He made

the fire and breakfasted. Hot coffee and bacon put a little sense and

judgment into him again, and he realized that he had been behaving like

a boy. He now made another, and more successful attempt to face the

situation collectedly, and a nature naturally plucky coming to his

assistance, he decided that he must first make as thorough a search as

possible, failing success in which, he must find his way to the home

camp as best he could and bring help.

And this was what he did. Taking food, matches and rifle with him,

and a small axe to blaze the trees against his return journey, he set

forth. It was eight o’clock when he started, the sun shining over the

tops of the trees in a sky without clouds. Pinned to a stake by the

fire he left a note in case Defago returned while he was away.

This time, according to a careful plan, he took a new direction,

intending to make a wide sweep that must sooner or later cut into

indications of the guide’s trail and, before he had gone a quarter of a

mile he came across the tracks of a large animal in the snow, and

beside it the light and smaller tracks of what were beyond question

human feet — the feet of Defago. The relief he at once experienced was

natural, though brief; for at first sight he saw in these tracks a

simple explanation of the whole matter: these big marks had surely been

left by a bull moose that, wind against it, had blundered upon the

camp, and uttered its singular cry of warning and alarm the moment its

mistake was apparent. Defago, in whom the hunting instinct was

developed to the point of uncanny perfection, had scented the brute

coming down the wind hours before. His excitement and disappearance

were due, of course, to — to his —

Then the impossible explanation at which he gasped faded, as common

sense showed him mercilessly that none of this was true. No guide, much

less a guide like Defago, could have acted in so irrational a way,

going off even without his rifle … ! The whole affair demanded a

far more complicated elucidation, when he remembered the details of it

all — the cry of terror, the amazing language, the grey face of horror

when his nostrils first caught the new odour; that muffled sobbing in

the darkness, and — for this, too, now came back to him dimly — the

man’s original aversion for this particular country … .

Besides, now that he examined them closer, these were not the

tracks of a bull moose at all! Hank had explained to him the outline of

a bull’s hoofs, of a cow’s or calf’s, too, for that matter; he had

drawn them clearly on a strip of birch bark. And these were wholly

different. They were big, round, ample, and with no pointed outline as

of sharp hoofs. He wondered for a moment whether bear-tracks were like

that. There was no other animal he could think of, for caribou did not

come so far south at this season, and, even if they did, would leave

hoof-marks.

They were ominous signs — these mysterious writings left in the

snow by the unknown creature that had lured a human being away from

safety — and when he coupled them in his imagination with that

haunting sound that broke the stillness of the dawn, a momentary

dizziness shook his mind, distressing him again beyond belief. He felt

the threatening aspect of it all. And, stooping down to examine the

marks more closely, he caught a faint whiff of that sweet yet pungent

odour that made him instantly straighten up again, fighting a sensation

almost of nausea.

Then his memory played him another evil trick. He suddenly recalled

those uncovered feet projecting beyond the edge of the tent, and the

body’s appearance of having been dragged towards the opening; the man’s

shrinking from something by the door when he woke later. The details

now beat against his trembling mind with concerted attack. They seemed

to gather in those deep spaces of the silent forest about him, where

the host of trees stood waiting, listening, watching to see what he

would do. The woods were closing round him.

With the persistence of true pluck, however, Simpson went forward,

following the tracks as best he could, smothering these ugly emotions

that sought to weaken his will. He blazed innumerable trees as he went,

ever fearful of being unable to find the way back, and calling aloud at

intervals of a few seconds the name of the guide. The dull tapping of

the axe upon the massive trunks, and the unnatural accents of his own

voice became at length sounds that he even dreaded to make, dreaded to

hear. For they drew attention without ceasing to his presence and

something was hunting himself down in the same way that he was hunting

down another —

With a strong effort, he crushed the thought out the instant it

rose. It was the beginning, he realized, of a bewilderment utterly

diabolical in kind that would speedily destroy him.