It was so still and quiet in that forest that the silence seemed to hurt my ears and I found myself listening to see if I could not hear the deep dark blue blossoms of the fringed gentians whispering scandals about the flaming Indian paint brushes that flourished in the opening in the woods where the sun’s ray could reach and warm the dark earth. As I listened I could not help but speculate a great deal as to the possibilities of the odd old man of this forest being in some way connected with my father’s history, but the story of the wolf-man as given to me by my big companion was so varied and so mixed with the superstitions of the Indians and trappers who had come in contact with him, or had seen him and his weird wolf pack roaming the mountains, that I could not in any way take it as the basis for a solution of the problem. Indeed, the more Big Pete told me the less I believed that this strange and probably mad man could be my father. In truth, the only real clue or even faint reason I had for believing that he owned the missing “Patrick Mullen” was because this gun at a distance seemed to correspond with the description of the Mullen’s gun. It was a faint clue indeed and sometimes seemed not worth investigation. Yet when I began to doubt the possibility an unexplained impulse or force kept urging me on to believe that if I but persisted and found an opportunity to examine this gun it would prove to be the one I sought, and if I had a chance to talk to this strange Wild Hunter much of the mystery that surrounded my own babyhood would be cleared up, so I found myself earnestly longing for a real interview with this mysterious creature. The more I thought of it the more I was inclined to believe that I was on the right track, until at last convinced that this was so, I cried aloud, “I have found him!” “Who! Who!” queried a startled owl, as it peered down at me from its hiding place in the dense foliage of a cedar far above. “Never mind who, you old rascal,” I laughingly replied, and picking up my fishing-rod I parted the underbrush to start on my way through the wood for some trout, but suddenly halted when I found myself staring into the face of a huge timber wolf. The beast’s lips were drawn back displaying its gleaming fangs, its back hair was as erect as the cropped mane of a pony, its mongolian eyes shone green through their narrow slits and its whole attitude seemed to say, “Well, now that you have found me, what do you propose to do?”