accustomed to facing almost any sort of danger. As for me, I could not
myself prevent the creeping chills from running down my spine whenever I
thought of the wild man.

Could it be possible that this strange, half-wild man of the mountains,
this killer, this master of a wolf pack, could be in any way connected
with my father? I wondered, and as I wondered I found that a vague fear
of this mad man who despite his reputed age seemed as youthful and as
agile as a man in his thirties, was gripping me. Perhaps the strangeness
of the wilderness park added to my awe, for certainly one could expect
almost anything supernatural to happen in the twilight of the forest of
giant trees, whose interlacing branches overhead shut out the light of
heaven.

Recovering somewhat from my astonishment and surprise, I realized that
what I had witnessed, strange though it appeared, was not a supernatural
occurrence. I knew that it was a real gun I had heard, real smoke I had
seen, real man, real bird, real elk, and real wolves.

"But, Pete," I exclaimed, as a sudden thought struck me, "what's become
of our dogs?"

"Better ask them black fiends up the mountains. I reckon you won't see
them tha' hounds of yours agin."

And I never did, but having hunted the wolf with cowboys and having been
a witness to their extraordinary biting power, I knew the fate that must
necessarily befall a couple of ordinary hounds when overtaken by half a
dozen full-grown wolves. On such occasions we do not spend much time in
grief over a loss of any kind, "it taint according to mountain law,"
Pete would say.

"Reckon we had better swipe some of that elk before the coyotes get at
it," growled Pete. "The wild mountainman knows the good parts, but an
elk is an elk, and one wild man, even if he is a giant, can't carry off
all the good meat, not by a long shot."

"He may come back," I suggested.

"Not he," said Pete. "He's too stuck up for that. When he wants more,
them tha' black demons and that voodoo bird of his'n will get 'em for
him, and he's a hanging his long legs off'ner a rock some whar smoking a
long cigar."

"Dod rot him," growled Pete. "Why couldn't he leave a piece of hide to
carry the meat in and the stomach to cook it in? That's the fust time I
ever stayed long 'nough to see him collar his meat, though they say he
do eat the game raw, but I reckon that's a lie, leastwise he didn't do't
this time."

With a good square meal of the locoed hunte