The tracks were deep sunken in the snow, but he was not yet expert enough to tell their probable age. "How old would you say they are, Pehansan?" he asked. "Made to-day," replied the Indian, bending his glowing eyes upon the trail. "Two, three hour ago. He not far away." "Then he's ours. A big mountain buffalo fresh on the hoof will be welcome in the village." "Be careful about the snowshoes," said Roka. "The buffalo will be among the trees and bushes and when we wound him he will charge. The snowshoes must not become entangled." Will knew that it was excellent advice and he resolved to be exceedingly cautious. He could walk well on the snowshoes though he was not as expert as the Indians, but he held himself steady and made no noise among the bushes as they advanced, Pehansan leading, with Roka next. "Very near now," whispered Pehansan, looking at the deep tracks, his eyes still glowing. It was a great triumph to kill a mountain buffalo, above all at such a time, and it was he, Pehansan, who led the way. If the other two shared in the triumph so much the better. There was no jealous streak in the Crane. Pehansan knew also that the quest was not without danger. Wounded, the buffalo could become very dangerous and on snowshoes, among the thick bushes, it would be difficult for the hunters to evade the crashing charges of that mighty beast. He came to a wide and deep depression in the snow. "He lie down here and rest a while," he said. "Just beyond he dig in the snow for bunches of the sweet grass that grow here in summer and that keep alive under the snow." "Then he is not a half hour away," said Roka. "Not more than that," said Pehansan. "We barely creep now." Will began to feel excitement. He had killed big buffaloes before, but then he had his repeating rifle, now he was to meet a monster of the mountains only with the bow and arrow. Even in that moment he remembered that man did not always have the bow and arrow. His primitive ancestors were compelled to face not only buffaloes but the fierce carnivora with the stone axe and nothing more. The great trail rapidly grew fresher. Among the pines and cedars, the snow was not more than a foot deep and the three hunters had much difficulty in making their way noiselessly where the brush was so dense. But the footprints were monstrous. The great hoofs had crushed down through the snow, and had even bitten into the earth. Will had a curious idea that it might not be a mountain buffalo, large as they grew, but some primordial beast, a survivor of a prehistoric time, a mammoth or mastodon, the pictures of which he recalled in his youthful geography. If America itself had so long passed unknown to the white man, why could not these vast animals also be still living, hidden in the secluded valleys of the great Northwest?