stages. At once she
screamed to her old man to get his gun as fast as The Master of Life
would let him, as the wolverine was robbing them again.

Half-awake, and that half all excitement, the old man rushed out into
the snow with his muzzle-loading flintlock and let drive. Instantly
one of his dogs fell over. Roaring with rage, the old Indian re-loaded
with all speed, and catching another glimpse of the wolverine in the
faint light of the Aurora Borealis, let drive again; but as ill-luck
would have it, the gun went off just as another of his dogs made a
gallant charge, and once more a dog fell dead--and the wolverine got
away!

Nothing would now do but that the old man must seek his revenge at the
earliest possible moment, so when dawn broke he was already following
the trail of the malicious raider. All day he trailed it through the
snow, and just before dusk the tracks told him that he was very near
his quarry; but rather than run the risk of firing in a poor light, he
decided not to despatch the brute until daylight came.

According to the northern custom, when he camped that night, he stood
his gun and snowshoes in the snow far enough away to prevent their
being affected by the heat of the fire. In the morning his snowshoes
were gone. Tracks, however, showed that the wolverine had taken them.
Again the old man trailed the thief; but without snowshoes, the going
was extra hard, and it was afternoon before he stumbled upon one of his
snowshoes lying in the snow, and quite near his former camp, as the
"Great Mischief Maker" had simply made a big circuit and come back
again. But of what use was one snowshoe? So the old hunter continued
his search, and late that day found the other--damaged beyond repair.

That night, filled with rage and despondency, he returned to his old
camp, and as usual placed his gun upright in the snow away from the
heat of the fire. In the morning it was gone. New tracks marked the
snow and showed where the carcajou had dragged it away. Several hours
later the old man found it with its case torn to ribbons, the butt
gnawed, and the trigger broken.

Tired, hungry, dejected, and enraged, old Meguir sought his last
night's camp to make a fire and to rest awhile; but when he got there
he found he had lost his fire bag containing his flint and steel--his
wherewithal for making fire. Again he went in search, but
fresh-falling snow had so obliterated the trail and so hindered his
pro