The two young men caught the same sound, with him, and needed not the caution to cease their conversation. From close above them, on the hillside, there rattled down several pebbles, evidently dislodged by human aid, for directly afterwards the trio could hear a footstep, light yet deliberate, evidently descending the slope. Instinctively each man grasped his weapon, for the same thought occurred to each. If this footfall betokened the presence of Indians, as seemed but too probable, there was danger threatening. Right well they knew that no true woodman could pass by, in such close proximity, without detecting the scent of tobacco-smoke, and that, once scented, he would not rest until the matter was thoroughly investigated. And, though the Indians were nominally at peace, they well knew that if a superior force was at hand, that fact would be but a feeble restraint. At best they must expect to be plundered, and as that meant either starvation or a return to the wagon-train, the three men prepared silently for a struggle. The sound of footsteps ceased, and for several minutes all was silent. Motionless as death, tightly grasping their weapons, the gold-hunters awaited the result in stern suspense. But their preparations, in this case, were needless, for the footstep again met their ears, and then, through the surrounding screen of bushes, they observed a tall figure glide past their covert, descending the hill. Even in that brief glimpse, they saw enough to deeply excite their curiosity. Peering through the bushes, they saw that the stranger had again paused, this time standing upon a bowlder, in the full glare of the bright moonlight. They were gazing upon the same being who, a few hours later, was pronounced the Mountain Devil by Paul Chicot. They could distinguish his features; pale, haggard and wearing a peculiarly mournful expression, that still did not conceal the vacant stare that proclaimed a shattered mind. This thought occurred to each of the three men. They were watching a madman. They noted his ragged dress, rudely patched with skins and bits of various fur. They saw that he was armed with a bow and arrows, and that a long-bladed knife was dangling at his side. This much they noted before he stepped from the rock and resumed his course toward the valley. Arising, the gold-hunters closely observed his movements, until hidden in the shade cast by the towering precipice beyond. "Wonder what--or who the fellow is, anyhow," muttered Tyrrel, reflectively. "I don't know, unless--You've heard Paul Chicot speak of a wild-man they sometimes call the "Mountain Devil," haven't you?" "Who hasn't, I wonder?" with a shrug. "I've heard of nothing else since we've been camped here." "I believe this is the being he means, then." "You don't--thunder! I always thought he was lying!" "Hark!" muttered Burr, touching his comrades.