agitated.  He grew more and more positive that he was close to the end of his adventure.  He would soon come upon life—­human life.  And then?  He tried to dispel the unsteadiness of his emotions, the swiftly growing discomfort of a great anxiety.  The first, of course, would be Tavish’s cabin, or the ruins of it.  He had taken it for granted that Tavish’s location would be here, near the confluence of the two streams.  A hunter or prospector would naturally choose such a position.

He travelled slowly, questing both sides of the stream, and listening.  He expected at any moment to hear a sound, a new kind of sound.  And he also scrutinized closely the clean, white bars of sand.  There were footprints in them, of the wild things.  Once his heart gave a sudden jump when he saw a bear track that looked very much like a moccasin track.  It was a wonderful bear country.  Their signs were everywhere along the stream, and their number and freshness made Baree restless.  David travelled until dark.  He had the desire to go on even then.  He built a small fire instead, and cooked his supper.  For a long time after that he sat in the moonlight smoking his pipe, and still listening.  He tried not to think.  The next day would settle his doubts.  The Girl?  What would he find?  He went to sleep late and awoke with the summer dawn.

The stream grew narrower and the country wilder as he progressed.  It was noon when Baree stopped dead in his tracks, stiff-legged, the bristles of his spine erect, a low and ominous growl in his throat.  He was standing over a patch of white sand no larger than a blanket.

“What is it, boy?” asked David.

He went to him casually, and stood for a moment at the edge of the sand without looking down, lighting his pipe.

“What is it?”

The next moment his heart seemed rising up into his throat.  He had been expecting what his eyes looked upon now, and he had been watching for it, but he had not anticipated such a tremendous shock.  The imprint of a moccasined foot in the sand!  There was no doubt of it this time.  A human foot had made it—­one, two, three, four, five times—­in crossing that patch of sand!  He stood with the pipe in his mouth, staring down, apparently without power to move or breathe.  It was a small footprint.  Like a boy’s.  He noticed, then, with slowly shifting eyes, that Baree was bristling and growling over another track.  A bear track, huge, deeply impressed in the sand.  The beast’s great spoor crossed the outer edge of the sand, following the direction of the moccasin tracks.  It was thrillingly fresh, if Baree’s bristling spine and rumbling voice meant anything.