caches.
And besides there ain't any _tamahnawuses_! Don't you remember the other
_tamahnawus_--that turned out to be a man in a moose hide? I've heard a
lot about 'em--but I never saw one yet."

'Merican Joe regarded the boy gravely. "Dat better you don't see no
_tamahnawus_, neider. You say, 'ain' no _tamahnawus_, 'cos I ain' see
none'. Tell me, is dere any God?"

"Why, yes, of course there's a God," answered the boy, quickly.

The Indian regarded him gravely. "Me--I ain' say, 'ain' no God 'cos I
ain' see none'. I say, dat better I ain' mak' dat white man God mad.
But, jus' de same, I ain' goin' mak' no _tamahnawus_ mad, neider."

"All right," smiled Connie. "We won't make him mad, but I'm going to
find out about that _tamahnawus_--you wait and see. I wonder who built
that _cache_?"

"Dat Dog Rib _cache_," promptly answered the Indian.

"Probably the Injuns up at the village will know about it. They'll be
back from Fort Norman in a few days, and I'll ask Pierre Bonnet Rouge."

Avoiding the rough shore, the two struck out for camp down the middle of
the ice-locked lake where the wind-packed snow gave excellent footing.
The air was still and keen, the sky cloudless, and Connie watched the
sun set in a blaze of gold behind the snow-capped ridge to the westward.
Suddenly both halted in their tracks and glanced into each other's
faces. From far behind them, seemingly from the crest of the hill they
had left, sounded a cry: "_Y-i-i-e-e-o-o-o!_" Long-drawn, thin,
quavering, it cut the keen air with startling distinctness. Then, as
abruptly as it had started, it ceased, and the two stood staring.
Swiftly Connie's glance sought the bald crest of the hill that showed
distinctly above the topmost patches of timber, as it caught the last
rays of the setting sun. But the hill showed only an unbroken sky-line,
and in the dead silence of the barrens the boy waited tensely for a
repetition of the wild cry. And as he waited he was conscious of an
uncomfortable prickling at the roots of his hair, for never had he heard
the like of that peculiar wailing cry, a cry that the boy knew had
issued from the throat of no wild animal--a wild cry and eerie in its
loud-screamed beginning, but that sounded half-human as it trailed off
in what seemed a moan of quavering despair.

The cry was not repeated and Connie glanced into the face of 'Merican
Joe who stood with sagging jaw, the picture of abject fear. With an
effort, the boy spoke in