It took us but a short time to arrange our camp, then Big Pete followed by the frisking dogs slipped silently into the woods. He was gone scarcely a quarter of an hour when he reappeared again without the dogs, motioned for me to get my gun and follow him. “Tha’s elk signs all bout,” he said, “an’ the muts broke away on a fresh trail. Now you an’ me’ll climb through that draw yonder and hide out on the runway till they drive an elk in gun shot. Come along.” I followed eagerly and presently we had climbed through a thickly grown poplar grove and found a suitable hiding place among the small poplars. We had the wind right and a clear view of most of the open park. Big Pete stooped down and motioned for me to do likewise. I quietly crouched beside him and waited—waited until my legs were cramped, waited until the dampness from the moss struck through the heavy soles of my tenderfoot shoes and chilled my feet; waited until my arm was so numb that it felt like a piece of lead—then, in spite of the danger of incurring Big Pete’s displeasure and in spite of my dread of being thought a dude tenderfoot, I changed my position, rubbed life into my arm and assumed an easier pose. In front of us was a small lake, deep, dark and unruffled. All around the edge was a natural wharf formed from the gigantic trunks of trees which had fallen for ages into the lake and been washed by wind and waves and forced by winter ice into such regular order and position along the shore that their arrangement looked like the work of men. Back of this wharf and all about was the wilderness of silent wood; a wilderness enclosed by a wall of mountains, whose lofty heads were uplifted far above the soft white clouds that floated in the blue sky overhead and were mirrored in the lake below. An eagle, on apparently immovable wings, soared over the lake in spiral course. As I watched the bird its wings seemed suddenly endowed with life. At the same instant my guide gave a low grunt of warning. “What is it?” I asked in a whisper, for there was a strange expression in my companion’s eyes. “It’s—it’s him, so help me!—Keep yer ears open and yer meat-trap shut!” growled Pete. I did so. The trained ear of the hunter had detected the sound of crackling twigs and swishing branches made by some animals in rapid motion. “Ah!” I exclaimed, “the dogs. You startled me; I thought it was Indians.” “I wish it was nothing wuss,” muttered my guide, as he examined his weapons with a critical eye and loosened the cartridges for his revolvers in his belt to make sure that they would be easy to pluck out. “Those hain’t our dogs, mister,” he remarked after he had examined his whole arsenal. As I again fixed my attention on the noise, in place of the resonant voice of the hounds, I heard nothing but the crackling of branches, with an occasional half-suppressed wolf-like yelp. Big Pete turned pale and muttered, “It’s them for sartin; it’s them agin! And I hain’t been drinkin’, nuther!”