LITMIR.BIZ

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went once more, Old Rocks having lighted a fresh torch, which left but one remaining.

      The night was on the wane. Already the sounds of the middle night were hushed. The owls had stopped their hooting, and now, on noiseless wing, were making their last hunting rounds before day should come.

      Afar on the side of a mountain a wolf was howling like a dog baying to the moon. The stars which filled the sky seemed to prophesy of dawn.

      Bending low, now and then swinging his torch to fan it into a stronger flame, Old Rocks almost raced along the trail, while the boy at his heels kept close.

      They were like two tongueless hounds upon a hot scent.

      And thus they came, at last, to the lake.

      Not a word did Old Rocks say for several minutes, but he moved up and down the shore, reading the "sign," while his companion waited with the greatest anxiety.

      At length, with a grated exclamation of rage and dismay, the man flung himself on the ground.

      "It's jest as I feared," he growled. "Ther onery varmints hed canoes hid hyar, an' we kin trail 'em no farther."

      "Then what can we do?" fluttered the discomfited boy.

      "Northin' but wait fer daylight."

      Now on the still air very faintly was heard a distant tone of music; a sweet whistle, at first low, rising and falling, and then gradually becoming more distinct. It came nearer and nearer till it seemed to fill the air all about, and then, looking upward, they saw dark forms flitting between them and the stars.

      The wild ducks were flying.

      The musical note passed on, receded, grew fainter and fainter, till, at last, it died out in the distance.

      From the lake came a far-off trumpet call, and then another—the mellow note of the wild geese.

      The world was awakening; the day was near.

      The stars were growing paler now. In the eastern sky was a bit of gray, which slowly broadened, pushing upward and blotting out the stars.

      Where all before was dark, the morning twilight began to show the black forms of things.

      The outlines of tree trunks could be seen, and they seemed to stand like ghosts, reaching out shadowy arms, as if feeling their way through the dimness.

      The birds which through the long night had slept in the low bushes were beginning to chirp and flutter.

      All at once, Old Rocks started and clutched Frank's arm.

      "Listen!" he whispered.

      The sound of footsteps told them some one was approaching.

      "Back!" whispered the guide, leading the way. "We must see who ther critter is, an' he musn't see us."

      Hastily they drew into the deep shadows, holding their rifles ready for use in case they should need them.

      Nearer and nearer came the footsteps, and then the dark figure of a man appeared, advancing through the dusky darkness.

      The man was alone, and he halted on the shore of the lake, within a short distance of the crouching man and boy. They saw him bow his head on his breast and stand there in silence.

      Several minutes passed. At last, the unknown lifted his head, stretched out his arms, and uttered a long, mournful cry that seemed to come from a breaking heart.

      Old Rocks rose and glided swiftly and silently toward the stranger, who did not hear him approach. The guide's hand dropped on the man's shoulder, and he said:

      "Hello, Hermit. Whatever be yer doin' hyar?"

      The strange man turned, and Frank saw that it was indeed the Hermit of the Yellowstone.

      "Doing?" he said, hoarsely. "I am seeking rest—seeking rest! I'll never find it till I rest in the grave!"

      "You must hev a derned bad liver, or somethin' o' ther sort," sneered Old Rocks. "I don't understand a critter like you none whatever."

      "I do not expect you to understand me. You do not know my story. If I were to tell you——"

      "We ain't got time ter listen; but I'll tell you a leetle story. You know ther babby-gal whut yer saw at our camp?"

      The hermit bowed, and then, as if a suspicion of the truth had flashed over him, he fiercely grasped the guide with both hands, hoarsely demanding:

      "Has anything happened to her? Tell me—tell me quick!"

      With a few well-chosen words, Old Rocks told exactly what had happened. The hermit seemed overcome with horror and dismay.

      "She must be saved!"

      "You're right; but how wuz we ter foller ther red varmints 'thout a canoe. Now they hev got clean away."

      "I will find her!" cried the hermit, with one hand uplifted, as if registering a vow. "I will find her and restore her to—hold! How did she happen to be with you?"

      A further explanation was in order. Frank told how Fay had appeared in time to save himself and Barney from being attacked by Half Hand and the Blackfeet, what she had told them, how they had taken her to the camp, and how Old Rocks had agreed to find her mother with the coming of another day.

      The guide and the boy believed the Hermit must be little Fay's father, and they watched him closely as he listened. When Frank had finished, the strange man eagerly asked:

      "Her name—her full name—did you learn it?"

      "No. She told us her name was Fay, and that her mother sometimes called her Fairy Fay; but we were unable to learn her last name."

      "From whut we saw in ther camp, we allowed as how it wuz likely you hed seen ther babby afore, an' you knowed her proper name," insinuated Old Rocks.

      The Hermit did not answer the implied question.

      "Come," he said, "follow me. I have a canoe."

      "I s'pose we can't do any wuss," mumbled Old Rocks; "though I don't prezactly know how we're goin' ter trail them critters through ther warter."

      The Hermit moved along at a swinging stride, and they followed him through the morning twilight.

      Less than half a mile had been covered when the man in advance suddenly paused, uttering an exclamation of surprise.

      Straight ahead, amid the trees of a little grove on the shore, they beheld the snowy outlines of a tent.

      In a little park beyond the camp could be seen the dusky outlines of horses feeding. Close to the open flap of the tent two dogs were curled, both sleeping soundly, so silent had been the approach of the trio.

      The light in the eastern sky was getting a pink tinge, and, with each passing moment, objects could be seen more distinctly.

      A tiny column of blue smoke rose from the white ashes of the camp-fire, telling that a brand still smoldered there.

      There was a stir within the tent. There were muffled grunts, a yawn or two, the rustle of clothing, faint sounds of footsteps, and then the flap of the tent was flung wide open, and a man came out into the morning air. He paused and stretched his limbs, standing so the trio obtained a fair view of him.

      With a sudden, hoarse cry, the Hermit rushed forward and confronted the man.

      "Foster Fairfax!" he shouted, with savage joy; "at last we are face to face!"

      CHAPTER XXX.

       SEARCH FOR THE TRAIL.

       Table of Contents

      "Preston March!"

      The man who had just stepped out of the tent fell back, a look of astonishment, not unmingled with fear, on his face.

      "Yes,

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