He thought that as far as human beings went, he had the mountains all to himself. He supposed that in the camp—now certainly nearing—a dead herder lay face buried in his tree-bough pallet; but Fargo was not the kind of man to whom such a fact as this preys on the mind. He did not dream that the body had already been found, that the herd was guarded, and that even now the daughter of his enemy was waiting for this same moon,—to start forth to find the missing members of the flock. Fargo watched the silver glint in the sky; he saw the white disk roll forth. The light grew, it leaped down between the trees, it worked nebulous magic on the floor of the forest, it enchanted the whole wilderness world. He located his peaks. And all at once he knew his exact position,—scarcely three miles from the camp and squarely across the ridge. He got up and started on with the great hounds. At first they were curiously silent and alert. They did not frisk and run as in the first hour on the trail, and to a casual eye their excitement had died within them. For the moment they seemed perfectly under control. Yet Fargo watched them, wondering. They were moving with a peculiar stealth, and once the man caught the unmistakable glare of their yellow-green wolfine eyes in the moonlight. At that instant Ben, the old pack leader, spoke in the silence. It was a sharp bay, and momentarily every dog stood lifeless. And then with a wild cry they darted into the shadows. Fargo whistled frantically, but the pack didn’t seem to hear. Their loud and savage bays obscured all sound. Oaths fell from the man’s lips—sounds scarcely less savage than the bay of the dogs themselves—and at first he could see nothing but failure for his scheme. It might be, however, that they were right and he was wrong. The dogs were not heading toward the sheep camp. But it was wholly possible that the flock had fed out far that day, had found another drinking place, and thus had not returned to the vicinity of Silver Creek; and the hounds were already on their trail. This theory had to include the death of the wounded shepherd dog, for the first instinct of the animal likely would have been to keep the flock near the tent of his dead master. His own course was clear. He would cross the ridge to the camp, try to locate the flock, and then attempt to collect his hounds and bring them to it. He believed that if they were on a false scent they would return to him soon.