Big Pete was an expert backwoods tailor, shoemaker and shirtmaker, but these were but few of his accomplishments, not his trade; he was first, last and aways a hunter and scout. No matter what occupation seemed to engage his attention for the time it never interfered with his ability to hear, see or smell.

It was while I was going around camp minus my lower garments that I saw Pete suddenly throw up his head and suspiciously sniff the air, at the same time sharply scanning the windward side of our camp. Living so long with this strange man made me familiar with his actions and quick to detect anything unusual and I now knew that something of interest had happened. To the windward and close by us was a mound thickly covered with bullberry bushes and underbrush, and so far as could be seen there was nothing suspicious in the appearance of the thicket. Fixing my eyes on Big Pete, I saw a peculiar expression spread over his face which seemed to be half of mirth and half of wonderment, and I immediately knew that his wonderful nose had warned him of the presence of something to the windward.

Slowly and quietly he laid aside my almost finished breeches and silently stole away. It was only a few minutes before he returned with a very solemn face.

“Doggone my corn shucked bones, Le-loo, we’ve had a visitor but it got away mighty slick and quick. I hain’t determint yit whether it wa’ man er beast er both, er jist a thing wha’ might change into ’tother. We’ll hafter investigate later. Here git these duds on.”

When I put on my new elk-hide knickerbockers with cuffs of dressed buckskin laced around my calves, and my beautiful soft buckskin shirt tucked in at the waist I began to feel like a real Nimrod, but after I added my “Moo-loch-Capo,” the shooting jacket with elk-teeth buttons, pulled a pair of shank moccasins over my feet and donned a cap made of lynx skin, I was as happy as a child with its Christmas stocking. It was a really wonderful suit of clothing; the hair of the elk hide was on the outside, and not only made the coat and breeches warmer, but helped to shed the rain. The buttons of the elk-teeth were fastened on with thongs run through holes in their centers, and my coat could be laced up after the fashion of a military overcoat. The elk’s teeth served as frogs and loops of rawhide answered for the braid that is used on military coats.

My shank moccasins were made by first making a cut around each of the hind legs of an elk, at a sufficient distance above the heels to leave hide enough for boot legs and making another cut far enough below the heels to make room for one’s feet. The fresh skins when peeled off looked like rude stockings with holes at the toes. The skins were turned wrong side out, and the open toes closed by bringing the lower part, or sole, up over the opening and sewing it there after the manner of a tip to the modern shoe. When this novel foot-gear was dry enough for the purpose, Big Pete ornamented the legs with quaint colored designs made with split porcupine quills colored with dyes which Pete himself had manufactured of roots and barks.

Dressed in my unique and picturesque costume I stood upright while Pete surveyed me with the pride and satisfaction of one who had done a fine piece of work. I had now little fear of being called a tenderfoot and when I viewed my reflection in the spring I felt quite proud of my appearance.

“Come along now old scout,” said Pete viewing me with the pride of an artist, “come along and let me test you on a real trail. I want to see what my teaching has done for you.”

Pete led me through the underbrush to a point among the rocks.“Tha’. A trail begins right under yore nose; let’s see what you make of it,” he said crisply.

Down on all fours I crept over the ground and, to my surprise and joy, I found that I could here and there detect a turned leaf the twist of which indicated the direction taken by the party who made the trail. I noticed that the bits of wood, pine cones and sticks scattered around were darker on the parts next to the ground, and it only required simple reasoning for me to conclude that when the dark side was uppermost the object had been recently disturbed and rolled over.

It was a day of great discoveries. I found that what is true of the sticks is equally true of the pebbles and a displaced fragment of stone immediately caught my eyes. With the tenacity of a bloodhound I stuck to my task until I suddenly found myself at the base of the park wall, at the foot of the diagonal fracture in the face of the cliff where I had climbed when I discovered the golden trout. As I have said, the fracture led diagonally up the towering face of the beetling precipice.

For fear that I might have made some mistake I carefully retraced my steps backward toward the bullberry bushes near the camp. On the back trail I came upon some distinct and obvious footprints in a dusty place, but so deeply interested was I in hidden signs, the slight but tell-tale disturbances of leaf and soil, that I once passed these plainly marked tracks with only a glance and would have done so the second time had not their marked peculiarities accidentally caught my attention.

When examining the trail of this mysterious camp visitor I suddenly realized that in place of moccasin footprints I was following bear tracks, my heart ceased to beat for a moment or two before I could pull myself together and smother the prehensile footed superstitious old savage in me with the practical philosophy of the up-to-date man of today.

Taking a short cut I ran back to the foot of the pass and there, on hands and knees, ascended for a hundred feet or more—the bear steps led up the pass, and yet at the beginning of the trail the feet wore moccasins. This I knew because at one place the foot-mark showed plainly in the gray alkali dust which had accumulated upon a projecting stone a few feet below the ledge. Obviously whoever the visitor was, he had entered and left by this pass. Returning to camp I sat down on a log lost in thought. My reverie was at last broken by the voice of my guide quietly remarking. “Well, Le-loo, what’s your judication?”

“Pete,” I said, “that bear walks on its hind-legs; there is not the sign of a forefoot anywhere along the trail. Now this could not be caused by the hind feet obliterating the tracks of the front feet, because in many places the pass is so steep that the forefeet in reaching out for support would make tracks not overlapped by the hind ones.”

“That’s true, Le-loo; sartin true. If you live to be a hundred years you’ll make as good a trailer as the great Greaser trailer of New Mexico, Dolores Sanchez, or my old friend Bill Hassler, who could follow a six-month-old trail,” replied my guide. “But,” he continued, “maybe witch-bears do walk on their hind legs same as people.”

“Witch be blamed!” I cried impatiently; “this is no four-legged witch nor bear either. That was a man and when he thought he would be followed he put on moccasins made from bears’ paws to leave a disguised trail. And moreover I believe that man is none other than the Wild Hunter without his wolf pack. And that pass is the pathway he takes in and out of this park. I’m going to trail him whether you want to or not. Goodbye Pete, I’ll come back for you,” and picking up my gun and other necessary traps, I prepared to start immediately upon my journey, for I felt that to follow this trail would not only get us out of our park prison but would lead me to the abode of the Wild Hunter, where perhaps I could talk with him and learn some of the things I was so eager to know about my parents.

Big Pete looked at me solemnly for a while, ran over the cartridges in his belt and went through all those familiar unconscious motions which betokened danger ahead, and said, “Le-loo, you are a quare critter; you’re not afraid of all the werwolves, medicine ba’rs and ghosts in this world or the next, but tarnally afeared of live varmints like grizzly bars—one would think you had no religion, but, gosh all hemlock! If you can face a bear-man or a werwolf, even though all the Hy-as Ecutocks of the mountains show fight, I’ll be cornfed if I don’t stand by ye! Barring the Wild Hunter, I don’t know as I ever ran agin a Ecutock yit; that is if he be a Ecutock. Maybe he’s a Econe? Yes, I reckon that’s what he is,” continued Pete reflectively.

“Maybe he is a pine cone,” I laughed. Then added, “Whatever he is, he knows the way out of this park of yours and I am going to follow him,” I emphatically answered.“That’s howsomever!” exclaimed my guide approvingly; “but,” he continued, “the mountains are kivered with snow, while it is still summer down here, so I reckon ’twould be the proper wrinkle for us to pull our things together, have a good feed and a good sleep before we start. White men start off hot-headed and I kinder like their grit, but Injuns stop and sot by the fire an’ smoke an’ think afore they start on a raid an’ I kinder think they be wiser in this than we ’uns, so let’s do as the Injuns would do. We can cache most of our stuff and turn the horses loose. Bighorn’s mutton is powerful good, but tarnally shy and hung mighty high, an’ billygoat is doggoned strong ’nless you know how to cook ’em. Yes, we’ll eat an sleep fust an’ then his for the land where the Bighorn pasture, the woolywhite goats sleep on the rocks, the whistling marmot blows his danger signal an’ the pretty white ptarmigan hides hisself in the snow-banks, the home of the Ecutocks.

“What the thunder is a Ecutock, Pete?” I asked.“An Injun devil, I reckon you’d call it; it’s bad medicine,” he answered soberly, and continuing in his former strain, he exclaimed:

“Whar critters like goats, sheeps and rock-chucks kin live, you bet your Hy-as muck-a-muck we kin live too!”

That night I rolled up into my blanket, filled with strange presentiments. Again the question came up: What is the source of the influence that this madman of the mountains, this wild hunter, this leader of the black wolf pack, had on me to impel me to trail him over the mountains? Was it mental telepathy? Could he really be my father? Somehow I felt convinced that soon I would be face to face with the riddle, soon I would know the facts and the truth about my parents. It seemed unthinkable that all these weeks of wilderness travel had been for naught and that the Wild Hunter was nothing but a strange, eccentric old fellow living alone in the mountains and of no interest to me whatsoever.