The words shot from him before he could control himself enough to hold them back.  In another moment he was sorry.  The thought that John Ball and the mad hunter were the same person he had kept to himself, until for reasons of his own he had let Mukoki into his secret.  While the idea had taken larger and larger growth in his mind he knew that from every logical point of view the thing was impossible, and that constraint which came of the Indian blood in him held him from discussing it with Rod.  But now the words were out.  A quick flush replaced the whiteness that had come into his face.  In another instant he was leaning eagerly toward Rod, his eyes kindling into fire again.  He had not expected the change that he now saw come over the white youth.

“I have been thinking that for a long time,” he continued.  “Ever since we found the footprints in the sand.  There’s just one proof that we need, just one, and—­”

“Listen!”

Rod fairly hissed the word as he held up a warning hand.

This time the cry of the mad hunter came to them more distinctly.  He was approaching through the upper chasm!

The white youth rose to his feet, his eyes steadily fixed upon Wabigoon’s.  His face was deathly pale.

“John Ball!” he repeated, as if he had just heard what the other had said.  “John Ball!” What seemed to him to be the only truth swept upon him like a flood, and for a score of seconds, in every one of which he could hear his heart thumping excitedly, he stood like one stunned.  John Ball!  John Ball returned to life to find their gold for them, to tell them of the tragedy and mystery of those days long dead and gone!  Like powder touched by a spark of fire his imagination leaped at Wabi’s thrilling suggestion.

Mukoki set to work.

“Hide!” he exclaimed.  “Hide thees—­thees—­thees!” He pointed about him at all the things in camp.

Both of the boys understood.

“He must see no signs of our presence from the top of the fall!” cried Wabi, gathering an armful of camp utensils.  “Hide them back among the cedars!”

Mukoki hurried to the cedar bough shelter and began tearing it down.  For five minutes the adventurers worked on the run.  Once during that time they heard the madman’s wailing cry, and hardly had they finished and concealed themselves in the gloom of the old cabin when it came again, this time from not more than a rifle-shot’s distance beyond the cataract.  It was not a scream that now fell from the mad hunter’s lips, but a low wail and in it there was something that drove the old horror from the three wildly beating hearts and filled them with a measureless, nameless pity.  What change had come over the madman?  The cry was repeated every few seconds now, each time nearer than before, and in it there was a questioning, appealing note that seemed to end in sobbing despair, a something that gripped at Rod’s heart and filled him with a great half-mastering impulse to answer it, to run out and stretch his hands forth in greeting to the strange, wild creature coming down the chasm!