o have my most valued possession, the
portrait of my grandfather, Tiger Elliston, the man I have always
admired more than any other until----"

Until what? wondered MacNair. The word had been crossed out, and he
finished the letter still wondering.

"When you look at the picture in its splintered frame, think sometimes
of the 'fool moose-calf,' who, having succeeded by the narrowest margin
in eluding the fangs of 'the wolf' is returning, wiser, to its
mountains.

"Yours very truly--and very, very repentantly,

"CHLOE ELLISTON."

Bob MacNair lost his fight. He arose once more, his great frame
trembling in the grip of a new thrill. He stretched his great arms to
the southward in a silent sign of surrender. He sought not to dodge
the issue, strange and wonderful as it seemed to him. He loved this
woman--loved her as he knew he could love no other--as he had never
dreamed it was in the heart of man to love.

And then, with the force of a blow, came the realization that this
woman--his woman--was at that very instant, in all probability, at the
mercy of a fiend who would stop at nothing to gain his own ends.

He leaped to the door.

"By God, I'll tear his heart out!" he roared as he wrenched at the
latch. And the next instant the shores of Snare Lake echoed to the
wild weird sound of the wolf-cry--the call of MacNair to his clan!
Other calls and other summons might be ignored upon provocation, but
when the terrible wolf-cry shattered the silence of the forest
MacNair's Indians rushed to his side.

Only death itself could deter them from fore-gathering at the sound of
the wolf-cry. Before the echoes of MacNair's voice had died away dark
forms were speeding through the moonlight. From all directions they
came; from the cabins that yet remained standing, from the tents
pitched close against the unburned walls of the stockade, from rude
wickiups of skins and of brushwood.

Old men and young men they answered the call, and each in his hand bore
a rifle. MacNair snapped a few quick orders. Men rushed to harness
the dog-teams while others provisioned the sleds for the trail.

With one arm MacNair swung the Louchoux girl from the floor, and,
picking up his rifle, dashed out into the night.

Wee Johnnie Tamarack, just in from a twenty-four-hour trail, stood at
the head of MacNair's own dogs--the seven great Athabasca River dogs
that had carried him into the North. With a cry to his Indians to
follow