slate-gray jay. It was not a foot from his back as he crawled under, and it did not take flight. But it eyed him intently, to make sure that he was not a fox. Sometimes he lay still for a little, listening. He heard nothing, though he started at a hundred fancied sounds. Twilight deepened into dusk, and dusk into gloom. The moon sailed up over the hills, and long banners of cloud passed across the face of it.

Presently Wolf Slayer came within sight of the fires of the village. The red light flashed on the angry river beyond, but left the lagoon in darkness. He crawled into the water inch by inch, scarcely breaking the calm, black surface. Then he swam, without noise of splashing, and landed at the foot of the meadow like a great beaver. He crawled into the red circle of one of the fires, and told his news to the braves gathered around. Men slipped from fire to fire. Without any unwonted disturbance, the whole village armed itself. Suddenly, with a fierce shout and a flight of arrows, the alders were attacked. The invaders were checked at the very moment of their fancied victory.

The fighting scattered. Here three men struggled together in the shallows at the head of the lagoon. Farther out, one tossed his arms and sank into the black depths. In the open a half-score warriors bent their bows. Among the twisted stems of the alders they pulled and strangled, like beasts of prey. Back in the spruces they slew with clubs and knives, feeling for one another in the dark. Their war-cries and shouts of hate rang fearfully on the night air, and awoke unholy echoes along the valley.

In the front of the battle Wolf Slayer fought like a man. His lack of stature saved him from death more than once in that fearful encounter. Many a vicious blow glanced harmless, or missed him altogether, as he stumbled and bent among the alders. At first he fought with a long, flint knife,—the work of the old arrow-maker. But this was splintered in his hand by the murderous stroke of a war-club. He wrenched a spear from the clutch of a dying brave. A leaping figure went down before his unexpected lunge. It rolled over; then, queerly sprawling, it lay still. An arrow from the open ripped along an alder stem, rattled its shaft among the dry twigs, and struck a glancing blow on the young brave's neck. He stumbled, grabbing at the shadows. He fell—and forgot the fight.

In light and darkness the battle raged on. Wigwams were overthrown, and about the little fires warriors gave up their violent lives. At last the encampment was cleared, and saved from destruction; and those of the invaders who remained beside the trampled fires had ceased to menace. Along the black edges of the forest ran the cries and tumult of the struggle. Spent arrows floated on the lagoon. Red knives lifted and turned in the underbrush.

Wolf Slayer, dizzy and faint, crawled back to the lodges of his people. Other warriors were returning. They came exultant, with the lust of fighting still aflame in their eyes. Some strode arrogantly. Some crawled, as Wolf Slayer had. Some staggered to the home fires and reeled against the lodges, and some got no farther than the outer circle of light. And many came not at all.

The chief, with a great gash high on his breast (he had bared arms and breast for the battle), sought about the clearing and trampled fringe of alders, and at last, returning to the disordered camp, found Wolf Slayer. With a glad, high shout of triumph, he lifted the boy in his arms and carried him home. The mother met them at the door of the lodge. In fearful silence the man and woman washed and bound the young brave's wound, and watched above his faint breathing with anxious hearts.

"Little one, strengthen your feet against the turn of the dark trail," whispered the mother. "See, our fires are bright to guide you back to your own people."

"Little chief, though this battle is ended, there are many good fights yet to come," whispered the father. "The fighters of the camp will have great need of you when we turn from our sleep. The old bear grumbles at the mouth of his den!—will you not be with us when we singe his fur?"

"Hush, hush!" cried the woman.

The boy, opening his eyes, turned the feet of his spirit from the dark trail.

"I saw the lights of the lost fires," he murmured, "and the hunting-song of dead braves was in my ears."

Wolf Slayer was nursed back to health and strength. Not once—not even at the edge of Death's domain—had his arrogance left him. It seemed that the days of suffering had but hardened his already hard heart. Lad though he was, the villagers began to feel the weight of his hand upon them. He bullied and beat the other boys of the camp.

CHAPTER IV. OUENWA SETS OUT ON A VAGUE QUEST

In the dead of winter—in that season of sweeping winds and aching skies, when the wide barrens lie uncheered of life from horizon to horizon—Soft Hand sent many of his warriors to the South. They followed in the "leads" of the great herds of caribou, going partly for the meat of the deer and partly to strike terror into the hearts of the Southern enemy. At the head of this party went Panounia, chief of the village on the River of Three Fires, and with him he took his hardy son, Wolf Slayer. Grim plans were bred on that journey. Grim tales were told around the big fire at night. The evil thing which Panounia hatched, with his bragging tongue, grew day by day and night by night. The hearts of the warriors were fired with the shameful flame. They dreamed things that had never happened, and wrought black visions out of the foolishnesses of their brains.

"The bear nods," they repeated, one to another, after the chief had talked to them. "The bear nods, like an old woman over a pot of stew. But for Panounia, surely the men of the South would have scattered our lodges and led us, captive, to the playgrounds of their children and their squaws. Such a fate would warm the heart of Soft Hand, for is not our Great Chief an old woman himself?"

So, far from the eye and paw of the great bear, the foxes barked at his power. The moon heard it, and the silent trees, and the wind which carries no messages.

About this time Ouenwa, the grandson of Soft Hand, decided to make a journey of many days from the lodges at the head of Wind Lake to the Salt Water. He felt no interest in the Southern invasion. His eyes longed for a sight of the edges of the land and the breast of the great waters beyond. He had heard, in his inland home, rumour of mighty wooden canoes walled higher than the peak of a wigwam, and manned by loud-mouthed warriors from beyond the fogs and the rising sun. Some wiseacre, squatted beside the old chief's fire, hinted that the strangers were gods. He told many wonderful stories to back his argument. Soft Hand nodded. But Ouenwa smiled and shook his head.

"Would gods make such flights for the sake of a few dried fishes and a few dressed pelts of beaver and fox?" he asked.

"The gods of trade would do so," replied the wiseacre. "Also," he added, "they slay at great distances by means of brown stakes which are flame-tongued and smoke-crowned and thunder-voiced."

"But do these gods not fight with knives—long knives and short?" inquired the lad. "I have heard it said that they sometimes fall out over the ordering of their affairs, even as we mortals do."

"And what wonderful knives they are," cried the old gossip. "They are coloured like ice. They gleam in the sunlight, like a flash of lightning against a cloud. They cut quicker than thought, and the red