uch larger
than a dog or common black bear.

Mrs. Woods raised her gun, but she thought that she was too far from the
house to risk an encounter with so powerful an animal. So she drew back
slowly, and the animal did the same defiantly. She at last turned and ran
to the house.

"Gretchen," she said, "what do you think I have seen?"

"The white squirrel."

"No; a tiger!"

"But there are no tigers here; so the chief said."

"But I have just seen one, and it had the meanest-looking face that I ever
saw on any living creature. It was all snarls. That animal is dangerous. I
shall be almost afraid to be alone now."

"I shall be afraid to go to school."

"No, Gretchen, you needn't be afraid. I'll go with you mornin's and carry
the gun. I like to walk mornin's under the trees, the air does smell so
sweet."

That night, just as the last low tints of the long twilight had
disappeared and the cool, dewy airs began to move among the pines, a long,
deep, fearful cry was heard issuing from the timber. Mrs. Woods started up
from her bed and called, "Gretchen!"

The girl had been awakened by the cry, which might have been that of a
child of a giant in pain.

"Did you hear that?" asked Mrs. Woods.

"Let's get up and go out," said Gretchen.

Presently the same long, clear, pitiable cry, as if some giant distress,
was repeated.

"It seems human," said Mrs. Woods. "It makes me want to know what it is.
Yes, let us get up and go out."

The cry was indeed pleading and magnetic. It excited pity and curiosity.
There was a strange, mysterious quality about it that drew one toward it.
It was repeated a third time and then ceased.

There was a family by the name of Bonney who had taken a donated claim
some miles from the Woodses on the Columbia. They had two boys who
attended the school.

Early the next morning one of these boys, named Arthur, came over to the
Woodses in great distress, with a fearful story.

"Something," he said, "has killed all of our cattle. They all lie dead
near the clearing, just as though they were asleep. They are not injured,
as we can see; they are not shot or bruised, nor do they seem to be
poisoned--they are not swelled--they look as though they were alive--but
they are cold--they are just dead. Did you hear anything in the timber
last night?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Woods. "Wasn't it mysterious? Lost your cattle, boy? I am
sorry for your folks. Mabbie (may be) 'tis Injuns."

"No; father says that