“Better stay all night, youngster,” said the boss kindly; “It’s a long ride back, and it’s going to be dark.”

“No stay to-night,” answered Leloo.  “Maybe some time I stay, but no to-night.”

“Well, you know best, kid,” replied the boss.  “There’s one thing—­no harm will ever come to an Indian boy on a mountain trail.  But be careful; the canyons are deep, and the trail is bad in spots.”

“Me know, me careful,” smiled Leloo, and mounting his cayuse, trotted off gayly, just as the sun was lost behind a grim, rocky peak in the west.  But the “boss” was right:  night comes quickly in the mountains, and this night was unusually dark.  Leloo had to ride very slowly, for the narrow trail was a mere ledge carved out from the perpendicular walls of the cliffs, which arose on the left, a sheer precipice hundreds of feet above him, and fell away to the right in a yawning chasm, black, and deep and unexplored.  But the sure-footed cayuse stepped gingerly and knowingly, neither halting nor stumbling, and his wise little rider let the animal pick its own way, knowing well that a horse’s senses in the dark are more acute than a human’s.  Presently from far across the canyon arose a weird, prolonged howl.  Then from the heights above came an answering one.

“Ah, my brothers!” called Leloo aloud.  “You have come to greet me through the night,” and his eyes lighted like twin black fires, for he loved these wolves that made their dens and lairs along the Cariboo Trail, and to-night they were to serve him in the oddest fashion that a wild animal was ever called upon to do.  As he rode on, he would—­just for company’s sake—­call back to the wolves, answering their cries with such a perfect imitation of their wild voices that they would reply to him, from far below, then again from far above, and Leloo would smile to himself and say, “That is right, O great and fierce Leloos; answer me, for you are my kin and my cousins.”

But the trail was growing steeper, narrower every moment, and after a time Leloo forgot to reply to his forest friends, and just rode on, peering through the shadows to avoid the dangers on all sides.  Presently a sound that belonged to neither crag nor canyon fell across his quick, Indian ears.  It was a man’s voice, hushed, subdued, speaking very low, and speaking in English.  It said: 

“I hear a horse coming.”

“Shut up!  Don’t talk so loud,” replied another voice.

“I tell you I hear horses,” answered the first voice irritably.  “It must be the stage coming.  Get ready!”

“You’re clean crazy,” said the other voice.  “The stage makes more noise than that, and I know for sure there’s no horseman up the trail to-night.  It’s some wild animal you hear.”

Leloo pulled his cayuse stock still.  He did not understand English readily, he was not versed in the ways of the white man, but his wonderful native wit and instinct told him at once that there was something wrong—­the wrong things that white men were sent to jail for sometimes.  He asked himself, “Why should they hide and whisper?” Only hunters hid and refused to speak aloud.  Then he remembered—­the stage.