“Witch be blamed!” I cried impatiently; “this is no four-legged witch nor bear either. That was a man and when he thought he would be followed he put on moccasins made from bears’ paws to leave a disguised trail. And moreover I believe that man is none other than the Wild Hunter without his wolf pack. And that pass is the pathway he takes in and out of this park. I’m going to trail him whether you want to or not. Goodbye Pete, I’ll come back for you,” and picking up my gun and other necessary traps, I prepared to start immediately upon my journey, for I felt that to follow this trail would not only get us out of our park prison but would lead me to the abode of the Wild Hunter, where perhaps I could talk with him and learn some of the things I was so eager to know about my parents. Big Pete looked at me solemnly for a while, ran over the cartridges in his belt and went through all those familiar unconscious motions which betokened danger ahead, and said, “Le-loo, you are a quare critter; you’re not afraid of all the werwolves, medicine ba’rs and ghosts in this world or the next, but tarnally afeared of live varmints like grizzly bars—one would think you had no religion, but, gosh all hemlock! If you can face a bear-man or a werwolf, even though all the Hy-as Ecutocks of the mountains show fight, I’ll be cornfed if I don’t stand by ye! Barring the Wild Hunter, I don’t know as I ever ran agin a Ecutock yit; that is if he be a Ecutock. Maybe he’s a Econe? Yes, I reckon that’s what he is,” continued Pete reflectively. “Maybe he is a pine cone,” I laughed. Then added, “Whatever he is, he knows the way out of this park of yours and I am going to follow him,” I emphatically answered. “That’s howsomever!” exclaimed my guide approvingly; “but,” he continued, “the mountains are kivered with snow, while it is still summer down here, so I reckon ’twould be the proper wrinkle for us to pull our things together, have a good feed and a good sleep before we start. White men start off hot-headed and I kinder like their grit, but Injuns stop and sot by the fire an’ smoke an’ think afore they start on a raid an’ I kinder think they be wiser in this than we ’uns, so let’s do as the Injuns would do. We can cache most of our stuff and turn the horses loose. Bighorn’s mutton is powerful good, but tarnally shy and hung mighty high, an’ billygoat is doggoned strong ’nless you know how to cook ’em. Yes, we’ll eat an sleep fust an’ then his for the land where the Bighorn pasture, the woolywhite goats sleep on the rocks, the whistling marmot blows his danger signal an’ the pretty white ptarmigan hides hisself in the snow-banks, the home of the Ecutocks. “What the thunder is a Ecutock, Pete?” I asked. “An Injun devil, I reckon you’d call it; it’s bad medicine,” he answered soberly, and continuing in his former strain, he exclaimed: “Whar critters like goats, sheeps and rock-chucks kin live, you bet your Hy-as muck-a-muck we kin live too!”