had left its track. It was that foot which had held Wolf a captive in
Mukoki's trap, and he had lost two toes. None was missing here, and
the old pathfinder rose to his feet again, disappointment shadowing
the twitching expectancy in his face.

Five times that afternoon Mukoki fell on his knees beside the trails
of wolves, and five times the light of hope went out for a moment in
his eyes. It was sunset when he climbed the mountain ridge to the
little lake hidden away in the dip; only a last pale glow tinted the
sky behind the forests when he set down his pack close to the charred
remains of the old cabin. For many minutes he rested, his gaze fixed
on those blackened reminders of their thrilling battle for life the
winter before. His wild blood leaped again at the thought of the
strife, of the desperate race that he and Roderick had run over the
mountain to the burning cabin, and of their rescue of Wabigoon.
Suddenly his eyes caught the white gleam of something half a hundred
paces away, and he rose and walked toward it, grunting and chuckling
in half-savage pleasure. The Woongas had not returned to bury their
dead, and the bones beside which he stopped were those of the outlaw
whom Wabigoon had killed, picked clean by the small animals of the
forest.

Mukoki returned to his pack and sat down As darkness fell about him he
made no effort to build a fire. He had brought food, but did not eat
it. More dense grew the shadows in the forest, thicker the gloom that
hung over the mountains. Still he sat, silent, listening. To him,
softly and timidly at first, came the sounds of the night: the
chuckling notes of birds that awakened when the earth masked itself
in darkness, the hoot of an owl, the faint wailing echo of a far-away
lynx cry, the plunge of a mink in the lake. And now the wind began