moment added to his conviction, and as he thrust the muzzle of his gun
ahead of him, his finger hovering near the trigger and his snow-blinded
eyes staring ahead into the storm, something like a sob escaped his
lips.

Ahead of him the stream narrowed until it almost buried itself under a
mass of towering cedars. The closeness of the forest walls now added to
the general gloom, intensified by the first gray pallor of the Northern
dusk, which begins to fall in these regions early in the afternoon of
November days. For a moment, just before plunging into the gloomy trail
between the cedars, Wabi stopped and listened. He heard nothing but the
beating of his own heart, which worked like a trip-hammer within his
breast. The stillness was oppressive. And the longer he listened the
more some invisible power seemed to hold him back. It was not fear, it
was not lack of courage, but--

What was there just beyond those cedars, lurking cautiously in the snow
gloom?

With instinct that was almost animal in its unreasonableness Wabi sank
upon his knees. He had seen nothing, he had heard nothing; but he
crouched close, until he was no larger than a waiting wolf, and there
was a deadly earnestness in the manner in which he turned his rifle into
the deeper gloom of those close-knit walls of forest. Something was
approaching, cautiously, stealthily, and with extreme slowness. The
Indian boy felt that this was so, and yet if his life had depended upon
it he could not have told why. He huddled himself lower in the snow. His
eyes gleamed with excitement. Minute after minute passed, and still
there came no sound. Then, from far up that dusky avenue of cedars,
there came the sudden startled chatter of a moose-bird. It was a warning