ces of the wild. The wolf howled again in the middle of the
night. The loon forgot his love-sickness, and screamed raucous defiance
at the moon. The big snowshoes were no longer tame, but wary and alert,
and the owls seemed to slink deeper into darkness and watch with more
cunning. And Jolly Roger knew the human masters of the wilderness were
returning from the Posts to their cabins and trap-lines, and he
advanced with still greater caution. And as he went, watching for smoke
and listening for sound, he began to reflect upon the many changes
which five years might have produced among Yellow Bird's people.
Possibly other misfortunes had come, other winters of hunger and
pestilence, scattering and destroying the tribe. It might even be that
Yellow Bird was dead.

For three days he followed slowly the ragged shore of Wollaston Lake,
and foreboding of evil was oppressing him when he came upon the
fish-racks of the Indians. They had been abandoned for many days, for
black bear tracks fairly inundated the place, and Peter saw two of the
bears--fat and unafraid--nosing along the shore where the fish offal
had been thrown.

It was the next day, in the hour before sunset, that Jolly Roger and
Peter came out on the edge of a shelving beach where Indian children
were playing in the white sand. Among these children, playing and
laughing with them, was a woman. She was tall and slim, with a skirt of
soft buckskin that came only a little below her knees, and two shining
black braids which tossed like velvety ropes when she ran. And she was
running when they first saw her--running away from them, pursued by the
children; and then she twisted suddenly, and came toward them, until
with a startled cry she stopped almost within the reach of Jolly
Roger's hands. Peter was watching. He saw the half frightened look in
her face, then the slow widening of her dark eyes, and the quick intake
of her breath. And in that moment Jolly Roger cried out a name.

"Yellow Bird!"

He went to her slowly, wondering if it could be possible the years had
touched Yellow Bird so lightly; and Yellow Bird reached out her hands
to him, her face flaming up with sudden happiness, and Peter wondered
what it was all about as he cautiously eyed the half dozen brown-faced
little Indian children who had now gathered quietly about them. In
another moment there was an interruption. A girl came through the
fringe of willows behind them. It was as if another Yellow Bird