not carry him any further, so he got off and ran behind
him toward the river. At dusk he hailed his companions.

"Ho, what success?" one cried.

"Not a sign of even a lone bull," replied another.

"Yet I saw a gray wolf going north this evening. His direction is
propitious," remarked Anookasan, as he led the others down the slope and
into the heavy timber. The river just here made a sharp turn, forming a
densely wooded semicircle, in the shelter of a high bluff.

The braves were all downhearted because of their ill-luck, and only the
sanguine spirit of Anookasan kept them from utter discouragement. Their
slight repast had been taken and each man had provided himself with
abundance of dry grass and twigs for a bed. They had built a temporary
wigwam of the same material, in the center of which there was a generous
fire. Each man stretched himself out upon his robe in the glow of it.
Anookasan filled the red pipe, and, having lighted it, he took one or
two hasty puffs and held it up to the moon, which was scarcely visible
behind the cold clouds.

"Great Mother, partake of this smoke! May I eat meat to-morrow!" he
exclaimed with solemnity. Having uttered this prayer, he handed the pipe
to the man nearest him.

For a time they all smoked in silence; then came a distant call.

"Ah, it is Shunkmanito, the wolf! There is something cheering in his
voice to-night," declared Anookasan. "Yes, I am sure he is telling us
not to be discouraged. You know that the wolf is one of our best friends
in trouble. Many a one has been guided back to his home by him in a
blizzard, or led to game when in desperate need. My friends, let us not
turn back in the morning; let us go north one more day!"

No one answered immediately, and again silence reigned, while one by one
they pulled the reluctant whiffs of smoke through the long stem of the
calumet.

"What is that?" said one of the men, and all listened intently to catch
the delicate sound. They were familiar with all the noises of the night
and voices of the forest, but this was not like any of them.

"It sounds like the song of a mosquito, and one might forget while he
listens that this is not midsummer," said one.

"I hear also the medicine-man's single drumbeat," suggested another.

"There is a tradition," remarked Anookasan, that many years ago a party
of hunters went up the river on a scout like this of ours. They never
returned. Afterward, in the summer, their bones were foun