“I’m not sure, not quite sure, yet,” went on the Indian youth.  “But listen!  It is a legend in Mukoki’s tribe, and always has been, that once in every so many generations they are visited by a terrible warrior sent by the Great Spirit who takes sacrifice of them, a sacrifice of human life, because of a great wrong that was once done by their people.  And this warrior, though invisible, has a voice that makes the mountains quake and the rivers stand still with fear, and in his great bow he shoots shafts that are made of gold!  Do you understand?  Last night I heard Mukoki talking about it in his sleep.  Either we must hear this cry, and find out more about it, or hurry to a place where it won’t be heard again.  Golden bullets and cries and Mukoki’s superstitions are going to be worse than Woongas if we don’t watch out!”

“But the whole thing is as plain as day!” declared Rod in astonishment.  “A man shot at the bear, and the same man shot at Mukoki, and he fired gold each time.  Surely—­”

“It’s not the man part of it,” interrupted the other.  “It’s the cry.  There, Mukoki has his pack ready.  Let’s start for the chasm at once!”

This time the boys had a heavier burden than usual, for in the canoe they placed one of the two loads carried by Mukoki, and consequently their progress toward the chasm was much slower than that across the plain.  It was late in the afternoon when they reached the break that led into the chasm, and as they cautiously made the descent now Rod thought of the thrilling pursuit of the Woonga horde, and how a few weeks before they had discovered this break just in time for Wabi and him to save their lives, and that of the wounded Mukoki.  It was with a feeling almost of awe that the three adventurers penetrated deeper and deeper into the silent gloom of this mystery-filled gulch between the mountains, and when they reached the bottom they set their loads down without speaking, their eyes roving over the black walls of rock, their hearts throbbing a little faster with excitement.

For here, at this break in the mountain, began the romantic trail drawn by men long dead, the trail that led to a treasure of gold.

As the three sat in silence, the gloom in the chasm thickened.  The sun had passed beyond the southwestern forests, and through the narrow rift between the mountain walls there fell but the ebbing light of day, dissolving itself into the shadows of dusk as it struggled weakly in the cavernous depths.  For a few minutes this swift fading of day into night gripped the adventurers in its spell.  What did the lonely solitudes of that chasm hold for them?  Where would they lead them?  To Rod’s mind there came a picture of the silver fox and a thought of his dream, when for a few miles he had explored the mysteries of this strange, sunless world shut in by rock walls.  Again he saw the dancing skeletons, heard the rattle of their bones, and watched the wonderful dream-battle that had led him to the birch-bark map.  Wabigoon, his eyes gleaming in the gathering darkness, thought of their flight from the outlaw savages, and Mukoki—­