The Last of the Plainsmen 



night! The hunters rested, listening ever for the 

 haunting mourn. Day again, white, passionless, 

 monotonous, silent day! The hunters traveled on 

 on on, ever listening for the haunting mourn. 



Another dusk found them within thirty miles of 

 their cabin. Only one more day now. 



Rea talked of his furs, of the splendid white furs 

 he could not bring. Jones talked of his little musk- 

 oxen calves and joyfully watched them dig for moss 

 in the snow. 



Vigilance relaxed that night. Outworn nature 

 rebelled, and both hunters slept. 



Rea awoke first, and kicking off the blankets, went 

 out. His terrible roar of rage made Jones fly to his 

 side. 



Under the very shadow of the tepee, where the 

 little musk-oxen had been tethered, they lay stretched 

 out pathetically on crimson snow stiff stone-cold, 

 dead. Moccasin tracks told the story of the tragedy. 



Jones leaned against his comrade. 



The giant raised his huge fist. 



&quot; Jackoway out of wood ! Jackoway out of 

 wood!&quot; 



Then he choked. 



The north wind, blowing through the thin, dark, 

 weird spruce trees, moaned and seemed to sigh, 

 &quot;Naza! Naza ! Naza!&quot; 



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