprise. "You're just the one I want!"he cried. "I was just about to send anIndian runner to your cabin with thisletter. It come from the Yukon byspecial messenger."

Connie tore the document open,and as he read, his eyes hardened. Itwas from Waseche Bill, and it hadnot been intrusted to "Roaring MikeO'Reilly" to transcribe. It ran thus:

Mr. C. Morgan,

Cannady.

Son, yo better come back yere.Theys an outfit thats tryin to horn inon us on Ten Bow. They stack up bigback in the states—name'sGuggenhammer, or somethin' like it,an they say we kin take our choist toeither fight or sell out. If we fight theysay they'll clean us out. I ain't goin' todo one thing or nother till I hear fromyou. Come a runnin' an' les here youtalk.

Your pard,W. Bill.

"What's the matter, son, badnews?" asked McTavish, as he noted

the scowling face of the boy.

"Read it," he snapped, and tossedthe letter to the big Scotchman. Thenstepping to the counter he rapidlywrote a report to Dan McKeever, inre the disappearance of James Dean,after which he turned to 'Merican Joe—"I've got to go back to Ten Bow," hesaid. "All the traps and the fur andeverything we've got here except mysled and dog-team are yours. Stay aslong as you want to, and when youare tired of trapping, come on overinto the Yukon country, and I'll giveyou a job—unless theGuggenhammers bust me—but if

they do they'll know they've beensomewhere when they get through!"

And without waiting to hear theIndian's reply, the boy turned toMcTavish and ordered his trail grub,which 'Merican Joe packed on to theboy's sled as fast as the factor's clerkcould get it out. "So-long," calledConnie, as he stood beside the sled ahalf-hour later. "Here goes a recordtrip to the Yukon! And, say,McTavish, give James Dean anythinghe wants, and charge it to me!"

"All right, lad," called the factor,"but what are ye goin' to do? DanMcKeever'll be wantin' to know,

when he comes along?"

"Do?" asked the boy.

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

"Fight 'em!" cried the boy. "Fight'em to the last ditch! If they've toldWaseche we've got to sell, I wouldn'tsell for a hundred million dollars—and neither would he! We'll fight 'em—and what's more we'll beat 'em—you wait an' see!" And with a yell theboy cracked his whip, and the dogs,with the great Leloo in the lead,sprang out on to the long, long trailto the Yukon.

THE END.

A Selection from theCatalogue of

G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS

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