ediately seeks a new range, leaving the
district to the larger bear. But Bill confessed that he took the legend
with a grain of salt. "I've seen too many bear families running around
the woods together," he explained. "Pa bears, ma bears, and baby bears,
all different sizes."

Virginia noticed that he spoke with great respect for that huge forest
king, the grizzly; but she needn't have wondered. The great creature
was worthy of it.

Perhaps the most intelligent wild animal that roams the American
continent--on the same intellectual plane with the dog and
elephant--he was also the most terrible. The truth has been almost
established among the big-game hunters that wild animals, with few
exceptions, even when wounded practically never charge or attack the
hunter. But his imperial majesty, the grizzly, was first on the list
of exceptions. He couldn't be entirely trusted. His terrible strength,
his ferocity, most of all his courage won him a wide berth through this
mountain land.

She began to catch glimpses of bird life,--saucy jays and
glorious-colored magpies and grossbeaks. She cried out in delight when
a pine squirrel scampered up a little tree just over her head, pausing
to look down at these strange forms that had disturbed the cathedral
silence of the tree aisles. And all at once Bill drew up his horses.

"Miss Tremont, do you like chicken?" he asked.

She was somewhat startled by the abrupt question, and her horse nosed
Mulvaney's flanks before she drew him to a halt. It occurred to her
that such a query scarcely came under the title of small talk, and she
found some difficulty in shaping her answer. "Why yes," she agreed.
"I'm very fond of chicken."

"It's pretty good, boiled with rice," the man went on gravely. "We'll
have some for supper."

Virginia stared at him in blank amazement as he slipped down from the
saddle and drew his automatic, small-calibered pistol from the holster.
He stole forward into the flaking shadows of late afternoon, and at once
the brush obscured him. Then he shot,--four times in succession.

She was wholly unable to guess what manner of target he had. Chickens
were one thing that she found it hard to believe ranged in these
northern woods. She felt certain that he had missed the first three
shots, but she waited with considerable interest the result of the
fourth. And soon he pushed through the thickets to her side.

In his hand he held a queer, gray, shapeles