The shore of the lake was irregular, being a succession of rocky points between which narrow bays extended back to the foot of the ridge which grew higher and higher as the two progressed toward the upper end of the lake, where it terminated in a high hill upon the sides of which bold outcroppings of rock showed at intervals between thick patches of scrub timber.

It was well toward the middle of the afternoon when the two reached the head of the lake, a distance of some five or six miles from the starting point. All the steel traps had been set, and ’Merican Joe had constructed two deadfalls, which varied from those set for marten only by being more cunningly devised, and more carefully prepared.

“The other shore ain’t so rough,” said Connie, when the second deadfall was finished. “We can make better time going back.”

’Merican Joe swept the flat, tundra-skirting eastern shore with a glance. “We ain’ fool wit’ dat shore. She too mooch no good for de fox. We go back to camp an’ tomor’ we hont de nudder lak!”

“Look, what’s that?” exclaimed Connie pointing toward a rocky ledge that jutted from the hillside a few rods back from the lake. “It looks like a cache!”

’Merican Joe scrutinized the arrangement of weather-worn poles that supported a sagging platform, and with a non-committal grunt, led the way toward the ledge. The spot was reached after a short climb, and by ascending to another ledge close behind the first, the two were able to look down upon the platform, which was raised about eight feet from the floor of its rock-ledge.

“Funny bunch of stuff to cache!” exclaimed the boy. “I’ll tell you what it is, there’s a grave here. I’ve seen the Indians over on the Yukon put stuff out beside a grave. It’s for the dead man to use in the Happy Hunting Ground.”

The Indian shook his head. “No. Ain’ no grave here.”

“Maybe they buried him there beside the rock,” ventured the boy.

“No. Injun ain’ bury lak’ white man. If de man ees here, she would be on de rocks, lak de cache. Injun lay de dead man on de rock an’ mak’ de leetle pole house for um.”

“Well, what in thunder would anyone want to cache that stuff ’way out here for? Look, there’s a blanket, and it’s been here so long it’s about rotted to pieces, and a pipe, and moccasins, and there’s the stock of a rifle sticking out beneath the blanket-those things have been there a long time-a year or two at least. But there’s grub there, too. And the grub is fresh-it hasn’t been there more than a month.”

’Merican Joe was silent, and as the boy turned toward him, he caught him glancing furtively over his shoulder toward the dark patches of timber that blotched the hillside. “I ain’ lak dis place. She no good,” he muttered, as he caught the boy’s glance.

“What’s the matter with it?” smiled Connie. “What do you make of it?”

For answer, ’Merican Joe turned abruptly and descended to the shore of the lake. At the extremity of a rocky point that afforded a sweeping view of the great hillside, he stopped and waited for Connie to join him. “Dis place, she ain’ no good,” he reiterated, solemnly.

“What’s the matter with it?” repeated the boy. “You said all along, until we came across that cache, that it was a dandy lake to trap foxes on.”

“Good for fox, mebbe-but no good for Injun. Me-I’m t’ink I’m pull up dem trap, an’ fin’ som’ nudder place.”

“Pull up nothing!” cried the boy. “After all that work setting them? Buck up! What’s the matter with you anyhow?”

“Dat cache-she lak you say-lak de grave cache. But dey ain’ no grave! Dat mus’ got to be de tamahnawus cache!”

“Tamahnawus cache!” laughed the boy. “Tamahnawuses don’t make caches. And besides there ain’t any tamahnawuses! Don’t you remember the other tamahnawus-that turned out to be a man in a moose hide? I’ve heard a lot about ’em-but I never saw one yet.”

’Merican Joe regarded the boy gravely. “Dat better you don’t see no tamahnawus, neider. You say, ‘ain’ no tamahnawus, ‘cos I ain’ see none’. Tell me, is dere any God?”

“Why, yes, of course there’s a God,” answered the boy, quickly.

The Indian regarded him gravely. “Me-I ain’ say, ‘ain’ no God ’cos I ain’ see none’. I say, dat better I ain’ mak’ dat white man God mad. But, jus’ de same, I ain’ goin’ mak’ no tamahnawus mad, neider.”

“All right,” smiled Connie. “We won’t make him mad, but I’m going to find out about that tamahnawus-you wait and see. I wonder who built that cache?”

“Dat Dog Rib cache,” promptly answered the Indian.

“Probably the Injuns up at the village will know about it. They’ll be back from Fort Norman in a few days, and I’ll ask Pierre Bonnet Rouge.”

Avoiding the rough shore, the two struck out for camp down the middle of the ice-locked lake where the wind-packed snow gave excellent footing. The air was still and keen, the sky cloudless, and Connie watched the sun set in a blaze of gold behind the snow-capped ridge to the westward. Suddenly both halted in their tracks and glanced into each other’s faces. From far behind them, seemingly from the crest of the hill they had left, sounded a cry: “Y-i-i-e-e-o-o-o!” Long-drawn, thin, quavering, it cut the keen air with startling distinctness. Then, as abruptly as it had started, it ceased, and the two stood staring. Swiftly Connie’s glance sought the bald crest of the hill that showed distinctly above the topmost patches of timber, as it caught the last rays of the setting sun. But the hill showed only an unbroken sky-line, and in the dead silence of the barrens the boy waited tensely for a repetition of the wild cry. And as he waited he was conscious of an uncomfortable prickling at the roots of his hair, for never had he heard the like of that peculiar wailing cry, a cry that the boy knew had issued from the throat of no wild animal-a wild cry and eerie in its loud-screamed beginning, but that sounded half-human as it trailed off in what seemed a moan of quavering despair.

The cry was not repeated and Connie glanced into the face of ’Merican Joe who stood with sagging jaw, the picture of abject fear. With an effort, the boy spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, for he well knew that it would never do to let the Indian see that his own nerve had been momentarily shaken:

“Someone lost up in the hills, I guess. We’d better go hunt him up.”

The Indian’s eyes stared wide with terror, his lips moved stiffly and the words rasped huskily: “Tamahnawus! She git dark. We git to camp. Mak’ de big fire. Tamahnawus she no lak’ de fire.” And without waiting for a reply, he struck off down the lake as fast as his snowshoes would let him. And Connie followed, knowing that in the approaching darkness nothing could be done toward clearing up the mystery 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 the huge fire which he kept blazing high all the night through. Breakfast was finished just as the first grey light of dawn showed the outlines of the ridge. ’Merican Joe watched in silence as Connie made the remaining grub into a pack. “Take down the fly,” ordered the boy, and the Indian obeyed with alacrity. Folding the fly, he added the blankets to the pack, fastened on his snowshoes and struck out toward the north-west.

“Here, where you going?” cried Connie.

The Indian paused. “Goin’ back to de cabin, jus’ so fas’ lak I kin.”

“No you ain’t,” laughed the boy. “You’re going with me, and we’re going to find out all about who, or what made that racket last night.”

“No, no, no! I ain’ got to fin’ dat out! Me-I know!”

“You don’t know a thing about it. Listen here. That sound came from that high hill, didn’t it?”

The Indian glanced fearfully toward the hill, the outline of which was just visible at the head of the lake, and nodded.

“Well, we’re going to circle that hill. There has been no fresh snow for ten days or two weeks, and if we circle the base of it we’ll strike the trail of whoever is on the hill. Then we can follow the trail.”

“I ain’ want no trail! Tamahnawus she don’ mak’ no trail. Dat hill she b’long to tamahnawus. I ain’ want dat hill. Plent’ mor’ hill for me. An’ plent’ mor’ lak’ to trap de fox. An’ besides, we ain’ got nuff grub. We got to git back.”

“We’ve got enough grub for today and tomorrow if we go light on it. It won’t take us long when we strike the trail to follow it up on to the hill. Come on, buck up! There may be someone up there that needs help-maybe someone that is in the same fix you were when I found you back on Spur Mountain.”

“Ain’t no one up dere. I ain’ hang roun’ on Spur Mountain an’ yell lak tamahnawus. Me-I’m too mooch dead.”

“Come on. Are you going with me?”

The Indian hesitated. “If we go roun’ de hill an’ ain’ fin’ no track, den we hit for de cabin?” he asked, shrewdly.

“Yes,” answered the boy, confident that they would strike the trail by circling the hill, “if we don’t strike the trail of whoever or whatever made that sound, we’ll hit back to the cabin.”

“All right, me-I’m go ‘long-but we ain’ strike no trail. Tamahnawus don’ mak’ no trail.” Connie struck out with the Indian following, and as they reached the summit of the ridge that paralleled the shore of the lake, the sun showed his yellow rim over a distant spruce swamp, and at the same instant, far away-from the direction of the hill, came once more the long-drawn quavering yell. ’Merican Joe whirled at the sound and started out over the back trail, and it required a full fifteen minutes of persuasion, ridicule, entreaty, and threat before he reluctantly returned and fell in behind Connie.

At the base of the hill, the boy suggested that they separate and each follow its base in opposite directions, pointing out that much time could be saved, as the hill, which was of mountainous proportions, seemed likely to have a base contour of eight or ten miles. But ’Merican Joe flatly refused. He would accompany Connie, as he had agreed to, but not one foot would he go without the boy. All the way up the ridge, he had followed so closely that more than once he had stepped on the tails of Connie’s snowshoes, and twice, when the boy had halted suddenly to catch some fancied sound, he had bumped into him.

It was nearly sundown when the two stood at the intersection of their own trail after having made the complete circuit of the hill. Fox tracks they had found, also the tracks of wolves, and rabbits, and of an occasional loup cervier-and nothing more. Connie had examined every foot of the ground carefully, and at intervals had halted and yelled at the top of his lungs-had even persuaded ’Merican Joe to launch forth his own peculiarly penetrating call, but their only answer was the dead, sphinx-like silence of the barrens.

“Com’ on,” urged ’Merican Joe, with a furtive glance into a nearby thicket. “Me-I got nuff. I know we ain’ goin’ fin’ no track. Tamahnawus don’ mak’ no track.”

“Tamahnawus, nothing!” exclaimed Connie, impatiently. “I tell you there ain’t any such thing. If we had grub enough I’d stay right here till I found out where that yell comes from. There’s no sign of a camp on the hill, and no one has gone up or come down since this snow fell. There’s something funny about the whole business, and you bet I’m going to find out what it is.”

“You say we no fin’ de track, we go back to de cabin,” reminded the Indian.

“Yes, and we will go back. And then we’ll load up a sled-load of grub, and we’ll hit right back here and stay till we get at the bottom of this. The sun will drop out of sight in a minute, and then I think we’ll hear it again. We heard it last evening at sundown, and at sunrise this morning.”

“I ain’ wan’ to hear it no mor’,” ’Merican Joe announced uneasily. “Dat ain’ no good to hear.”

Extending upward clear to the crest of the hill, directly above where the two stood, was an area half a mile wide upon which no timber grew. Here and there a jumbled outcropping of rock broke the long smooth sweep of snow upon which the last rays of the setting sun were reflected with dazzling brightness. As Connie waited expectantly he was conscious of a tenseness of nerves, that manifested itself in a clenching of his fists, and the tight-pressing of his lips. His eyes swept the long up-slanting spread of snow, and even as he looked he heard ’Merican Joe give a startled grunt, and there before them on the snow beside an outcropping of rocks not more than three hundred yards from them, a beautiful black fox stood clean-cut against the white background, and daintily sniffed the air. Connie’s surprise was no less than the Indian’s for he knew that scarcely a second had passed since his eyes had swept that exact spot-and there had been no fox there.

The sunlight played only upon the upper third of the long slope now, and the fox lifted his delicately pointed muzzle upward as if to catch some fleeting scent upon the almost motionless air. Then came that awful cry, rising in a high thin scream, and trailing off as before in a quavering wail of despair.

As Connie stared in amazement at the black fox, there was a swift scratching of claws, and a shower of dry snow flew up, as Leloo like a great silver flash, launched himself up the slope. For a fraction of a second the boy’s glance rested upon the flying grey shape and once more it sought the fox-but there was no fox there, only the low rock-ledge outcropping through the snow. Instantly the boy sprang after Leloo, disregarding the inarticulate protest of ’Merican Joe, who laboured heavily along in his wake, hesitating between two fears, the fear of being left alone, and the fear of visiting the spot at which had appeared the fox with the voice of a man.

As Connie reached the rock-ledge he stopped abruptly and stared in surprise at Leloo. The great wolf-dog’s nose quivered, and his yellow eyes were fixed with a peculiar glare upon a small irregular hole beneath a projecting lip of rock-a hole just big enough to admit the body of the fox. Even as the boy looked, the long hairs of Leloo’s great ruff stiffened, and stood quiveringly erect, a low growl rumbled deep in the dog’s throat, and with a curious tense stiffness of movement, he began to back slowly from the hole. Never for an instant did the low throaty growl cease, nor did the fixed yellow eyes leave the black aperture. Not until he had backed a full twenty feet from the hole did the dog’s tense muscles relax and then his huge brush of a tail drooped, the hair of his ruff flattened, and he turned and trotted down the back trail, pausing only once to cast a hang-dog glance up the slope.

Connie was conscious of a strange chill at the pit of his stomach. Why had Leloo, the very embodiment of savage courage, backed away from that hole with every muscle tense, and why had he hit the back trail displaying every evidence of abject terror? The boy had seen him run foxes to earth before, and he had never acted like that. He had always torn at the edges of the hole with fang and claw. A hundred times more terrifying than even the fox with the strange human cry, was the action of the wolf-dog. Without moving from his tracks, the boy examined the rock-ledge. It was probably twenty feet in length, and not more than four or five feet high, and he saw at a glance that the small irregular hole was the only aperture in the mass of solid rock. His eyes swept the surrounding hillside but with the exception of numerous fox tracks that led to and from the hole, the surface of the snow was unbroken.

The sunlight had disappeared from the crest of the hill. On the lower levels the fast deepening twilight was rendering objects indistinguishable, when Connie turned to ’Merican Joe, who presented a pitiable picture of terror. “Let’s go,” he said, shortly. “We’ll have a moon tonight. We can travel till we get tired.”

And ’Merican Joe without waiting for a second invitation struck off down the hill after Leloo, at a pace that Connie found hard to follow.