life.

"How could paint of any kind last so long? asked Jones, shaking his
head doubtfully.

"That is the unsolvable mystery," returned Wallace. "But the records
are there. I am absolutely sure the paintings are at least a thousand
years old. I have never seen any tombs or paintings similar to them.
Snake Gulch is a find, and I shall some day study its wonders."

Sundown caught us within sight of Oak Spring, and we soon trotted into
camp to the welcoming chorus of the hounds. Frank and the others had
reached the cabin some hours before. Supper was steaming on the hot
coals with a delicious fragrance.

Then came the pleasantest time of the day, after a long chase or
jaunt--the silent moments, watching the glowing embers of the fire; the
speaking moments when a red-blooded story rang clear and true; the
twilight moments, when the wood-smoke smelled sweet.

Jones seemed unusually thoughtful. I had learned that this
preoccupation in him meant the stirring of old associations, and I
waited silently. By and by Lawson snored mildly in a corner; Jim and
Frank crawled into their blankets, and all was still. Wallace smoked
his Indian pipe and hunted in firelit dreams.

"Boys," said our leader finally, "somehow the echoes dying away in that
cave reminded me of the mourn of the big white wolves in the Barren
Lands."

Wallace puffed huge clouds of white smoke, and I waited, knowing that I
was to hear at last the story of the Colonel's great adventure in the
Northland.

CHAPTER 8.

NAZA! NAZA! NAZA!

It was a waiting day at Fort Chippewayan. The lonesome, far-northern
Hudson's Bay Trading Post seldom saw such life. Tepees dotted the banks
of the Slave River and lines of blanketed Indians paraded its shores.
Near the boat landing a group of chiefs, grotesque in semi-barbaric,
semicivilized splendor, but black-browed, austere-eyed, stood in savage
dignity with folded arms and high-held heads. Lounging on the grassy
bank were white men, traders, trappers and officials of the post.

All eyes were on the distant curve of the river where, as it lost
itself in a fine-fringed bend of dark green, white-glinting waves
danced and fluttered. A June sky lay blue in the majestic stream;
ragged, spear-topped, dense green trees massed down to the water;
beyond rose bold, bald-knobbed hills, in remote purple relief.

A long Indian arm stretched south. The waiting eyes discerned a black
speck on the green, and watched it grow. A fl