hundreds
of feet above him, and fell away to the right in a yawning chasm, black,
and deep and unexplored. But the sure-footed cayuse stepped gingerly and
knowingly, neither halting nor stumbling, and his wise little rider let
the animal pick its own way, knowing well that a horse's senses in the
dark are more acute than a human's. Presently from far across the canyon
arose a weird, prolonged howl. Then from the heights above came an
answering one.

"Ah, my brothers!" called Leloo aloud. "You have come to greet me
through the night," and his eyes lighted like twin black fires, for he
loved these wolves that made their dens and lairs along the Cariboo
Trail, and to-night they were to serve him in the oddest fashion that a
wild animal was ever called upon to do. As he rode on, he would--just
for company's sake--call back to the wolves, answering their cries with
such a perfect imitation of their wild voices that they would reply to
him, from far below, then again from far above, and Leloo would smile
to himself and say, "That is right, O great and fierce Leloos; answer
me, for you are my kin and my cousins."

But the trail was growing steeper, narrower every moment, and after a
time Leloo forgot to reply to his forest friends, and just rode on,
peering through the shadows to avoid the dangers on all sides. Presently
a sound that belonged to neither crag nor canyon fell across his quick,
Indian ears. It was a man's voice, hushed, subdued, speaking very low,
and speaking in English. It said:

"I hear a horse coming."

"Shut up! Don't talk so loud," replied another voice.

"I tell you I hear horses," answered the first voice irritably. "It must
be the stage coming. Get ready!"

"You're clean crazy," said the other voice. "The stage makes more
noise than that, and I know for sure there's no horseman up the trail
to-night. It's some wild animal you hear."

Leloo pulled his cayuse stock still. He did not understand English
readily, he was not versed in the ways of the white man, but his
wonderful native wit and instinct told him at once that there was
something wrong--the wrong things that white men were sent to jail for
sometimes. He asked himself, "Why should they hide and whisper?" Only
hunters hid and refused to speak aloud. Then he remembered--the stage.

How often his father had talked of the great lumps of gold the white men
were digging up, two hundred miles north, up the Frozen River--"Cariboo
gold," his fat