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Wolf Hunters, The

CHAPTER XI RODERICK'S DREAM A chilling loneliness now crept over the young adventurer. Even as he ate he tried to peer out into the mysterious darkness. A sound from up the chasm, made by some wild prowler of the night, sent a nervous tremor through him. He was not afraid; he would not have confessed to that. But still, the absolute, almost gruesome silence between the two mountains, the mere knowledge that he was alone in a place where the foot of man had not trod for more than half a century, was not altogether quieting to his nerves. What mysteries might not these grim walls hold? What might not happen here, where everything was so strange, so weird, and so different from the wilderness world just over the range? Rod tried to laugh away his nervousness, but the very sound of his own voice was distressing. It rose in unnatural shivering echoes—a low, hollow mockery of a laugh beating itself against the walls; a ghost of a laugh, Rod thought, and that very thought made him hunch closer to the fire. The young hunter was not superstitious, or at least he was not unnaturally so; but what man or boy is there in this whole wide world of ours who does not, at some time, inwardly cringe from something in the air—something that does not exist and never did exist, but which holds a peculiar and nameless fear for the soul of a human being? And Rod, as he piled his fire high with wood and shrank in the warmth of his cedar shelter, felt that nameless dread; and there came to him no thought of sleep, no feeling of fatigue, but only that he was alone, absolutely alone, in the mystery and almost unending silence of the chasm. Try as he would he could not keep from his mind the vision of the skeletons as he had first seen them in the old cabin. Many, many years ago, even before his own mother was born, those skeletons had trod this very chasm. They had drunk from the same creek as he, they had clambered over the same rocks, they had camped perhaps where he was camping now! They, too, in flesh and life, had strained their ears in the grim silence, they had watched the flickering light of their camp-fire on the walls of rock—and they had found gold! Just now, if Rod could have moved himself by magic, he would have been safely back in camp. He listened. From far back over the trail he had followed there came a lonely, plaintive, almost pleading cry. "'Ello—'ello—'ello!" It sounded like a distant human greeting, but Rod knew that it was the awakening night cry of what Wabi called the "man owl." It was weirdly human-like; and the echoes came softly, and more softly, until ghostly voices seemed to be whispering in the blackness about him. "'Ello—'ello—'ello!" The boy shivered and laid his rifle across his knees. There was tremendous comfort in the rifle. Rod fondled it with his fingers, and two or three times he felt as though he would almost like to talk to it. Only those who have gone far into the silence and desolation of the unblazed wilderness know just how human a good rifle becomes to its owner. It is a friend every hour of the night and day, faithful to its master's desires, keeping starvation at bay and holding death for his enemies; a guaranty of safety at his bedside by night, a sharp-fanged watch-dog by day, never treacherous and never found wanting by the one who bestows upon it the care of a comrade and friend. Thus had Rod come to look upon his rifle. He rubbed the barrel now with his mittens; he polished the stock as he sat in his loneliness, and long afterward, though he had determined to remain awake during the night, he fell asleep with it clasped tightly in his hands. It was an uneasy, troubled slumber in which the young adventurer's visions and fears took a more realistic form. He half sat, half lay, upon his cedar boughs; his head fell forward upon his breast, his feet were stretched out to the fire. Now and then unintelligible sounds fell from his lips, and he would start suddenly as if about to awaken, but each time would sink back into his restless sleep, still clutching the gun. The visions in his head began to take a more definite form. Once more he was on the trail, and had come to the old cabin. But this time he was alone. The window of the cabin was wide open, but the door was tightly closed, just as the hunters had found it when they first came down into the dip. He approached cautiously. When very near the window he heard sounds—strange sounds—like the clicking of bones! Step by step in his dream he approached the window and looked in. And there he beheld a sight that froze him to the marrow. Two huge skeletons were struggling in deadly embrace. He could hear no sound but the click-click-click of their bones. He saw the gleam of knives held between fleshless fingers, and he saw now that both were struggling for the possession of something that was upon the table. Now one almost reached it, now the other, but neither gained possession. The clicking of the bones became louder, the struggle fiercer, the knives of the skeleton combatants rose and fell. Then one staggered back and sank in a heap on the floor. For a moment the victor swayed, tottered to the table, and gripped the mysterious object in its bony fingers. As it stumbled weakly against the cabin wall the gruesome creature held the object up, and Rod saw that it was a roll of birch-bark! An ember in the dying fire snapped with a sound like the report of a small pistol and Rod sat bolt upright, awake, staring, trembling. What a horrible dream! He drew in his cramped legs and approached the fire on his knees, holding his rifle in one hand while he piled on wood with the other. What a horrible dream! He shuddered and ran his eyes around the impenetrable wall of blackness that shut him in, the thought constantly flashing through his mind, what a horrible dream—what a horrible dream! He sat down again and watched the flames of his fire as they climbed higher and higher. The light and the heat cheered him, and after a little he allowed his mind to dwell upon the adventure of his slumber. It had made him sweat. He took off his cap and found that the hair about his forehead was damp. All the different phases of a dream return to one singly when awake, and it was with the suddenness of a shot that there came to Rod a remembrance of the skeleton hand held aloft, clutching between its gleaming fleshless fingers the roll of birch-bark. And with that memory of his dream there came another—the skeleton in the cabin was clutching a piece of birch-bark when they had buried it! Could that crumpled bit of bark hold the secret of the lost mine? Was it for the possession of that bark instead of the buckskin bag that the men had fought and died? As the minutes passed Rod forgot his loneliness, forgot his nervousness and only thought of the possibilities of the new clue that had come to him in a dream. Wabi and Mukoki had seen the bark clutched in the skeleton fingers, but they as well as he had given it no special significance, believing that it had been caught up in some terrible part of the struggle when both combatants were upon the floor, or perhaps in the dying agonies of the wounded man against the wall. Rod remembered now that they had found no more birch-bark upon the floor, which they would have done if a supply had been kept there for kindling fires. Step by step he went over the search they had made in the old cabin, and more and more satisfied did he become that the skeleton hand held something of importance for them. He replenished his fire and waited impatiently for dawn. At four o'clock, before day had begun to dispel the gloom of night, he cooked his breakfast and prepared his pack for the homeward journey. Soon afterward a narrow rim of light broke through the rift in the chasm. Slowly it crept downward, until the young hunter could make out objects near him and the walls of the mountains. Thick shadows still defied his vision when he began retracing his steps over the trail he had made the day before. He returned with the same caution that he had used in his advance. Even more carefully, if possible, did he scrutinize the rocks and the creek ahead. He had already found life in the chasm, and he might find more. The full light of day came quickly now, and with it the youth's progress became more rapid. He figured that if he lost no time in further investigation of the creek he would arrive at camp by noon, and they would dig up the skeleton without delay. There was little snow in the chasm, in spite of the lateness of the season, and if the roll of bark held the secret of the lost gold it would be possible for them to locate the treasure before other snows came to baffle them. At the spot where he had killed the silver fox Rod paused for a moment. He wondered if foxes ever traveled in pairs, and regretted that he had not asked Wabi or Mukoki that question. He could see where the fox had come straight from the black wall of the mountain. Curiosity led him over the trail. He had not followed it more than two hundred yards when he stopped in sudden astonishment. Plainly marked in the snow before him was the trail of a pair of snow-shoes! Whoever had been there had passed since he shot the fox, for the imprints of the animal's feet were buried under those of the snow-shoes. Who was the other person in the chasm? Was it Wabi? Had Mukoki or he come to join him? Or— He looked again at the snow-shoe trail. It was a peculiar trail, unlike the one made by his own shoes. The imprints were a foot longer than his own, and narrower. Neither Wabi nor Mukoki wore shoes that would make that trail! At this point the strange trail had turned and disappeared among the rocks along the wall of the mountain, and it occurred to Rod that perhaps the stranger had not discovered his presence in the chasm. There was some consolation in this thought, but it was doomed to quick disappointment. Very cautiously the youth advanced, his rifle held in readiness and his eyes searching every place of concealment ahead of him. A hundred yards farther on the stranger had stopped, and from the way in which the snow was packed Rod knew that he had stood in a listening and watchful attitude for some time. From this point the trail took another turn and came down until, from behind a huge rock, the stranger had cautiously peered out upon the path made by the white youth. It was evident that he was extremely anxious to prevent the discovery of his own trail, for now the mysterious spy threaded his way behind rocks until he had again come to the shelter of the mountain wall. Rod was perplexed. He realized the peril of his dilemma, and yet he knew not what course to take to evade it. He had little doubt that the trail was made by one of the treacherous Woongas, and that the Indian not only knew of his presence, but was somewhere in the rocks ahead of him, perhaps even now waiting behind some ambuscade to shoot him. Should he follow the trail, or would it be safer to steal along among the rocks of the opposite wall of the chasm? He had decided upon the latter course when his eyes caught a narrow horizontal slit cleaving the face of the mountain on his left, toward which the snow-shoe tracks seemed to lead. With his rifle ready for instant use the youth slowly approached the fissure, and was surprised to find that it was a complete break in the wall of rock, not more than four feet wide, and continuing on a steady incline to the summit of the ridge. At the mouth of this fissure his mysterious watcher had taken off his snow-shoes and Rod could see where he had climbed up the narrow exit from the chasm. With a profound sense of relief the young hunter hurried along the base of the mountain, keeping well within its shelter so that eyes that might be spying from above could not see his movements. He now felt no fear of danger. The stranger's flight up the cleft in the chasm wall and his careful attempts to conceal his trail among the rocks assured Rod that he had no designs upon his life. His chief purpose had seemed to be to keep secret his own presence in the gorge, and this fact in itself added to the mystification of the white youth. For a long time he had been secretly puzzled, and had evolved certain ideas of his own because of the movements of the Woongas. Contrary to the opinions of Mukoki and Wabigoon, he believed that the red outlaws were perfectly conscious of their presence in the dip. From the first their actions had been unaccountable, but not once had one of their snow-shoe trails crossed their trap-lines. Was this fact in itself not significant? Rod was of a contemplative theoretical turn of mind, one of those wide-awake, interesting young fellows who find food for conjecture in almost every incident that occurs, and his suspicions were now aroused to an unusual pitch. A chief fault, however, was that he kept most of his suspicions to himself, for he believed that Mukoki and Wabigoon, born and taught in the life of the wilderness, were infallible in their knowledge of the ways and the laws and the perils of the world they were in. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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