“Come to think of it, I reckon it's because of lots of reasons,” returned Dale. “He kills clean. He eats no carrion. He's no coward. He fights. He dies game.... An' he likes to be alone.” “Kills clean. What do you mean by that?” “A cougar, now, he mangles a deer. An' a silvertip, when killin' a cow or colt, he makes a mess of it. But a wolf kills clean, with sharp snaps.” “What are a cougar and a silvertip?” “Cougar means mountain-lion or panther, an' a silvertip is a grizzly bear.” “Oh, they're all cruel!” exclaimed Helen, shrinking. “I reckon. Often I've shot wolves for relayin' a deer.” “What's that?” “Sometimes two or more wolves will run a deer, an' while one of them rests the other will drive the deer around to his pardner, who'll, take up the chase. That way they run the deer down. Cruel it is, but nature, an' no worse than snow an' ice that starve deer, or a fox that kills turkey-chicks breakin' out of the egg, or ravens that pick the eyes out of new-born lambs an' wait till they die. An' for that matter, men are crueler than beasts of prey, for men add to nature, an' have more than instincts.” Helen was silenced, as well as shocked. She had not only learned a new and striking viewpoint in natural history, but a clear intimation to the reason why she had vaguely imagined or divined a remarkable character in this man. A hunter was one who killed animals for their fur, for their meat or horns, or for some lust for blood--that was Helen's definition of a hunter, and she believed it was held by the majority of people living in settled states. But the majority might be wrong. A hunter might be vastly different, and vastly more than a tracker and slayer of game. The mountain world of forest was a mystery to almost all men. Perhaps Dale knew its secrets, its life, its terror, its beauty, its sadness, and its joy; and if so, how full, how wonderful must be his mind! He spoke of men as no better than wolves. Could a lonely life in the wilderness teach a man that? Bitterness, envy, jealousy, spite, greed, and hate--these had no place in this hunter's heart. It was not Helen's shrewdness, but a woman's intuition, which divined that. Dale rose to his feet and, turning his ear to the north, listened once more. “Are you expecting Roy still?” inquired Helen. “No, it ain't likely he'll turn up to-night,” replied Dale, and then he strode over to put a hand on the pine-tree that soared above where the girls lay. His action, and the way he looked up at the tree-top and then at adjacent trees, held more of that significance which so interested Helen. “I reckon he's stood there some five hundred years an' will stand through to-night,” muttered Dale. This pine was the monarch of that wide-spread group. “Listen again,” said Dale. Bo was asleep. And Helen, listening, at once caught low, distant roar.