Time and again in the winter that followed, men from the towns or the logging camps caught sight of the hound in underbrush or distant thicket, usually silent and far away. They held him in the same awe in which they had held his master; for there was something sombre and threatening in the creature's attitude when, with drooping lips, and great head hung forward, and staring eyes deep as night, he gazed down from the high hills at some passer-by on the long, snow-covered roads below. Once three men traveling on foot heard behind them in the forest that never-to-be-forgotten voice, resonant, vibrant, like a great bell booming up from the valley, a voice that drew nearer and ever nearer. The men knew that the dog of Caucomgomoc was on their track. They ran from him as if a fiend were at their heels; but always that voice trailed them over the ridges, through the valleys, until, looking back, they saw the lean bloodhound, with his nose to the ground, rapidly drawing nearer. When the men, who had no weapons, began searching frantically under the dead leaves for clubs, a deathly silence came over the woods.

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