“Yes, a lynx has been this way, a lynx four feet high,” said Wabigoon quietly, and the touch of raillery in his voice assured Rod that he had still other lessons to learn in the life of this big wilderness.  “Lynx don’t grow that big, Rod!”

“Then it’s—­” Rod feared to go on.

“Lynx fur.  That’s just what it is.  Whoever fired at Mukoki last night was dressed in skins!  Now, can you tell us what that means?”

Without waiting for an answer Wabigoon resumed his search.  But the mountain side gave no further evidence.  Not a footprint was found upon the plain.  If the mysterious person who had fired the golden bullet had leaped from the mountain top into space he could have left no fewer traces behind him.  At the end of an hour Rod and his companions returned to the canoe, carried their loads to the pack in the dip, and prepared dinner.  Their suspense and fear, and specially Mukoki’s dread, were in a large measure gone.  But at the same time they were more hopelessly mystified than ever.  That there was danger ahead of them, that the menace of golden bullets was actual and thrilling, all three were well agreed, but the sunlight of day and a little sound reasoning had dispelled their half superstitious terrors of the previous night and they began to face the new situation with their former confidence.

“We can’t let this delay us,” said Wabi, as they ate their dinner.  “By night we ought to be in our old camp at the head of the chasm, where we held the Woongas at bay last winter.  The sooner we get out of the way of these golden bullets the better it will be for us!”

Mukoki shrugged his shoulders.

“Gold bullet follow, I guess so,” he grunted, “Cry went there—­to chasm!”

“I don’t believe this fellow, whoever he is, will hang to our trail,” continued Wabi, giving Rod a suggestive look.  A few moments later he found an opportunity to whisper, “We’ve got to get that cry out of Muky’s head, Rod, or we’ll never find our gold!”

When Mukoki had gone to arrange his pack the young Indian spoke earnestly to his companion.

“Muky isn’t afraid of bullets, either gold or lead; he isn’t afraid of any danger on earth.  But that cry haunts him.  He is trying not to let us know, yet it haunts him just the same.  Do you know what he is thinking?  No?  Well, I do!  He is superstitious, like the rest of his race, and the two gold bullets, the terrible cries, and the fact that we found no tracks upon the plain are all carrying him toward one conclusion, that the strange thing that fired at him is—­”

Wabigoon paused and wiped his face, and it was easy for Rod to see that he was suppressing some unusual excitement.

“What does he think it is?”