h this cavern
in the face of our rifles."

"It's no member of Felton's gang," said Will, with great emphasis.

"How do you know that?" asked Boyd in surprise.

"I can scarcely tell. Instinct, I suppose. It doesn't sound like the
voice of an outlaw, though I don't know how I know that, either. Hark,
he's coming much nearer! I've an idea the man's alone."

"In the storm," said the Little Giant, "he's likely to pass by the
cavern, same ez ef it wuzn't here."

"But we mustn't let him do that," exclaimed Will. "I tell you it's a
friend coming! a man we want! Besides, it's no Indian! It's a white
man's voice, and we couldn't let him wander around and perish in a
wilderness storm!"

The hunter and the Little Giant glanced at each other.

"A feller that kin talk with hosses an' mules, an' hev the toughest mule
eat out o' his hand the fust time he ever saw him may be able to tell
more about a voice in the wilderness than we kin," said the Little
Giant.

"I don't believe you're wrong," said the hunter with equal conviction.

Will threw aside the bearskin and dashed out. The two men followed,
their rifles under their fur coats, where they were protected from the
storm. The voice could now be heard very plainly calling, and Boyd and
Bent were quite sure also that it was not one of Felton's band. It
truly sounded like the voice of an honest man crying aloud in the
wilderness.

Will still led the way and, as he approached, he gave a long, clear
shout, to which the owner of the voice replied instantly, not a hundred
yards away. Then the three pressed forward and they saw the figure of a
man, exaggerated and gigantic in the falling snow. Behind him stood
three horses, loaded heavily but drooping and apparently almost frozen.
He gave a cry of joy when the three drew near, and said:

"I called upon the Lord when all seemed lost, but I did not call in
vain."

He was tall, clothed wholly in deerskin, and with a fur cap upon his
head. His figure was one of great strength, but it was bent somewhat now
with weariness. The Little Giant uttered an exclamation.

"By all that's wonderful, it's Steve Brady!" he said. "Steve Brady, the
seeker after the lost beaver horde!"

The man extended a hand, clothed in a deerskin gauntlet.

"And it's you, Tom Bent, the Little Giant," he said. "I surely did not
dream that when you and I met again it would be in such a place as this.
Providence moves in a mysterious way its wonders to perform