the logs and dead branches he could find, working
with such energy that at the end of an hour he had a fine large pile,
and was in a glow from the exercise. Now he built another fire against
the further log, and piled his spare wood so that it was beyond reach of
either flame.

He next spread a few spruce and hemlock boughs on the ground between the
two fires, selected a medium-sized chunk of wood for a pillow, donned
his parka, drew its great hood over his head, and, with his rifle by his
side, lay down on a much warmer and more comfortable couch than he had
dared anticipate a couple of hours before.

Phil meant to keep awake so as to tend his fires, but instead of so
doing he fell asleep within an hour, and slept soundly right through the
night. When he at length awoke and sat up, he was chilled and stiff with
cold, for the fires were very nearly extinguished by a fall of snow that
had sifted down through the forest while he slept. As the poor lad
discovered this, he became filled with terror, for he knew that the back
trail was obliterated, and that all hope of regaining camp by its means
was cut off. Now he was indeed lost. As he gazed hopeless and bewildered
about him he caught sight of something that he at first took to be a dog
sitting only a few yards away, and regarding him hungrily. He spoke to
it and the animal started to sneak away. Then he saw that it was a wolf,
and hastened its movements with a rifle shot.

As it was not yet light enough to commence his search for the river, or
for some stream that would lead him to it, he began to throw wood on the
fires that he might at least get warm before starting. While thus
engaged he was startled by a cry apparently in the voice of a child that
rang dolefully through the silent forest. Again he heard it, plaintive
and long-drawn, and this time nearer than before. It was so weird a cry
to be heard in that place and at that time that he shuddered as he
listened for its repetition. Its very humanness added to its terror. At
its third utterance Phil seized his rifle, cocked it, and faced the
direction of the sound, expecting in another moment to be confronted by
the tawny form of a mountain-lion.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

PHIL ASSUMES A RESPONSIBILITY.

Phil had never met nor even seen a mountain-lion, but he had often heard
that its cry sometimes imitates that of a child so closely as to deceive
the most expert of hunters. He had heard too of its ferocity, its
bold