“What?” asked Merriwell.
“Better see if I’m right about that cat,” suggested Diamond, his brain given a sudden and unpleasant whirl.
He was not in error about the cat, whatever he had been about the guide. The biggest of the loup-cerviers was found dead in the leaves, where it had fallen at the crack of Merriwell’s rifle.
While they dragged it out and talked about it, the young Virginian gave himself up to some serious thinking. If that was not John Caribou he had followed—and he saw now that it could not have been—who was it?
The question was easier asked than answered.
However, he decided to speak only to Merriwell about it for the present, and began to frame some sort of a story that should satisfactorily explain to the others why he had left the camp.
Hans Dunnerwust came flying into their midst, dropping his gun and the case of ammunition.
“Vollufs!” he gurgled. “One py my site peen shoost now! I snapped his teeth ad me. Didn’d you see him?”
Hans’ wolf was the loup-cervier, which had run close by him as it scampered away.
“Only a wildcat,” Merriwell explained, as he turned to Diamond.