Old Cy hurried back, motioned to Levi, and the two watched it from the front of the camp. Martin soon joined them, then Angie and Chip, and all stood and studied this smoke sign. It was almost ludicrous, and yet not; for at its foot must be a fire, and beside it, doubtless, the half-breed. "Can you locate it?" queried Martin of his guide, as the delicate column of white slowly faded. "It's purty well up the brook," Levi answered; "thar's a sort of Rocky Dundar thar, 'n' probably a cave. I callate if it's him, he's s'pected a storm, 'n' so sneaked to cover." And now, as if to prove this, a few drops of rain began to patter on the motionless lake; thicker, faster they came, and as the little group hurried to shelter, a torrent, almost, descended. For weeks not a drop of rain had fallen here. Each morn the sun had risen in undimmed splendor, to vanish at night, a ball of glorious red. But now a change had come. Wind followed the rain, and all that day the storm raged and roared through the dense forest about. The lake was white with driving scud, the cabin rocked, trees creaked, and outdoor life was impossible. When night came, it seemed a thousand demons were wailing, moaning, and screeching in the forest, and as the little party now grouped around the open stove in the new cabin watched it, the fire rose and fell in unison with the blasts. "It's the spites," whispered Chip to Ray. "They allus act that way when it's stormin'." The next day the gale began to lessen, and by night the moon, now half full, peeped out of the scurrying clouds. At bedtime it was smiling serenely, well down toward the tree-tops, and Chip's spites had ceased their wailing. Fortunately, however, Martin's quest for game had been successful. A saddle of venison, a dozen or more partridges, and two goodly strings of trout hung in cold storage. But utter and almost speechless astonishment awaited Old Cy at the ice-house when he visited it the next morning, for the venison was gone, not a bird remained, and one of the two strings of trout had vanished. In front, on the sand, was the same tell-tale moccasin tracks. "Wal, by the Great Horn Spoon! if that cuss hain't swiped the hull business," Old Cy ejaculated, as he looked in and then at the tracks. "Crossed over last night," he added, noting where a canoe had cut its furrow, "an' steered plumb for my ice-house! The varmint!" But Martin was angry, thoroughly angry, at the audacious insolence of the theft, and the thought that just now this sneaking half-breed was doubtless enjoying grilled venison and roast partridge in some secure shelter. It also opened his eyes to the fact that this chap would hang about, watching his chance, until they started out of the wilderness, and then capture the girl if he could. For a little while Martin pondered over the situation and then announced his plans.