In spite of momentary times like this, when the natural buoyancy and enthusiasm of the young adventurers rose above their discouragement, the week that followed added to their general depression.  For miles the chasm was explored and at the end of the week they had found less than an ounce of gold.  If their pans had given them no returns at all their disappointment would have been less, for then, as Wabi said, they could have given up the ghost with good grace.  But the few precious yellow grains which they found now and then lured them on, as these same grains have lured other hundreds and thousands since the dawn of civilization.  Day after day they persisted in their efforts; night after night about their camp-fire they inspired each other with new hope and made new plans.  The spring sun grew stronger, the poplar buds burst into tiny leaf and out beyond the walls of the chasm the first promises of summer came in the sweetly scented winds of the south, redolent with the breath of balsam and pine and the thousand growing things of the plains.

But at last the search came to an end.  For three days not even a grain of gold had been found.  Around the big rock, where they were eating dinner, Rod and his friends came to a final conclusion.  The following morning they would break camp, and leaving their canoe behind, for the creek was now too shallow for even birch-bark navigation, they would continue their exploration of the chasm in search of other adventures.  The whole summer was ahead of them, and though they had failed in discovering a treasure where John Ball and the Frenchmen had succeeded, they might find one farther on.  At least the trip deeper into the unexplored wilderness would be filled with excitement.

Mukoki rose to his feet, leaving Rod and Wabi still discussing their plans.  Suddenly he turned toward them, and a startled cry fell from his lips, while with one long arm he pointed beyond the fall into the upper chasm.

“Listen—­heem—­heem!”

The old warrior’s face twitched with excitement, and for a full half minute he stood motionless, his arm still extended, his black eyes staring steadily at Rod and Wabigoon who sat as silent as the rocks about them.  Then there came to them from a great distance a quavering, thrilling sound, a sound that filled them again with the old horror of the upper chasm—­the cry of the mad hunter.

At that distant cry Wabigoon sprang to his feet, his eyes leaping fire, his bronzed cheeks whitening in an excitement even greater than that of Mukoki.

“Muky, I told you!” he cried.  “I told you!” The young Indian’s body quivered, his hands were clenched, and when he turned upon Rod the white youth was startled by the look in his face.

“Rod, John Ball is coming back to his gold!”

Hardly had he spoken the words when the tenseness left his body and his hands dropped to his side.