And Miki, thumping his tail until this moment, rose on his overgrown legs and followed his master into their shelter.

It was in the gray light of the early summer dawn when Challoner came forth again, and rekindled the fire.  Miki followed a few moments later, and his master fastened the end of a worn tent-rope around his neck and tied the rope to a sapling.  Another rope of similar length Challoner tied to the corners of a grub sack so that it could be carried over his shoulder like a game bag.  With the first rose-flush of the sun he was ready for the trail of Neewa and his mother.  Miki set up a melancholy wailing when he found himself left behind, and when Challoner looked back the pup was tugging and somersaulting at the end of his rope like a jumping-jack.  For a quarter of a mile up the creek he could hear Miki’s entreating protest.

To Challoner the business of the day was not a matter of personal pleasure, nor was it inspired alone by his desire to possess a cub along with Miki.  He needed meat, and bear pork thus early in the season would be exceedingly good; and above all else he needed a supply of fat.  If he bagged this bear, time would be saved all the rest of the way down to civilization.

It was eight o’clock when he struck the first unmistakably fresh signs of Noozak and Neewa.  It was at the point where Noozak had fished four or five days previously, and where they had returned yesterday to feast on the “ripened” catch.  Challoner was elated.  He was sure that he would find the pair along the creek, and not far distant.  The wind was in his favour, and he began to advance with greater caution, his rifle ready for the anticipated moment.  For an hour he travelled steadily and quietly, marking every sound and movement ahead of him, and wetting his finger now and then to see if the wind had shifted.  After all, it was not so much a matter of human cunning.  Everything was in Challoner’s favour.

In a wide, flat part of the valley where the creek split itself into a dozen little channels, and the water rippled between sandy bars and over pebbly shallows, Neewa and his mother were nosing about lazily for a breakfast of crawfish.  The world had never looked more beautiful to Neewa.  The sun made the soft hair on his back fluff up like that of a purring cat.  He liked the plash of wet sand under his feet and the singing gush of water against his legs.  He liked the sound that was all about him, the breath of the wind, the whispers that came out of the spruce-tops and the cedars, the murmur of water, the twit-twit of the rock rabbits, the call of birds; and more than all else the low, grunting talk of his mother.

It was in this sun-bathed sweep of the valley that Noozak caught the first whiff of danger.  It came to her in a sudden twist of the wind—­the smell of man!

Instantly she was turned into rock.  There was still the deep scar in her shoulder which had come, years before, with that same smell of the one enemy she feared.  For three summers she had not caught the taint in her nostrils and she had almost forgotten its existence.  Now, so suddenly that it paralyzed her, it was warm and terrible in the breath of the wind.