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THE WOLF HUNTERS

A Tale of Adventure in the Wilderness

BY
JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD

1908

To my comrades of the great northern wilderness, those faithful
companions with whom I have shared the joys and hardships of the "long
silent trail," and especially to Mukoki, my red guide and beloved
friend, does the writer gratefully dedicate this volume


CONTENTS

Chapter

I The Fight in the Forest
II How Wabigoon Became a White Man
III Roderick Sees the Footprint
IV Roderick's First Taste of the Hunter's Life
V Shots in the Wilderness
VI Mukoki Disturbs the Ancient Skeletons
VII Roderick Discovers the Buckskin Bag
VIII How Wolf Became the Companion of Men
IX Wolf Takes Vengeance Upon His People
X Roderick Explores the Chasm
XI Roderick's Dream
XII The Secret of the Skeleton's Hand
XIII Snowed In
XIV The Rescue of Wabigoon
XV Roderick Holds the Woongas at Bay
XVI The Surprise at the Post


Illustrations:

With his rifle ready Rob approached the fissure (Frontispiece)
Knife--fight--heem killed!
The leader stopped in his snow-shoes


THE WOLF HUNTERS


CHAPTER I

THE FIGHT IN THE FOREST


Cold winter lay deep in the Canadian wilderness. Over it the moon was
rising, like a red pulsating ball, lighting up the vast white silence of
the night in a shimmering glow. Not a sound broke the stillness of the
desolation. It was too late for the life of day, too early for the
nocturnal roamings and voices of the creatures of the night. Like the
basin of a great amphitheater the frozen lake lay revealed in the light
of the moon and a billion stars. Beyond it rose the spruce forest, black
and forbidding. Along its nearer edges stood hushed walls of tamarack,
bowed in the smothering clutch of snow and ice, shut in by impenetrable
gloom.

A huge white owl flitted out of this rim of blackness, then back again,
and its first quavering hoot came softly, as though the mystic hour of
silence had not yet passed for the night-folk. The snow of the day had
ceased, hardly a breath of air stirred the ice-coated twigs of the
trees. Yet it was bitter cold--so cold that a man, remaining motionless,
would have frozen to death within an hour.

Suddenly there was a break in the silence, a weird, thrilling sound,
like a great sigh, but not human--a sound to make one's blood run faster
and fingers twitch on rifle-stock. It came from the gloom of the
tamaracks. After it there fell a deeper silence than before, and the
owl, like a noiseless snowflake, drifted out over the frozen lake. After
a few moments it came again, more faintly than before. One versed in
woodcraft would have slunk deeper into the rim of blackness, and
listened, and wondered, and watched; for in the sound he would have
recognized the wild, half-conquered note of a wounded beast's suffering
and agony.

Slowly, with all the caution born of that day's experience, a huge bull
moose walked out into the glow of the moon. His magnificent head,
drooping under the weight of massive antlers, was turned inquisitively
across the lake to the north. His nostrils were distended, his eyes
glaring, and he left behind a trail of blood. Half a mile away he caught
the edge of the spruce forest. There something told him he would find
safety. A hunter would have known that he was wounded unto death as he
dragged himself out into the foot-deep snow of the lake.

A dozen rods out from the tamaracks he stopped, head thrown high, long
ears pitched forward, and nostrils held half to the sky. It is in this
attitude that a moose listens when he hears a trout splash
three-quarters of a mile away. Now there was only the vast, unending
silence, broken only by the mournful hoot of the snow owl on the other
side of the lake. Still the great beast stood immovable, a little pool
of blood growing upon the snow under his forward legs. What was the
mystery that lurked in the blackness of yonder forest? Was it danger?
The keenest of human hearing would have detected nothing. Yet to those
long slender ears of the bull moose, slanting beyond the heavy plates of
his horns, there came a sound. The animal lifted his head still higher
to the sky, sniffed to the east, to the west, and back to the shadows of
the tamaracks. But it was the north that held him.

From beyond that barrier of spruce there soon came a sound that man
might have heard--neither the beginning nor the end of a wail, but
something like it. Minute by minute it came more clearly, now growing in
volume, now almost dying away, but every instant approaching--the
distant hunting call of the wolf-pack! What the hangman's noose is to
the murderer, what the leveled rifles are to the condemned spy, that
hunt-cry of the wolves is to the wounded animal of the forests.

Instinct taught this to the old bull. His head dropped, his huge antlers
leveled themselves with his shoulders, and he set off at a slow trot
toward the east. He was taking chances in thus crossing the open, but to
him the spruce forest was home, and there he might find refuge. In his
brute brain he reasoned that he could get there before the wolves broke
cover. And then--

Again he stopped, so suddenly that his forward legs doubled under him
and he pitched into the snow. This time, from the direction of the
wolf-pack, there came the ringing report of a rifle! It might have been
a mile or two miles away, but distance did not lessen the fear it
brought to the dying king of the North. That day he had heard the same
sound, and it had brought mysterious and weakening pain in his vitals.
With a supreme effort he brought himself to his feet, once more sniffed
into the north, the east, and the west, then turned and buried himself
in the black and frozen wilderness of tamarack.

Stillness fell again with the sound of the rifle-shot. It might have
lasted five minutes or ten, when a long, solitary howl floated from
across the lake. It ended in the sharp, quick yelp of a wolf on the
trail, and an instant later was taken up by others, until the pack was
once more in full cry. Almost simultaneously a figure darted out upon
the ice from the edge of the forest. A dozen paces and it paused and
turned back toward the black wall of spruce.

"Are you coming, Wabi?"

A voice answered from the woods. "Yes. Hurry up--run!"

Thus urged, the other turned his face once more across the lake. He was
a youth of not more than eighteen. In his right hand he carried a club.
His left arm, as if badly injured, was done up in a sling improvised
from a lumberman's heavy scarf. His face was scratched and bleeding, and
his whole appearance showed that he was nearing complete exhaustion. For
a few moments he ran through the snow, then halted to a staggering walk.
His breath came in painful gasps. The club slipped from his nerveless
fingers, and conscious of the deathly weakness that was overcoming him
he did not attempt to regain it. Foot by foot he struggled on, until
suddenly his knees gave way under him and he sank down into the snow.

From the edge of the spruce forest a young Indian now ran out upon the
surface of the lake. His breath was coming quickly, but with excitement
rather than fatigue. Behind him, less than half a mile away, he could
hear the rapidly approaching cry of the hunt-pack, and for an instant he
bent his lithe form close to the snow, measuring with the acuteness of
his race the distance of the pursuers. Then he looked for his white
companion, and failed to see the motionless blot that marked where the
other had fallen. A look of alarm shot into his eyes, and resting his
rifle between his knees he placed his hands, trumpet fashion, to his
mouth and gave a signal call which, on a still night like this, carried
for a mile.

"Wa-hoo-o-o-o-o-o! Wa-hoo-o-o-o-o-o!"

At that cry the exhausted boy in the snow staggered to his feet, and
with an answering shout which came but faintly to the ears of the
Indian, resumed his flight across the lake. Two or three minutes later
Wabi came up beside him.

"Can you make it, Rod?" he cried.

The other made an effort to answer, but his reply was hardly more than a
gasp. Before Wabi could reach out to support him he had lost his little
remaining strength and fallen for a second time into the snow.

"I'm afraid--I--can't do it--Wabi," he whispered. "I'm--bushed--"

The young Indian dropped his rifle and knelt beside the wounded boy,
supporting his head against his own heaving shoulders.

"It's only a little farther, Rod," he urged. "We can make it, and take
to a tree. We ought to have taken to a tree back there, but I didn't
know that you were so far gone; and there was a good chance to make
camp, with three cartridges left for the open lake."

"Only three!"

"That's all, but I ought to make two of them count in this light. Here,
take hold of my shoulders! Quick!"

He doubled himself like a jack-knife in front of his half-prostrate
companion. From behind them there came a sudden chorus of the wolves,
louder and clearer than before.

"They've hit the open and we'll have them on the lake inside of two
minutes," he cried. "Give me your arms, Rod! There! Can you hold the
gun?"

He straightened himself, staggering under the other's weight, and set
off on a half-trot for the distant tamaracks. Every muscle in his
powerful young body was strained to its utmost tension. Even more fully
than his helpless burden did he realize the peril at their backs.

Three minutes, four minutes more, and then--

A terrible picture burned in Wabi's brain, a picture he had carried from
boyhood of another child, torn and mangled before his very eyes by these
outlaws of the North, and he shuddered. Unless he sped those three
remaining bullets true, unless that rim of tamaracks was reached in
time, he knew what their fate would be. There flashed into his mind one
last resource. He might drop his wounded companion and find safety for
himself. But it was a thought that made Wabi smile grimly. This was not
the first time that these two had risked their lives together, and that
very day Roderick had fought valiantly for the other, and had been the
one to suffer. If they died, it would be in company. Wabi made up his
mind to that and clutched the other's arms in a firmer grip. He was
pretty certain that death faced them both. They might escape the wolves,
but the refuge of a tree, with the voracious pack on guard below, meant
only a more painless end by cold. Still, while there was life there was
hope, and he hurried on through the snow, listening for the wolves
behind him and with each moment feeling more keenly that his own powers
of endurance were rapidly reaching an end.

For some reason that Wabi could not explain the hunt-pack had ceased to
give tongue. Not only the allotted two minutes, but five of them, passed
without the appearance of the animals on the lake. Was it possible that
they! had lost the trail? Then it occurred to the Indian that perhaps he
had wounded one of the pursuers, and that the others, discovering his
injury, had set upon him and were now participating in one of the
cannibalistic feasts that had saved them thus far. Hardly had he thought
of this possibility when he was thrilled by a series of long howls, and
looking back he discerned a dozen or more dark objects moving swiftly
over their trail.

Not an eighth of a mile ahead was the tamarack forest. Surely Rod could
travel that distance!

"Run for it, Rod!" he cried. "You're rested now. I'll stay here and
stop 'em!"

He loosened the other's arms, and as he did so his rifle fell from the
white boy's nerveless grip and buried itself in the snow. As he relieved
himself of his burden he saw for the first time the deathly pallor and
partly closed eyes of his companion. With a new terror filling his own
faithful heart he knelt beside the form which lay so limp and lifeless,
his blazing eyes traveling from the ghastly face to the oncoming wolves,
his rifle ready in his hands. He could now discern the wolves trailing
out from the spruce forest like ants. A dozen of them were almost within
rifle-shot. Wabi knew that it was with this vanguard of the pack that he
must deal if he succeeded in stopping the scores behind. Nearer and
nearer he allowed them to come, until the first were scarce two hundred
feet away. Then, with a sudden shout, the Indian leaped to his feet and
dashed fearlessly toward them. This unexpected move, as he had intended,
stopped the foremost wolves in a huddled group for an instant, and in
this opportune moment Wabi leveled his gun and fired. A long howl of
pain testified to the effect of the shot. Hardly had it begun when Wabi
fired again, this time with such deadly precision that one of the
wolves, springing high into the air, tumbled back lifeless among the
pack without so much as making a sound.

Running to the prostrate Roderick, Wabi drew him quickly upon his back,
clutched his rifle in the grip of his arm, and started again for the
tamaracks. Only once did he look back, and then he saw the wolves
gathering in a snarling, fighting crowd about their slaughtered
comrades. Not until he had reached the shelter of the tamaracks did the
Indian youth lay down his burden, and then in his own exhaustion he fell
prone upon the snow, his black eyes fixed cautiously upon the feasting
pack. A few minutes later he discerned dark spots appearing here and
there upon the whiteness of the snow, and at these signs of the
termination of the feast he climbed up into the low branches of a spruce
and drew Roderick after him. Not until then did the wounded boy show
visible signs of life. Slowly he recovered from the faintness which had
overpowered him, and after a little, with some assistance from Wabi, was
able to place himself safely on a higher limb.

"That's the second time, Wabi," he said, reaching a hand down
affectionately to the other's shoulder. "Once from drowning, once from
the wolves. I've got a lot to even up with you!"

"Not after what happened to-day!"

The Indian's dusky face was raised until the two were looking into each
other's eyes, with a gaze of love, and trust. Only a moment thus, and
instinctively their glance turned toward the lake. The wolf-pack was in
plain view. It was the biggest pack that Wabi, in all his life in the
wilderness, had ever seen, and he mentally figured that there were at
least half a hundred animals in it. Like ravenous dogs after having a
few scraps of meat flung among them, the wolves were running about,
nosing here and there, as if hoping to find a morsel that might have
escaped discovery. Then one of them stopped on the trail and, throwing
himself half on his haunches, with his head turned to the sky like a
baying hound, started the hunt-cry.

"There's two packs. I thought it was too big for one," exclaimed the
Indian. "See! Part of them are taking up the trail and the others are
lagging behind gnawing the bones of the dead wolf. Now if we only had
our ammunition and the other gun those murderers got away from us, we'd
make a fortune. What--"

Wabi stopped with a suddenness that spoke volumes, and the supporting
arm that he had thrown around Rod's waist tightened until it caused the
wounded youth to flinch. Both boys stared in rigid silence. The wolves
were crowding around a spot in the snow half-way between the tamarack
refuge and the scene of the recent feast. The starved animals betrayed
unusual excitement. They had struck the pool of blood and red trail made
by the dying moose!

"What is it, Wabi?" whispered Rod.

The Indian did not answer. His black eyes gleamed with a new fire, his
lips were parted in anxious anticipation, and he seemed hardly to
breathe in his tense interest. The wounded boy repeated his question,
and as if in reply the pack swerved to the west and in a black silent
mass swept in a direction that would bring them into the tamaracks a
hundred yards from the young hunters.

"A new trail!" breathed Wabi. "A new trail, and a hot one! Listen! They
make no sound. It is always that way when they are close to a kill!"

As they looked the last of the wolves disappeared in the forest. For a
few moments there was silence, then a chorus of howls came from deep in
the woods behind them.

"Now is our chance," cried the Indian. "They've broken again, and their
game--"

He had partly slipped from his limb, withdrawing his supporting arm from
Rod's waist, and was about to descend to the ground when the pack again
turned in their direction. A heavy crashing in the underbrush not a
dozen rods away sent Wabi in a hurried scramble for his perch.

"Quick--higher up!" he warned excitedly. "They're coming out here--right
under us! If we can get up so that they can't see us, or smell us--"

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when a huge shadowy bulk rushed
past them not more than fifty feet from the spruce in which they had
sought refuge. Both of the boys recognized it as a bull moose, though it
did not occur to either of them that it was the same animal at which
Wabi had taken a long shot that same day a couple of miles back. In
close pursuit came the ravenous pack. Their heads hung close to the
bloody trail, hungry, snarling cries coming from between their gaping
jaws, they swept across the little opening almost at the young hunters'
feet. It was a sight which Rod had never expected to see, and one which
held even the more experienced Wabi fascinated. Not a sound fell from
either of the youths' lips as they stared down upon the fierce, hungry
outlaws of the wilderness. To Wabi this near view of the pack told a
fateful story; to Rod it meant nothing more than the tragedy about to be
enacted before his eyes. The Indian's keen vision saw in the white
moonlight long, thin bodies, starved almost to skin and bone; to his
companion the onrushing pack seemed filled only with agile, powerful
beasts, maddened to almost fiendish exertions by the nearness of their
prey.

In a flash they were gone, but in that moment of their passing there was
painted a picture to endure a lifetime in the memory of Roderick Drew.
And it was to be followed by one even more tragic, even more thrilling.
To the dazed, half-fainting young hunter it seemed but another instant
before the pack overhauled the old bull. He saw the doomed monster turn,
in the stillness heard the snapping of jaws, the snarling of
hunger-crazed animals, and a sound that might have been a great, heaving
moan or a dying bellow. In Wabi's veins the blood danced with the
excitement that stirred his forefathers to battle. Not a line of the
tragedy that was being enacted before his eyes escaped this native son
of the wilderness. It was a magnificent fight! He knew that the old bull
would die by inches in the one-sided duel, and that when it was over
there would be more than one carcass for the survivors to gorge
themselves upon. Quietly he reached up and touched his companion.

"Now is our time," he said. "Come on--still--and on this side of the
tree!"

He slipped down, foot by foot, assisting Rod as he did so, and when both
had reached the ground he bent over as before, that the other might get
upon his back.

"I can make it alone, Wabi," whispered the wounded boy. "Give me a lift
on the arm, will you?"

With the Indian's arm about his waist, the two set off into the
tamaracks. Fifteen minutes later they came to the bank of a small frozen
river. On the opposite side of this, a hundred yards down, was a sight
which both, as if by a common impulse, welcomed with a glad cry. Close
to the shore, sheltered by a dense growth of spruce, was a bright
camp-fire. In response to Wabi's far-reaching whoop a shadowy figure
appeared in the glow and returned the shout.

"Mukoki!" cried the Indian.

"Mukoki!" laughed Rod, happy that the end was near.

Even as he spoke he swayed dizzily, and Wabi dropped his gun that he
might keep his companion from falling into the snow.



CHAPTER II

HOW WABIGOON BECAME A WHITE MAN


Had the young hunters the power of looking into the future, their
camp-fire that night on the frozen Ombabika might have been one of their
last, and a few days later would have seen them back on the edges of
civilization. Possibly, could they have foreseen the happy culmination
of the adventures that lay before them, they would still have gone on,
for the love of excitement is strong in the heart of robust youth. But
this power of discernment was denied them, and only in after years, with
the loved ones of their own firesides close about them, was the whole
picture revealed. And in those days, when they would gather with their
families about the roaring logs of winter and live over again their
early youth, they knew that all the gold in the world would not induce
them to part with their memories of the life that had gone before.

A little less than thirty years previous to the time of which we write,
a young man named John Newsome left the great city of London for the New
World. Fate had played a hard game with young Newsome--had first robbed
him of both parents, and then in a single fitful turn of her wheel
deprived him of what little property he had inherited. A little later he
came to Montreal, and being a youth of good education and considerable
ambition, he easily secured a position and worked himself into the
confidence of his employers, obtaining an appointment as factor at
Wabinosh House, a Post deep in the wilderness of Lake Nipigon.

In the second year of his reign at Wabinosh--a factor is virtually king
in his domain--there came to the Post an Indian chief named Wabigoon,
and with him his daughter, Minnetaki, in honor of whose beauty and
virtue a town was named in after years. Minnetaki was just budding into
the early womanhood of her race, and possessed a beauty seldom seen
among Indian maidens. If there is such a thing as love at first sight,
it sprang into existence the moment John Newsome's eyes fell upon this
lovely princess. Thereafter his visits to Wabigoon's village, thirty
miles deeper in the wilderness, were of frequent occurrence. From the
beginning Minnetaki returned the young factor's affections, but a most
potent reason prevented their marriage. For a long time Minnetaki had
been ardently wooed by a powerful young chief named Woonga, whom she
cordially detested, but upon whose favor and friendship depended the
existence of her father's sway over his hunting-grounds.

With the advent of the young factor the bitterest rivalry sprang up
between the two suitors, which resulted in two attempts upon Newsome's
life, and an ultimatum sent by Woonga to Minnetaki's father. Minnetaki
herself replied to this ultimatum. It was a reply that stirred the fires
of hatred and revenge to fever heat in Woonga's breast. One dark night,
at the head of a score of his tribe, he fell upon Wabigoon's camp, his
object being the abduction of the princess. While the attack was
successful in a way, its main purpose failed. Wabigoon and a dozen of
his tribesmen were slain, but in the end Woonga was driven off.

A swift messenger brought news of the attack and of the old chief's
death to Wabinosh House, and with a dozen men Newsome hastened to the
assistance of his betrothed and her people. A counter attack was made
upon Woonga and he was driven deep into the wilderness with great loss.
Three days later Minnetaki became Newsome's wife at the Hudson Bay Post.

From that hour dated one of the most sanguinary feuds in the history of
the great trading company; a feud which, as we shall see, was destined
to live even unto the second generation.

Woonga and his tribe now became no better than outlaws, and preyed so
effectively upon the remnants of the dead Wabigoon's people that the
latter were almost exterminated. Those who were left moved to the
vicinity of the Post. Hunters from Wabinosh House were ambushed and
slain. Indians who came to the Post to trade were regarded as enemies,
and the passing of years seemed to make but little difference. The feud
still existed. The outlaws came to be spoken of as "Woongas," and a
Woonga was regarded as a fair target for any man's rifle.

Meanwhile two children came to bless the happy union of Newsome and his
lovely Indian wife. One of these, the eldest, was a boy, and in honor of
the old chief he was named Wabigoon, and called Wabi for short. The
other was a girl, three years younger, and Newsome insisted that she be
called Minnetaki. Curiously enough, the blood of Wabi ran almost pure to
his Indian forefathers, while Minnetaki, as she became older, developed
less of the wild beauty of her mother and more of the softer loveliness
of the white race, her wealth of soft, jet black hair and her great dark
eyes contrasting with the lighter skin of her father's blood. Wabi, on
the other hand, was an Indian in appearance from his moccasins to the
crown of his head, swarthy, sinewy, as agile as a lynx, and with every
instinct in him crying for the life of the wild. Yet born in him was a
Caucasian shrewdness and intelligence that reached beyond the factor
himself.

One of Newsome's chief pleasures in life had been the educating of his
woodland bride, and it was the ambition of both that the little
Minnetaki and her brother be reared in the ways of white children.
Consequently both mother and father began their education at the Post;
they were sent to the factor's school and two winters were passed in
Port Arthur that they might have the advantage of thoroughly equipped
schools. The children proved themselves unusually bright pupils, and by
the time Wabi was sixteen and Minnetaki twelve one would not have known
from their manner of speech that Indian blood ran in their veins. Yet
both, by the common desire of their parents, were familiar with the life
of the Indian and could talk fluently the tongue of their mother's
people.

It was at about this time in their lives that the Woongas became
especially daring in their depredations. These outlaws no longer
pretended to earn their livelihood by honest means, but preyed upon
trappers and other Indians without discrimination, robbing and killing
whenever safe opportunities offered themselves. The hatred for the
people of Wabinosh House became hereditary, and the Woonga children grew
up with it in their hearts. The real cause of the feud had been
forgotten by many, though not by Woonga himself. At last so daring did
he become that the provincial government placed a price upon his head
and upon those of a number of his most notorious followers. For a time
the outlaws were driven from the country, but the bloodthirsty chief
himself could not be captured.

When Wabi was seventeen years of age it was decided that he should be
sent to some big school in the States for a year. Against this plan the
young Indian--nearly all people regarded him as an Indian, and Wabi was
proud of the fact--fought with all of the arguments at his command. He
loved the wilds with the passion of his mother's race. His nature
revolted at the thoughts of a great city with its crowded streets, its
noise, and bustle, and dirt. It was then that Minnetaki pleaded with
him, begged him to go for just one year, and to come back and tell her
of all he had seen and teach her what he had learned. Wabi loved his
beautiful little sister beyond anything else on earth, and it was she
more than his parents who finally induced him to go.

For three months Wabi devoted himself faithfully to his studies in
Detroit. But each week added to his loneliness and his longings for
Minnetaki and his forests. The passing of each day became a painful task
to him. To Minnetaki he wrote three times each week, and three times
each week the little maiden at Wabinosh House wrote long, cheering
letters to her brother--though they came to Wabi only about twice a
month, because only so often did the mail-carrier go out from the Post.

It was at this time in his lonely school life that Wabigoon became
acquainted with Roderick Drew. Roderick, even as Wabi fancied himself to
be just at this time, was a child of misfortune. His father had died
before he could remember, and the property he had left had dwindled
slowly away during the passing of years. Rod was spending his last week
in school when he met Wabigoon. Necessity had become his grim master,
and the following week he was going to work. As the boy described the
situation to his Indian friend, his mother "had fought to the last ditch
to keep him in school, but now his time was up." Wabi seized upon the
white youth as an oasis in a vast desert. After a little the two became
almost inseparable, and their friendship culminated in Wabi's going to
live in the Drew home. Mrs. Drew was a woman of education and
refinement, and her interest in Wabigoon was almost that of a mother. In
this environment the ragged edges were smoothed away from the Indian
boy's deportment, and his letters to Minnetaki were more and more filled
with enthusiastic descriptions of his new friends. After a little Mrs.
Drew received a grateful letter of thanks from the princess mother at
Wabinosh House, and thus a pleasant correspondence sprang up between the
two.

There were now few lonely hours for the two boys. During the long winter
evenings, when Roderick was through with his day's work and Wabi had
completed his studies, they would sit before the fire and the Indian
youth would describe the glorious life of the vast northern wilderness;
and day by day, and week by week, there steadily developed within Rod's
breast a desire to see and live that life. A thousand plans were made, a
thousand adventures pictured, and the mother would smile and laugh and
plan with them.

But in time the end of it all came, and Wabi went back to the princess
mother, to Minnetaki, and to his forests. There were tears in the boys'
eyes when they parted, and the mother cried for the Indian boy who was
returning to his people. Many of the days that followed were painful to
Roderick Drew. Eight months had bred a new nature in him, and when Wabi
left it was as if a part of his own life had gone with him. Spring came
and passed, and then summer. Every mail from Wabinosh House brought
letters for the Drews, and never did an Indian courier drop a pack at
the Post that did not carry a bundle of letters for Wabigoon.

Then in the early autumn, when September frosts were turning the leaves
of the North to red and gold, there came the long letter from Wabi which
brought joy, excitement and misgiving into the little home of the mother
and her son. It was accompanied by one from the factor himself, another
from the princess mother, and by a tiny note from Minnetaki, who pleaded
with the others that Roderick and Mrs. Drew might spend the winter with
them at Wabinosh House.

"You need not fear about losing your position." wrote Wabigoon. "We
shall make more money up here this winter than you could earn in Detroit
in three years. We will hunt wolves. The country is alive with them, and
the government gives a bounty of fifteen dollars for every scalp taken.
Two winters ago I killed forty and I did not make a business of it at
that. I have a tame wolf which we use as a decoy. Don't bother about a
gun or anything like that. We have everything here."

For several days Mrs. Drew and her son deliberated upon the situation
before a reply was sent to the Newsomes. Roderick pleaded, pictured the
glorious times they would have, the health that it would give them, and
marshaled in a dozen different ways his arguments in favor of accepting
the invitation. On the other hand, his mother was filled with doubt.
Their finances were alarmingly low, and Rod would be giving up a sure
though small income, which was now supporting them comfortably. His
future was bright, and that winter would see him promoted to ten dollars
a week in the mercantile house where he was employed. In the end they
came to an understanding. Mrs. Drew would not go to Wabinosh House, but
she would allow Roderick to spend the winter there--and word to this
effect was sent off into the wilderness.

Three weeks later came Wabigoon's reply. On the tenth of October he
would meet Rod at Sprucewood, on the Black Sturgeon River. Thence they
would travel by canoe up the Sturgeon River to Sturgeon Lake, take
portage to Lake Nipigon, and arrive at Wabinosh House before the ice of
early winter shut them in. There was little time to lose in making
preparations, and the fourth day following the receipt of Wabi's letter
found Rod and his mother waiting for the train which was to whirl the
boy into his new life. Not until the eleventh did he arrive at
Sprucewood. Wabi was there to meet him, accompanied by an Indian from
the Post; and that same afternoon the journey up Black Sturgeon River
was begun.



CHAPTER III

RODERICK SEES THE FOOTPRINT


Rod was now plunged for the first time in his life into the heart of the
Wilderness. Seated in the bow of the birch-bark canoe which was carrying
them up the Sturgeon, with Wabi close behind him, he drank in the wild
beauties of the forests and swamps through which they slipped almost as
noiselessly as shadows, his heart thumping in joyous excitement, his
eyes constantly on the alert for signs of the big game which Wabi told
him was on all sides of them. Across his knees, ready for instant use,
was Wabi's repeating rifle. The air was keen with the freshness left by
night frosts. At times deep masses of gold and crimson forests shut them
in, at others, black forests of spruce came down to the river's edge;
again they would pass silently through great swamps of tamaracks. In
this vast desolation there was a mysterious quiet, except for the
occasional sounds of wild life. Partridges drummed back in the woods,
flocks of ducks got up with a great rush of wings at almost every turn,
and once, late in the morning of the first day out, Rod was thrilled by
a crashing in the undergrowth scarcely a stone's throw from the canoe.
He could see saplings twisting and bending, and heard Wabi whisper
behind him:

"A moose!"

They were words to set his hands trembling and his whole body quivering
with anticipation. There was in him now none of the old hunter's
coolness, none of the almost stoical indifference with which the men of
the big North hear these sounds of the wild things about them. Rod had
yet to see his first big game.

That moment came in the afternoon. The canoe had skimmed lightly around
a bend in the river. Beyond this bend a mass of dead driftwood had
wedged against the shore, and this driftwood, as the late sun sank
behind the forests, was bathed in a warm yellow glow. And basking in
this glow, as he loves to do at the approach of winter nights, was an
animal, the sight of which drew a sharp, excited cry from between Rod's
lips. In an instant he had recognized it as a bear. The animal was taken
completely by surprise and was less than half a dozen rods away. Quick
as a flash, and hardly realizing what he was doing, the boy drew his
rifle to his shoulder, took quick aim and fired. The bear was already
clambering up the driftwood, but stopped suddenly at the report, slipped
as if about to fall back--then continued his retreat.

"You hit 'im!" shouted Wabi. "Quick-try 'im again!"

Rod's second shot seemed to have no effect In his excitement he jumped
to his feet, forgetting that he was in a frail canoe, and took a last
shot at the big black beast that was just about to disappear over the
edge of the driftwood. Both Wabi and his Indian companion flung
themselves on the shore side of their birch and dug their paddles deep
into the water, but their efforts were unavailing to save their reckless
comrade. Unbalanced by the concussion of his gun, Rod plunged backward
into the river, but before he had time to sink, Wabi reached over and
grabbed him by the arm.

"Don't make a move--and hang on to the gun!" he warned. "If we try to
get you in here we'll all go over!" He made a sign to the Indian, who
swung the canoe slowly inshore. Then he grinned down into Rod's
dripping, unhappy face.

"By George, that last shot was a dandy for a tenderfoot! You got your
bear!"

Despite his uncomfortable position, Rod gave a whoop of joy, and no
sooner did his feet touch solid bottom than he loosened himself from
Wabi's grip and plunged toward the driftwood. On its very top he found
the bear, as dead as a bullet through its side and another through its
head could make it. Standing there beside his first big game, dripping
and shivering, he looked down upon the two who were pulling their canoe
ashore and gave, a series of triumphant whoops that could have been
heard half a mile away.

"It's camp and a fire for you," laughed Wabi, hurrying up to him. "This
is better luck than I thought you'd have, Rod. We'll have a glorious
feast to-night, and a fire of this driftwood that will show you what
makes life worth the living up here in the North. Ho, Muky," he called
to the old Indian, "cut this fellow up, will you? I'll make camp."

"Can we keep the skin?" asked Rod. "It's my first, you know, and--"

"Of course we can. Give us a hand with the fire, Rod; it will keep you
from catching cold."

In the excitement of making their first camp, Rod almost forgot that he
was soaked to the skin, and that night was falling about them. The first
step was the building of a fire, and soon a great, crackling, almost
smokeless blaze was throwing its light and heat for thirty feet around.
Wabi now brought blankets from the canoe, stripped off a part of his own
clothes, made Rod undress, and soon had that youth swathed in dry togs,
while his wet ones were hung close up to the fire. For the first time
Rod saw the making of a wilderness shelter. Whistling cheerily, Wabi got
an ax from the canoe, went into the edge of the cedars and cut armful
after armful of saplings and boughs. Tying his blankets about himself,
Rod helped to carry these, a laughable and grotesque figure as he
stumbled about clumsily in his efforts. Within half an hour the cedar
shelter was taking form. Two crotched saplings were driven into the
ground eight feet apart, and from one to the other, resting in the
crotches, was placed another sapling, which formed the ridge-pole; and
from this pole there ran slantwise to the earth half a dozen others,
making a framework upon which the cedar boughs were piled. By the time
the old Indian had finished his bear the home was completed, and with
its beds of sweet-smelling boughs, the great camp-fire in front and the
dense wilderness about them growing black with the approach of night,
Rod thought that nothing in picture-book or story could quite equal the
reality of that moment. And when, a few moments later, great bear-steaks
were broiling over a mass of coals, and the odor of coffee mingled with
that of meal-cakes sizzling on a heated stone, he knew that his dearest
dreams had come true.

That night in the glow of the camp-fire Rod listened to the thrilling
stories of Wabi and the old Indian, and lay awake until nearly dawn,
listening to the occasional howl of a wolf, mysterious splashings in the
river and the shrill notes of the night birds. There were varied
experiences in the following three days: one frosty morning before the
others were awake he stole out from the camp with Wabi's rifle and shot
twice at a red deer--which he missed both times; there was an exciting
but fruitless race with a swimming caribou in Sturgeon Lake, at which
Wabi himself took three long-range shots without effect.

It was on a glorious autumn afternoon that Wabi's keen eyes first
descried the log buildings of the Post snuggled in the edge of the
seemingly unending forest. As they approached he joyfully pointed out
the different buildings to Rod--the Company store, the little cluster of
employees' homes and the factor's house, where Rod was to meet his
welcome. At least Roderick himself had thought it would be there. But as
they came nearer a single canoe shot out suddenly from the shore and the
young hunters could see a white handkerchief waving them greeting. Wabi
replied with a whoop of pleasure and fired his gun into the air.

"It's Minnetaki!" he cried. "She said she would watch for us and come
out to meet us!"

Minnetaki! A little nervous thrill shot through Rod. Wabi had described
her to him a thousand times in those winter evenings at home; with a
brother's love and pride he had always brought her into their talks and
plans, and somehow, little by little, Rod had grown to like her very
much without ever having seen her.

The two canoes swiftly approached each other, and in a few minutes more
were alongside. With a glad laughing cry Minnetaki leaned over and
kissed her brother, while at the same time her dark eyes shot a curious
glance at the youth of whom she had read and heard so much.

At this time Minnetaki was fifteen. Like her mother's race she was
slender, of almost woman's height, and unconsciously as graceful as a
fawn in her movements. A slightly waving wealth of raven hair framed
what Rod thought to be one of the prettiest faces he had ever seen, and
entwined in the heavy silken braid that fell over her shoulder were a
number of red autumn leaves. As she straightened herself in her canoe
she looked at Rod and smiled, and he in making a polite effort to lift
his cap in civilized style, lost that article of apparel in a sudden
gust of wind. In an instant there was a general laugh of merriment in
which even the old Indian joined. The little incident did more toward
making comradeship than anything else that might have happened, and
laughing again into Rod's face Minnetaki urged her canoe toward the
floating cap.

"You shouldn't wear such things until it gets cold," she said, after
retrieving the cap and handing it to him. "Wabi does--but I don't!"

"Then I won't," replied Rod gallantly, and at Wabi's burst of laughter
both blushed.

That first night at the Post Rod found that Wabi had already made all
plans for the winter's hunting, and the white youth's complete equipment
was awaiting him in the room assigned to him in the factor's house--a
deadly looking five-shot Remington, similar to Wabi's, a long-barreled,
heavy-caliber revolver, snow-shoes, and a dozen other articles necessary
to one about to set out upon a long expedition in the wilderness. Wabi
had also mapped out their hunting-grounds. Wolves in the immediate
neighborhood of the Post, where they were being constantly sought by the
Indians and the factor's men, had become exceedingly cautious and were
not numerous, but in the almost untraveled wilderness a hundred miles to
the north and east they were literally overrunning the country, killing
moose, caribou and deer in great numbers.

In this region Wabi planned to make their winter quarters. And no time
was to be lost in taking up the trail, for the log house in which they
would pass the bitterly cold months should be built before the heavy
snows set in. It was therefore decided that the young hunters should
start within a week, accompanied by Mukoki, the old Indian, a cousin of
the slain Wabigoon, whom Wabi had given the nickname of Muky and who had
been a faithful comrade to him from his earliest childhood.

Rod made the most of the six days which were allotted to him at the
Post, and while Wabi helped to handle the affairs of the Company's store
during a short absence of his father at Port Arthur, the lovely little
Minnetaki gave our hero his first lessons in woodcraft. In canoe, with
the rifle, and in reading the signs of forest life Wabi's sister
awakened constantly increasing admiration in Rod. To see her bending
over some freshly made trail, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling
with excitement, her rich hair filled with the warmth of the sun, was a
picture to arouse enthusiasm even in the heart of a youngster of
eighteen, and a hundred times the boy mentally vowed that "she was a
brick" from the tips of her pretty moccasined feet to the top of her
prettier head. Half a dozen times at least he voiced this sentiment to
Wabi, and Wabi agreed with great enthusiasm. In fact, by the time the
week was almost gone Minnetaki and Rod had become great chums, and it
was not without some feeling of regret that the young wolf hunter
greeted the dawn of the day that was to see them begin their journey
deeper into the wilds.

Minnetaki was one of the earliest risers at the Post. Rod was seldom
behind her. But on this particular morning he was late and heard the
girl whistling outside half an hour before he was dressed--for Minnetaki
could whistle in a manner that often filled him with envy. By the time
he came down she had disappeared in the edge of the forest, and Wabi,
who was also ahead of him, was busy with Mukoki tying up their equipment
in packs. It was a glorious morning, clear and frosty, and Rod noticed
that a thin shell of ice had formed on the lake during the night. Once
or twice Wabi turned toward the forest and gave his signal whoop, but
received no reply.

"I don't see why Minnetaki doesn't come back," he remarked carelessly,
as he fastened a shoulder-strap about a bundle. "Breakfast will be ready
in a jiffy. Hunt her up, will you, Rod?"

Nothing loath, Rod started out on a brisk run along the path which he
knew to be a favorite with Minnetaki and shortly it brought him down to
a pebbly stretch of the beach where she frequently left her canoe. That
she had been here a few minutes before he could tell by the fact that
the ice about the birch-bark was broken, as though the girl had tested
its thickness by shoving the light craft out into it for a few feet. Her
footsteps led plainly up the shelving shore and into the forest.

"O Minnetaki--Minnetaki!"

Rod called loudly and listened. There was no response. As if impelled by
some presentiment which he himself could not explain, the boy hurried
deeper into the forest along the narrow path which Minnetaki must have
taken. Five minutes--ten minutes--and he called again. Still there was
no answer. Possibly the girl had not gone so far, or she might have left
the path for the thick woods. A little farther on there was a soft spot
in the path where a great tree-trunk had rotted half a century before,
leaving a rich black soil. Clearly traced in this were the imprints of
Minnetaki's moccasins. For a full minute Rod stopped and listened,
making not a sound. Why he maintained silence he could not have
explained. But he knew that he was half a mile from the Post, and that
Wabi's sister should not be here at breakfast time. In this minute's
quiet he unconsciously studied the tracks in the ground. How small the
pretty Indian maiden's feet were! And he noticed, too, that her
moccasins, unlike most moccasins, had a slight heel.

But in a moment more his inspection was cut short. Was that a cry he
heard far ahead? His heart seemed to stop beating, his blood
thrilled--and in another instant he was running down the path like a
deer. Twenty rods beyond this point the path entered an opening in the
forest made by a great fire, and half-way across this opening the youth
saw a sight which chilled him to the marrow. There was Minnetaki, her
long hair tumbling loosely down her back, a cloth tied around her
head--and on either side an Indian dragging her swiftly toward the
opposite forest!

For as long as he might have drawn three breaths Rod stood transfixed
with horror. Then his senses returned to him, and every muscle in his
body seemed to bound with action. For days he had been practising with
his revolver and it was now in the holster at his side. Should he use
it? Or might he hit Minnetaki? At his feet he saw a club and snatching
this up he sped across the opening, the soft earth holding the sound of
his steps. When he was a dozen feet behind the Indians Minnetaki
stumbled in a sudden effort to free herself, and as one of her captors
half turned to drag her to her feet he saw the enraged youth, club
uplifted, bearing down upon them like a demon. A terrific yell from Rod,
a warning cry from the Indian, and the fray began. With crushing force,
the boy's club fell upon the shoulder of the second Indian, and before
he could recover from the delivery of this blow the youth was caught in
a choking, deadly grip by the other from behind.

Freed by the sudden attack, Minnetaki tore away the cloth that bound her
eyes and mouth. As quick as a flash she took in the situation. At her
feet the wounded Indian was half rising, and upon the ground near him,
struggling in close embrace, were Rod and the other. She saw the
Indian's fatal grip upon her preserver's throat, the whitening face and
wide-open eyes, and with a great, sobbing cry she caught up the fallen
club and brought it down with all her strength upon the redskin's head.
Twice, three times the club rose and fell, and the grip on Rod's throat
relaxed. A fourth time it rose, but this time was caught from behind,
and a huge hand clutched the brave girl's throat so that the cry on her
lips died in a gasp. But the relief gave Rod his opportunity. With a
tremendous effort he reached his pistol holster, drew out the gun, and
pressed it close up against his assailant's body. There was a muffled
report and with a shriek of agony the Indian pitched backward. Hearing
the shot and seeing the effect upon his comrade, the second Indian
released his hold on Minnetaki and ran for the forest. Rod, seeing
Minnetaki fall in a sobbing, frightened heap, forgot all else but to run
to her, smooth back her hair and comfort her with all of the assurances
at his boyish command.

It was here that Wabi and the old Indian guide found them five minutes
later. Hearing Rod's first piercing yell of attack, they had raced into
the forest, afterward guided by the two or three shrill screams which
Minnetaki had unconsciously emitted during the struggle. Close behind
them, smelling trouble, followed two of the Post employees.

The attempted abduction of Wabi's sister, Rod's heroic rescue and the
death of one of the captors, who was recognized as one of Woonga's men,
caused a seven-day sensation at the Post.

There was now no thought of leaving on the part of the young wolf
hunters. It was evident that Woonga was again in the neighborhood, and
Wabi and Rod, together with a score of Indians and hunters, spent days
in scouring the forests and swamps. But the Woongas disappeared as
suddenly as they came. Not until Wabi had secured a promise from
Minnetaki that she would no longer go into the forests unaccompanied did
the Indian youth again allow himself to take up their interrupted plans.

Minnetaki had been within easy calling distance of help when the
Woongas, without warning, sprang upon her, smothered her attempted cries
and dragged her away, compelling her to walk alone over the soft earth
where Rod had seen her footsteps, so that any person who followed might
suppose she was alone and safe. This fact stirred the dozen white
families at the Post into aggressive action, and four of the most
skillful Indian track-hunters in the service were detailed to devote
themselves exclusively to hunting down the outlaws, their operations not
to include a territory extending more than twenty miles from Wabinosh
House in any direction. With these precautions it was believed that no
harm could come to Minnetaki or other young girls of the Post.

It was, therefore, on a Monday, the fourth day of November, that Rod,
Wabi and Mukoki turned their faces at last to the adventures that
awaited them in the great North.



CHAPTER IV

RODERICK'S FIRST TASTE OF THE HUNTER'S LIFE


By this time it was bitter cold. The lakes and rivers were frozen deep
and a light snow covered the ground. Already two weeks behind their
plans, the young wolf hunters and the old Indian made forced marches
around the northern extremity of Lake Nipigon and on the sixth day found
themselves on the Ombabika River, where they were compelled to stop on
account of a dense snow-storm. A temporary camp was made, and it was
while constructing this camp that Mukoki discovered signs of wolves. It
was therefore decided to remain for a day or two and investigate the
hunting-grounds. On the morning of the second day Wabi shot at and
wounded the old bull moose which met such a tragic end a few hours
later, and that same morning the two boys made a long tour to the north
in the hope of finding that they were in a good game country, which
would mean also that there were plenty of wolves.

This left Mukoki alone in camp. Thus far, in their desire to cover as
much ground as possible before the heavy snows came, Wabi and his
companions had not stopped to hunt for game and for six days their only
meat had been bacon and jerked venison. Mukoki, whose prodigious
appetite was second only to the shrewdness with which he stalked game to
satisfy it, determined to add to their larder if possible during the
others' absence, and with this object in view he left camp late in the
afternoon to be gone, as he anticipated, not longer than an hour or so.

With him he carried two powerful wolf-traps slung over his shoulders.
Stealing cautiously along the edge of the river, his eyes and ears alert
for game, Mukoki suddenly came upon the frozen and half-eaten carcass of
a red deer. It was evident that the animal had been killed by wolves
either the day or night before, and from the tracks in the snow the
Indian concluded that not more than four wolves had participated in the
slaughter and feast. That these wolves would return to continue their
banquet, probably that night, Mukoki's many experiences as a wolf hunter
assured him; and he paused long enough to set his traps, afterward
covering them over with three or four inches of snow.

Continuing his hunt, the old Indian soon struck the fresh spoor of a
deer. Believing that the animal would not travel for any great distance
in the deep snow, he swiftly took up the trail. Half a mile farther on
he stopped abruptly with a grunt of unbounded surprise. Another hunter
had taken up the trail!

With increased caution Mukoki now advanced. Two hundred feet more and a
second pair of moccasined feet joined in the pursuit, and a little later
still a third!

Led on by curiosity more than by the hope of securing a partnership
share in the quarry, the Indian slipped silently and swiftly through the
forest. As he emerged from a dense growth of spruce through which the
tracks led him Mukoki was treated to another surprise by almost
stumbling over the carcass of the deer he had been following. A brief
examination satisfied him that the doe had been shot at least two hours
before. The three hunters had cut out her heart, liver and tongue and
had also taken the hind quarters, leaving the remainder of the carcass
and the skin! Why had they neglected this most valuable part of their
spoils? With a new gleam of interest in his eyes Mukoki carefully
scrutinized the moccasin trails. He soon discovered that the Indians
ahead of him were in great haste, and that after cutting the choicest
meat from the doe they had started off to make up for lost time by
running!

With another grunt of astonishment the old Indian returned to the
carcass, quickly stripped off the skin, wrapped in it the fore quarters
and ribs of the doe, and thus loaded, took up the home trail. It was
dark when he reached camp. Wabi and Rod had not yet returned. Building a
huge fire and hanging the ribs of the doe on a spit before it, he
anxiously awaited their appearance.

Half an hour later he heard the shout which brought him quickly to where
Wabi was holding the partly unconscious form of Rod in his arms.

It took but a few moments to carry the injured youth to camp, and not
until Rod was resting upon a pile of blankets in their shack, with the
warmth of the fire reviving him, did Wabi vouchsafe an explanation to
the old Indian.

"I guess he's got a broken arm, Muky," he said. "Have you any hot
water?"

"Shot?" asked the old hunter, paying no attention to the question. He
dropped upon his knees beside Rod, his long brown fingers reaching out
anxiously. "Shot?"

"No--hit with a club. We met three Indian hunters who were in camp and
who invited us to eat with them. While we were eating they jumped upon
our backs. Rod got that--and lost his rifle!"

Mukoki quickly stripped the wounded boy of his garments, baring his left
arm and side. The arm was swollen and almost black and there was a great
bruise on Rod's body a little above the waist. Mukoki was a surgeon by
necessity, a physician such as one finds only in the vast unblazed
wildernesses, where Nature is the teacher. Crudely he made his
examination, pinching and twisting the flesh and bones until Rod cried
out in pain, but in the end there was a glad triumph in his voice as he
said:

"No bone broke--hurt most here!" and he touched the bruise. "Near broke
rib--not quite. Took wind out and made great deal sick. Want good
supper, hot coffee--rub in bear's grease, then be better!"

Rod, who had opened his eyes, smiled faintly and Wabi gave a half-shout
of delight.

"Not so bad as we thought, eh, Rod?" he cried. "You can't fool Muky! If
he says your arm isn't broken--why, it _isn't_, and that's all there is
to it. Let me bolster you up in these blankets and we'll soon have a
supper that will sizzle the aches out of you. I smell meat--fresh meat!"

With a chuckle of pleasure Mukoki jumped to his feet and ran out to
where the ribs of the doe were slowly broiling over the fire. They were
already done to a rich brown and their dripping juice filled the
nostrils with an appetizing odor. By the time Wabi had applied Mukoki's
prescription to his comrade's wounds, and had done them up in bandages,
the tempting feast was spread before them.

As a liberal section of the ribs was placed before him, together with
corn-meal cakes and a cup of steaming coffee, Rod could not suppress a
happy though somewhat embarrassed laugh.

"I'm ashamed of myself, Wabi," he said. "Here I've been causing so much
bother, like some helpless kid; and now I find I haven't even the excuse
of a broken arm, and that I'm as hungry as a bear! Looks pretty yellow,
doesn't it? Just as though I was scared to death! So help me, I almost
wish my arm _was_ broken!"

Mukoki had buried his teeth in a huge chunk of fat rib, but he lowered
it with a great chuckling grunt, half of his face smeared with the first
results of his feast.

"Whole lot sick," he explained. "Be sick some more--mighty sick! Maybe
vomit lots!"

"Waugh!" shrieked Wabi. "How is that for cheerful news, Rod?" His
merriment echoed far out into the night. Suddenly he caught himself and
peered suspiciously into the gloom beyond the circle of firelight.

"Do you suppose they would follow?" he asked.

A more cautious silence followed, and the Indian youth quickly related
the adventures of the day to Mukoki--how, in the heart of the forest
several miles beyond the lake, they had come upon the Indian hunters,
had accepted of their seemingly honest hospitality, and in the midst of
their meal had suffered an attack from them. So sudden and unexpected
had been the assault that one of the Indians got away with Rod's rifle,
ammunition belt and revolver before any effort could be made to stop
him. Wabi was under the other two Indians when Rod came to his
assistance, with the result that the latter was struck two heavy blows,
either with a club or a gun-stock. So tenaciously had the Indian boy
clung to his own weapon that his assailants, after a brief struggle,
darted into the dense underbrush, evidently satisfied with the white
boy's equipment.

"They were of Woonga's people, without a doubt," finished Wabi. "It
puzzles me why they didn't kill us. They had half a dozen chances to
shoot us, but didn't seem to want to do us any great injury. Either the
measures taken at the Post are making them reform, or--"

He paused, a troubled look in his eyes. Immediately Mukoki told of his
own experience and of the mysterious haste of the three Indians who had
slain the doe.

"It is certainly curious," rejoined the young Indian. "They couldn't
have been the ones we met, but I'll wager they belong to the same gang.
I wouldn't be surprised if we had hit upon one of Woonga's retreats.
We've always thought he was in the Thunder Bay regions to the west, and
that is where father is watching for him now. We've hit the hornets'
nest, Muky, and the only thing for us to do is to get out of this
country as fast as we can!"

"We'd make a nice pot-shot just at this moment," volunteered Rod,
looking across to the dense blackness on the opposite side of the river,
where the moonlight seemed to make even more impenetrable the wall of
gloom.

As he spoke there came a slight sound from behind him, the commotion of
a body moving softly beyond the wall of spruce boughs, then a curious,
suspicious sniffing, and after that a low whine.

"Listen!"

Wabi's command came in a tense whisper. He leaned close against the
boughs, stealthily parted them, and slowly thrust his head through the
aperture.

"Hello, Wolf!" he whispered. "What's up?"

An arm's length away, tied before a smaller shelter of spruce, a gaunt,
dog-like animal stood in a rigid listening attitude. An instant's
glance, however, would have assured one that it was not a dog, but a
full-grown wolf. From the days of its puppyhood Wabi had taught it in
the ways of dogdom, yet had the animal perversely clung to its wild
instincts. A weakness in that thong, a slip of the collar, and Wolf
would have bounded joyously into the forests to seek for ever the packs
of his fathers. Now the babeesh rope was taut, Wolf's muzzle was turned
half to the sky, his ears were alert, half-sounding notes rattled in his
throat.

"There is something near our camp!" announced the Indian boy, drawing
himself back quickly. "Muky--"

He was interrupted by a long mournful howl from the captive wolf.

Mukoki had jumped to his feet with the alertness of a cat, and now with
his gun in his hand slunk around the edge of the shelter and buried
himself in the gloom. Roderick lay quiet while Wabi, seizing the
remaining rifle, followed him.

"Lie over there in the dark, Rod, where the firelight doesn't show you
up," he cautioned in a low voice. "Probably it is only some animal that
has stumbled on to our camp, but we want to make sure."

Ten minutes later the young hunter returned alone.

"False alarm!" he laughed cheerfully. "There's a part of a carcass of a
red deer up the creek a bit. It has been killed by wolves, and Wolf
smells some of his own blood coming in to the feast. Muky has set traps
there and we may have our first scalp in the morning."

"Where is Mukoki?"

"On watch. He is going to keep guard until a little after midnight, and
then I'll turn out. We can't be too careful, with the Woongas in the
neighborhood."

Rod shifted himself uneasily.

"What shall we do--to-morrow?" he asked.

"Get out!" replied Wabi with emphasis. "That is, if you are able to
travel. From what Mukoki tells me, and from what you and I already know,
Woonga's people must be in the forests beyond the lake. We'll cut a
trail up the Ombabika for two or three days before we strike camp. You
and Muky can start out as soon as it is light enough."

"And you--" began Rod.

"Oh, I'm going to take a run back over our old wolf-trail and collect
the scalps we shot to-day. There's a month's salary back there for you,
Rod! Now, let's turn in. Good night--sleep tight--and be sure to wake up
early in the morning."

The boys, exhausted by the adventures of the day, were soon in profound
slumber. And though midnight came, and hour after hour passed between
then and dawn, the faithful Mukoki did not awaken them. Never for a
moment neglecting his caution the old Indian watched tirelessly over the
camp. With the first appearance of day he urged the fire into a roaring
blaze, raked out a great mass of glowing coals, and proceeded to get
breakfast. Wabi discovered him at this task when he awoke from his
slumber.

"I didn't think you would play this trick on me, Muky," he said, a flush
of embarrassment gathering in his brown face. "It's awfully good of you,
and all that, but I wish you wouldn't treat me as if I were a child any
longer, old friend!"

He placed his hand affectionately upon the kneeling Mukoki's shoulder,
and the old hunter looked up at him with a happy, satisfied grin on his
weather-beaten visage, wrinkled and of the texture of leather by nearly
fifty years of life in the wilderness. It was Mukoki who had first
carried the baby Wabi about the woods upon his shoulders; it was he who
had played with him, cared for him, and taught him in the ways of the
wild in early childhood, and it was he who had missed him most, with
little Minnetaki, when he went away to school. All the love in the grim
old redskin's heart was for the Indian youth and his sister, and to them
Mukoki was a second father, a silent, watchful guardian and comrade.
This one loving touch of Wabi's hand was ample reward for the long
night's duty, and his pleasure expressed itself in two or three low
chuckling grunts.

"Had heap bad day," he replied. "Very much tired. Me feel good--better
than sleep!" He rose to his feet and handed Wabi the long fork with
which he manipulated the meat on the spits. "You can tend to that," he
added. "I go see traps."

Rod, who had awakened and overheard these last remarks, called out from
the shack:

"Wait a minute, Mukoki. I'm going with you. If you've got a wolf, I want
to see him."

"Got one sure 'nuff," grinned the old Indian.

In a few minutes Rod came out, fully dressed and with a much healthier
color in his face than when he went to bed the preceding night. He stood
before the fire, stretched one arm then the other, gave a slight grimace
of pain, and informed his anxious comrades that he seemed to be as well
as ever, except that his arm and side were very sore.

Walking slowly, that Rod might "find himself," as Wabi expressed it, the
two went up the river. It was a dull gray morning and occasionally large
flakes of snow fell, giving evidence that before the day was far
advanced another storm would set in. Mukoki's traps were not more than
an eighth of a mile from camp, and as the two rounded a certain bend in
the river the old hunter suddenly stopped with a huge grant of
satisfaction. Following the direction in which he pointed Rod saw a dark
object lying in the snow a short distance away.

"That's heem!" exclaimed the Indian.

As they approached, the object became animate, pulling and tearing in
the snow as though in the agonies of death. A few moments more and they
were close up to the captive.

"She wolf!" explained Mukoki.

He gripped the ax he had brought with him and approached within a few
feet of the crouching animal. Rod could see that one of the big steel
traps had caught the wolf on the forward leg and that the other had
buried its teeth in one of the hind legs. Thus held the doomed animal
could make little effort to protect itself and crouched in sullen quiet,
its white fangs gleaming in a noiseless, defiant snarl, its eyes shining
with pain and anger, and with only its thin starved body, which jerked
and trembled as the Indian came nearer, betraying signs of fear. To Rod
it might have been a pitiful sight had not there come to him a thought
of the preceding night and of his own and Wabi's narrow escape from the
pack.

Two or three quick blows of the ax and the wolf was dead. With a skill
which can only be found among those of his own race, Mukoki drew his
knife, cut deftly around the wolf's head just below the ears, and with
one downward, one upward, and two sidewise jerks tore off the scalp.

Suddenly, without giving a thought to his speech, there shot from Rod,

"Is that the way you scalp people?"

Mukoki looked up, his jaw fell--and then he gave the nearest thing to a
real laugh that Rod ever heard come from between his lips. When Mukoki
laughed it was usually in a half-chuckle, a half-gurgle--something that
neither Rod nor Wabi could have imitated if they had tried steadily for
a month.

"Never scalped white people," the old Indian shot back. "Father did
when--young man. Did great scalp business!"

Mukoki had not done chuckling to himself even when they reached camp.

Scarcely ten minutes were taken in eating breakfast. Snow was already
beginning to fall, and if the hunters took up their trail at once their
tracks would undoubtedly be entirely obliterated by midday, which was
the best possible thing that could happen for them in the Woonga
country. On the other hand, Wabi was anxious to follow back over the
wolf-trail before the snow shut it in. There was no danger of their
becoming separated and lost, for it was agreed that Rod and Mukoki
should travel straight up the frozen river. Wabi would overtake them
before nightfall.

Arming himself with his rifle, revolver, knife, and a keen-edged
belt-ax, the Indian boy lost no time in leaving camp. A quarter of an
hour later Wabi came out cautiously on the end of the lake where had
occurred the unequal duel between the old bull moose and the wolves. A
single glance told him what the outcome of that duel had been. Twenty
rods out upon the snow he saw parts of a great skeleton, and a huge pair
of antlers.

As he stood on the arena of the mighty battle, Wabi would have given a
great deal if Rod could have been with him. There lay the heroic old
moose, now nothing more than a skeleton. But the magnificent head and
horns still remained--the largest head that the Indian youth, in all his
wilderness life, had ever seen--and it occurred to him that if this head
could be preserved and taken back to civilization it would be worth a
hundred dollars or more. That the old bull had put up a magnificent
fight was easily discernible. Fifty feet away were the bones of a wolf,
and almost under the skeleton of the moose were those of another. The
heads of both still remained, and Wabi, after taking their scalps,
hurried on over the trail.

Half-way across the lake, where he had taken his last two shots, were
the skeletons of two more wolves, and in the edge of the spruce forest
he found another. This animal had evidently been wounded farther back
and had later been set upon by some of the pack and killed. Half a mile
deeper in the forest he came upon a spot where he had emptied five
shells into the pack and here he found the bones of two more wolves. He
had seven scalps in his possession when he turned back over the home
trail.

Beside the remains of the old bull Wabi paused again. He knew that the
Indians frequently preserved moose and caribou heads through the winter
by keeping them frozen, and the head at his feet was a prize worth some
thought. But how could he keep it preserved until their return, months
later? He could not suspend it from the limb of a tree, as was the
custom when in camp, for it would either be stolen by some passing
hunter or spoiled by the first warm days of spring. Suddenly an idea
came to him. Why could it not be preserved in what white hunters called
an "Indian ice-box"? In an instant he was acting upon this inspiration.
It was not a small task to drag the huge head to the shelter of the
tamaracks, where, safely hidden from view, he made a closer examination.
The head was gnawed considerably by the wolves, but Wabi had seen worse
ones skillfully repaired by the Indians at the Post.

Under a dense growth of spruce, where the rays of the sun seldom
penetrated, the Indian boy set to work with his belt-ax. For an hour and
a half he worked steadily, and at the end of that time had dug a hole in
the frozen earth three feet deep and four feet square. This hole he now
lined with about two inches of snow, packed as tight as he could jam it
with the butt of his gun. Then placing in the head he packed snow
closely about it and afterward filled in the earth, stamping upon the
hard chunks with his feet. When all was done he concealed the signs of
his work under a covering of snow, blazed two trees with his ax, and
resumed his journey.

"There is thirty dollars for each of us if there's a cent," he mused
softly, as he hurried toward the Ombabika. "That ground won't thaw out
until June. A moose-head and eight scalps at fifteen dollars each isn't
bad for one day's work, Rod, old boy!"

He had been absent for three hours. It had been snowing steadily and by
the time he reached their old camp the trail left by Rod and Mukoki was
already partly obliterated, showing that they had secured an early start
up the river.

Bowing his head in the white clouds falling silently about him, Wabi
started in swift pursuit. He could not see ten rods ahead of him, so
dense was the storm, and at times one side or the other of the river was
lost to view. Conditions could not have been better for their flight out
of the Woonga country, thought the young hunter. By nightfall they would
be many miles up the river, and no sign would be left behind to reveal
their former presence or to show in which direction they had gone. For
two hours he followed tirelessly over the trail, which became more and
more distinct as he proceeded, showing that he was rapidly gaining on
his comrades. But even now, though the trail was fresher and deeper, so
disguised had it become by falling snow that a passing hunter might have
thought a moose or caribou had passed that way.

At the end of the third hour, by which time he figured that he had made
at least ten miles, Wabi sat down to rest, and to refresh himself with
the lunch which he had taken from the camp that morning. He was
surprised at Rod's endurance. That Mukoki and the white boy were still
three or four miles ahead of him he did not doubt, unless they, too, had
stopped for dinner. This, on further thought, he believed was highly
probable.

The wilderness about him was intensely still. Not even the twitter of a
snow-bird marred its silence. For a long time Wabi sat as immovable as
the log upon which he had seated himself, resting and listening. Such a
day as this held a peculiar and unusual fascination for him. It was as
if the whole world was shut out, and that even the wild things of the
forest dared not go abroad in this supreme moment of Nature's handiwork,
when with lavish hand she spread the white mantle that was to stretch
from the border to Hudson Bay.

As he listened there came to him suddenly a sound that forced from
between his lips a half-articulate cry. It was the clear, ringing report
of a rifle! And following it there came another, and another, until in
quick succession he had counted five!

What did it mean? He sprang to his feet, his heart thumping, every nerve
in him prepared for action. He would have sworn it was Mukoki's
rifle--yet Mukoki would not have fired at game! They had agreed upon
that.

Had Rod and the old Indian been attacked? In another instant Wabi was
bounding over the trail with the speed of a deer.



CHAPTER V

MYSTERIOUS SHOTS IN THE WILDERNESS


As the Indian youth sped over the trail in the direction of the
rifle-shots he flung his usual caution to the winds. His blood thrilled
with the knowledge that there was not a moment to lose--that even now,
in all probability, he would be too late to assist his friends. This
fear was emphasized by the absolute silence which followed the five
shots. Eagerly, almost prayerfully, he listened as he ran for other
sounds of battle--for the report of Mukoki's revolver, or the whoops of
the victors. If there had been an ambush it was all over now. Each
moment added to his conviction, and as he thrust the muzzle of his gun
ahead of him, his finger hovering near the trigger and his snow-blinded
eyes staring ahead into the storm, something like a sob escaped his
lips.

Ahead of him the stream narrowed until it almost buried itself under a
mass of towering cedars. The closeness of the forest walls now added to
the general gloom, intensified by the first gray pallor of the Northern
dusk, which begins to fall in these regions early in the afternoon of
November days. For a moment, just before plunging into the gloomy trail
between the cedars, Wabi stopped and listened. He heard nothing but the
beating of his own heart, which worked like a trip-hammer within his
breast. The stillness was oppressive. And the longer he listened the
more some invisible power seemed to hold him back. It was not fear, it
was not lack of courage, but--

What was there just beyond those cedars, lurking cautiously in the snow
gloom?

With instinct that was almost animal in its unreasonableness Wabi sank
upon his knees. He had seen nothing, he had heard nothing; but he
crouched close, until he was no larger than a waiting wolf, and there
was a deadly earnestness in the manner in which he turned his rifle into
the deeper gloom of those close-knit walls of forest. Something was
approaching, cautiously, stealthily, and with extreme slowness. The
Indian boy felt that this was so, and yet if his life had depended upon
it he could not have told why. He huddled himself lower in the snow. His
eyes gleamed with excitement. Minute after minute passed, and still
there came no sound. Then, from far up that dusky avenue of cedars,
there came the sudden startled chatter of a moose-bird. It was a warning
which years of experience had taught Wabi always to respect. Perhaps a
roving fox had frightened it, perhaps the bird had taken to noisy flight
at the near tread of a moose, a caribou, or a deer. But--

To Wabi the soft, quick notes of the moose-bird spelled man! In an
instant he was upon his feet, darting quickly into the sheltering cedars
of the shore. Through these he now made his way with extreme caution,
keeping close to the bank of the frozen stream. After a little he paused
again and concealed himself behind the end of a fallen log. Ahead of him
he could look into the snow gloom between the cedars, and whatever was
coming through that gloom would have to pass within a dozen yards of
him. Each moment added to his excitement. He heard the chatter of a red
squirrel, much nearer than the moose-bird. Once he fancied that he heard
the striking of two objects, as though a rifle barrel had accidentally
come into contact with the dead limb of a tree.

Suddenly the Indian youth imagined that he saw something--an indistinct
shadow that came in the snow gloom, then disappeared, and came again. He
brushed the water and snow from his eyes with one of his mittened hands
and stared hard and steadily. Once more the shadow disappeared, then
came again, larger and more distinct than before. There was no doubt
now. Whatever had startled the moose-bird was coming slowly,
noiselessly.

Wabi brought his rifle to his shoulder. Life and death hovered with his
anxious, naked finger over the gun trigger. But he was too well trained
in the ways of the wilderness to fire just yet. Yard by yard the shadow
approached, and divided itself into two shadows. Wabi could now see that
they were men. They were advancing in a cautious, crouching attitude, as
though they expected to meet enemies somewhere ahead of them. Wabi's
heart thumped with joy. There could be no surer sign that Mukoki and Rod
were still among the living, for why should the Woongas employ this
caution if they had already successfully ambushed the hunters? With the
chill of a cold hand at his throat the answer flashed into Wabigoon's
brain. His friends had been ambushed, and these two Woongas were
stealing back over the trail to slay him!

Very slowly, very gently, the young Indian's finger pressed against the
trigger of his rifle. A dozen feet more, and then--

The shadows had stopped, and now drew together as if in consultation.
They were not more than twenty yards away, and for a moment Wabi lowered
his rifle and listened hard. He could hear the low unintelligible
mutterings of their conversation. Then there came to him a single
incautious reply from one of the shadows.

"All right!"

Surely that was not the English of a Woonga! It sounded like--

In a flash Wabi had called softly.

"Ho, Muky--Muky--Rod!"

In another moment the three wolf hunters were together, silently
wringing one another's hands, the death-like pallor of Rod's face and
the tense lines in the bronzed countenances of Mukoki and Wabigoon
plainly showing the tremendous strain they had been under.

"You shoot?" whispered Mukoki.

"No!" replied Wabi, his eyes widening in surprise. "Didn't _you_ shoot?"

"No!"

Only the one word fell from the old Indian, but it was filled with a new
warning. Who had fired the five shots? The hunters gazed blankly at one
another, mute questioning in their eyes. Without speaking, Mukoki
pointed suggestively to the clearer channel of the river beyond the
cedars. Evidently he thought the shots had come from there. Wabi shook
his head.

"There was no trail," he whispered. "Nobody has crossed the river."

"I thought they were there!" breathed Rod. He pointed into the forest.
"But Mukoki said no."

For a long time the three stood and listened. Half a mile back in the
forest they heard the howl of a single wolf, and Wabi flashed a curious
glance into the eyes of the old Indian.

"That's a man's cry," he whispered. "The wolf has struck a human trail.
It isn't mine!"

"Nor ours," replied Rod.

This one long howl of the wolf was the only sound that broke the
stillness of approaching night. Mukoki turned, and the others followed
in his trail. A quarter of a mile farther on the stream became still
narrower and plunged between great masses of rock which rose into wild
and precipitous hills that were almost mountains a little way back. No
longer could the hunters now follow the channel of the rushing torrent.
Through a break in a gigantic wall of rock and huge boulders led the
trail of Rod and Mukoki. Ten minutes more and the three had clambered to
the top of the ridge where, in the lee of a great rock, the remains of a
fire were still burning. Here the old Indian and his companion had
struck camp and were waiting for Wabigoon when they heard the shots
which they, too, believed were those of an ambush.

A comfortable shelter of balsam had already been erected against the
rock, and close beside the fire, where Mukoki had dropped it at the
sound of the shots, was a large piece of spitted venison. The situation
was ideal for a camp and after the hard day's tramp through the snow the
young wolf hunters regarded it with expressions of pleasure, in spite of
the enemies whom they knew might be lurking near them. Both Wabi and Rod
had accepted the place as their night's home, and were stirring up the
fire, when their attention was drawn to the singular attitude of Mukoki.
The old warrior stood leaning on his rifle, speechless and motionless,
his eyes regarding the process of rekindling the fire with mute
disapprobation. Wabi, poised on one knee, looked at him questioningly.

"No make more fire," said the old Indian, shaking his head. "No dare
stay here. Go on--beyond mountain!"

Mukoki straightened himself and stretched a long arm toward the north.

"River go like much devil 'long edge of mountain," he continued. "Make
heap noise through rock, then make swamp thick for cow moose--then run
through mountain and make wide, smooth river once more. We go over
mountain. Snow all night. Morning come--no trail for Woonga. We stay
here--make big trail in morning. Woonga follow like devil, ver' plain to
see!"

Wabi rose to his feet, his face showing the keenness of his
disappointment. Since early morning he had been traveling, even running
at times, and he was tired enough to risk willingly a few dangers for
the sake of sleep and supper. Rod was in even worse condition, though
his trail had been much shorter. For a few moments the two boys looked
at each other in silence, neither attempting to conceal the lack of
favor with which Mukoki's suggestion was received. But Wabi was too wise
openly to oppose the old pathfinder. If Mukoki said that it was
dangerous for them to remain where they were during the night--well, it
was dangerous, and it would be foolish of him to dispute it. He knew
Mukoki to be the greatest hunter of his tribe, a human bloodhound on the
trail, and what he said was law. So with a cheerful grin at Rod, who
needed all the encouragement that could be given to him, Wabi began the
readjustment of the pack which he had flung from his shoulders a few
minutes before.

"Mountain not ver' far. Two--t'ree mile, then camp," encouraged Mukoki.
"Walk slow--have big supper."

Only a few articles had been taken from the toboggan-sled on which the
hunters were dragging the greater part of their equipment into the
wilderness, and Mukoki soon had these packed again. The three
adventurers now took up the new trail along the top of one of those wild
and picturesque ridges which both the Indians and white hunters of this
great Northland call mountains. Wabigoon led, weighted under his pack,
selecting the clearest road for the toboggan and clipping down
obstructing saplings with his keen-edged belt-ax. A dozen feet behind
him followed Mukoki, dragging the sled; and behind the sled, securely
tied with a thong of babeesh, or moose-skin rope, slunk the wolf. Rod,
less experienced in making a trail and burdened with a lighter pack,
formed the rear of the little cavalcade.

Darkness was now falling rapidly. Though Wabigoon was not more than a
dozen yards ahead, Rod could only now and then catch a fleeting vision
of him through the gloom. Mukoki, doubled over in his harness, was
hardly more than a blotch in the early night. Only the wolf was near
enough to offer companionship to the tired and down-spirited youth.
Rod's enthusiasm was not easily cooled, but just now he mentally wished
that, for this one night at least, he was back at the Post, with the
lovely little Minnetaki relating to him some legend of bird or beast
they had encountered that day. How much pleasanter that would be! The
vision of the bewitching little maiden was suddenly knocked out of his
head in a most unexpected and startling way. Mukoki had paused for a
moment and Rod, unconscious of the fact, continued on his journey until
he tumbled in a sprawling heap over the sled, knocking Mukoki's legs
completely from under him in his fall. When Wabi ran back he found Rod
flattened out, face downward, and Mukoki entangled in his site harness
on top of him.

In a way this accident was fortunate. Wabi, who possessed a Caucasian
sense of humor, shook with merriment as he gave his assistance, and Rod,
after he had dug the snow from his eyes and ears and had emptied a
handful of it from his neck, joined with him.

The ridge now became narrower as the trio advanced. On one side, far
down, could be heard the thunderous rush of the river, and from the
direction of the sound Rod knew they were near a precipice. Great beds
of boulders and broken rock, thrown there by some tumultuous upheaval of
past ages, now impeded their progress, and every step was taken with
extreme caution. The noise of the torrent became louder and louder as
they advanced and on one side of him Rod now thought that he could
distinguish a dim massive shadow towering above them, like the
precipitous side of a mountain. A few steps farther and Mukoki exchanged
places with Wabigoon.

"Muky has been here before," cried Wabi close up to Rod's ear. His voice
was almost drowned by the tumult below. "That's where the river rushes
through the mountain!"

Rod forgot his fatigue in the new excitement. Never in his wildest
dreams of adventure had he foreseen an hour like this. Each step seemed
to bring them nearer the edge of the vast chasm through which the river
plunged, and yet not a sign of it could he see. He strained his eyes and
ears, each moment expecting to hear the warning voice of the old
warrior. With a suddenness that chilled him he saw the great shadow
close in upon them from the opposite side, and for the first time he
realized their position. On their left was the precipice--on their right
the sheer wall of the mountain! How wide was the ledge along which they
were traveling? His foot struck a stick under the snow. Catching it up
he flung it out into space. For a single instant he paused to listen,
but there came no sound of the falling object. The precipice was very
near--a little chill ran up his spine. It was a sensation he had never
experienced in walking the streets of a city!

Though he could not see, he knew that the ledge was now leading them up.
He could hear Wabigoon straining ahead of the toboggan and he began to
assist by pushing on the rear of the loaded sled. For half an hour this
upward climb continued, until the sound of the river had entirely died
away. No longer was the mountain on the right. Five minutes later Mukoki
called a halt.

"On top mountain," he said briefly. "Camp here!"

Rod could not repress an exclamation of joy, and Wabigoon, as he threw
off his harness, gave a suppressed whoop. Mukoki, who seemed tireless,
began an immediate search for a site for their camp and after a short
breathing-spell Rod and Wabi joined him. The spot chosen was in the
shelter of a huge rock, and while Mukoki cleaned away the snow the young
hunters set to work with their axes in a near growth of balsam, cutting
armful after armful of the soft odorous boughs. Inside of an hour a
comfortable camp was completed, with an exhilarating fire throwing its
crackling flames high up into the night before it.

For the first time since leaving the abandoned camp at the other end of
the ridge the hunters fully realized how famished they were, and Mukoki
was at once delegated to prepare supper while Wabi and Rod searched in
the darkness for their night's supply of wood. Fortunately quite near at
hand they discovered several dead poplars, the best fuel in the world
for a camp-fire, and by the time the venison and coffee were ready they
had collected a huge pile of this, together with several good-sized
backlogs.

Mukoki had spread the feast in the opening of the shelter where the heat
of the fire, reflected from the face of the rock, fell upon them in
genial warmth, suffusing their faces with a most comfortable glow. The
heat, together with the feast, were almost overpowering in their
effects, and hardly was his supper completed when Rod felt creeping over
him a drowsiness which he attempted in vain to fight off a little
longer. Dragging himself back in the shelter he wrapped himself in his
blanket, burrowed into the mass of balsam boughs, and passed quickly
into oblivion. His last intelligible vision was Mukoki piling logs upon
the fire, while the flames shot up a dozen feet into the air, illumining
to his drowsy eyes for an instant a wild chaos of rock, beyond which lay
the mysterious and impenetrable blackness of the wilderness.



CHAPTER VI

MUKOKI DISTURBS THE ANCIENT SKELETONS


Completely exhausted, every muscle in his aching body still seeming to
strain with exertion, the night was one of restless and uncomfortable
dreams for Roderick Drew. While Wabi and the old Indian, veterans in
wilderness hardship, slept in peace and tranquillity, the city boy found
himself in the most unusual and thrilling situations from which he would
extricate himself with a grunt or sharp cry, several times sitting bolt
upright in his bed of balsam until he realized where he was, and that
his adventures were only those of dreamland.

From one of these dreams Rod had aroused himself into drowsy
wakefulness. He fancied that he had heard steps. For the tenth time he
raised himself upon an elbow, stretched, rubbed his eyes, glanced at the
dark, inanimate forms of his sleeping companions, and snuggled down into
his balsam boughs again. A few moments later he sat bolt upright. He
could have sworn that he heard real steps this time--a soft cautious
crunching in the snow very near his head. Breathlessly he listened. Not
a sound broke the silence except the snapping of a dying ember in the
fire. Another dream! Once more he settled back, drawing his blanket
closely about him. Then, for a full breath, the very beating of his
heart seemed to cease.

What was that!

He was awake now, wide awake, with every faculty in him striving to
arrange itself. He had heard--a step! Slowly, very cautiously this time,
he raised himself. There came distinctly to his ears a light crunching
in the snow. It seemed back of the shelter--then was moving away, then
stopped. The flickering light of the dying fire still played on the face
of the great rock. Suddenly, at the very end of that rock, something
moved.

Some object was creeping cautiously upon the sleeping camp!

For a moment his thrilling discovery froze the young hunter into
inaction. But in a moment the whole situation flashed upon him. The
Woongas had followed them! They were about to fall upon the helpless
camp! Unexpectedly one of his hands came in contact with the barrel of
Wabi's rifle. The touch of the cold steel aroused him. There was no time
to awaken his companions. Even as he drew the gun to him he saw the
object grow larger and larger at the end of the rock, until it stood
crouching, as if about to spring.

One bated breath--a thunderous report--a snarling scream of pain, and
the camp was awake!

"We're attacked!" cried Rod. "Quick--Wabi--Mukoki!"

The white boy was on his knees now, the smoking rifle still leveled
toward the rocks. Out there, in the thick shadows beyond the fire, a
body was groveling and kicking in death agonies. In another instant the
gaunt form of the old warrior was beside Rod, his rifle at his shoulder,
and over their heads reached Wabigoon's arm, the barrel of his heavy
revolver glinting in the firelight.

For a full minute they crouched there, breathless, waiting.

"They've gone!" broke Wabi in a tense whisper.

"I got one of them!" replied Rod, his voice trembling with excitement.

Mukoki slipped back and burrowed a hole through the side of the shelter.
He could see nothing. Slowly he slipped out, his rifle ready. The others
could hear him as he went. Foot by foot the old warrior slunk along in
the deep gloom toward the end of the rock. Now he was almost there,
now--

The young hunters saw him suddenly straighten. There came to them a low
chuckling grunt. He bent over, seized an object, and flung it in the
light of the fire.

"Heap big Woonga! Kill nice fat lynx!"

With a wail, half feigned, half real, Rod flung himself back upon the
balsam while Wabi set up a roar that made the night echo. Mukoki's face
was creased in a broad grin.

"Heap big Woonga--heem!" he repeated, chuckling. "Nice fat lynx shot
well in face. No look like bad man Woonga to Mukoki!"

When Rod finally emerged from his den to join the others his face was
flushed and wore what Wabi described as a "sheepish grin."

"It's all right for you fellows to make fun of me," he declared. "But
what if they had been Woongas? By George, if we're ever attacked again I
won't do a thing. I'll let you fellows fight 'em off!"

In spite of the general merriment at his expense, Rod was immensely
proud of his first lynx. It was an enormous creature of its kind, drawn
by hunger to the scraps of the camp-fire feast; and it was this animal,
as it cautiously inspected the camp, that the young hunter had heard
crunching in the snow. Wolf, whose instinct had told him what a mix-up
would mean, had slunk into his shelter without betraying his whereabouts
to this arch-enemy of his tribe.

With the craft of his race, Mukoki was skinning the animal while it was
still warm.

"You go back bed," he said to his companions. "I build big fire
again--then sleep."

The excitement of his adventure at least freed Rod from the
unpleasantness of further dreams, and it was late the following morning
before he awoke again. He was astonished to find that a beautiful sun
was shining. Wabi and the old Indian were already outside preparing
breakfast, and the cheerful whistling of the former assured Rod that
there was now little to be feared from the Woongas. Without lingering to
take a beauty nap he joined them.

Everywhere about them lay white winter. The rocks, the trees, and the
mountain behind them were covered with two feet of snow and upon it the
sun shone with dazzling brilliancy. But it was not until Rod looked into
the north that he saw the wilderness in all of its grandeur. The camp
had been made at the extreme point of the ridge, and stretching away
under his eyes, mile after mile, was the vast white desolation that
reached to Hudson Bay. In speechless wonder he gazed down upon the
unblazed forests, saw plains and hills unfold themselves as his vision
gained distance, followed a river until it was lost in the bewildering
picture, and let his eyes rest here and there upon the glistening,
snow-smothered bosoms of lakes, rimmed in by walls of black forest. This
was not the wilderness as he had expected it to be, nor as he had often
read of it in books. It was beautiful! It was magnificent! His heart
throbbed with pleasure as he gazed down on it, the blood rose to his
face in an excited flush, and he seemed hardly to breathe in his tense
interest.

Mukoki had come up beside him softly, and spoke in his low guttural
voice.

"Twent' t'ousand moose down there--twent' t'ousand caribou-oo! No
man--no house--more twent' t'ousand miles!"

Roderick, even trembling in his new emotion, looked into the old
warrior's face. In Mukoki's eyes there was a curious, thrilling gleam.
He stared straight out into the unending distance as though his keen
vision would penetrate far beyond the last of that visible
desolation--on and on, even to the grim and uttermost fastnesses of
Hudson Bay. Wabi came up and placed his hand on Rod's shoulder.

"Muky was born off there," he said. "Away beyond where we can see. Those
were his hunting-grounds when a boy. See that mountain yonder? You might
take it for a cloud. It's thirty miles from here! And that lake down
there--you might think a rifle-shot would reach it--is five miles away!
If a moose or a caribou or a wolf should cross it how you could see
him."

For a few moments longer the three stood silent, then Wabi and the old
Indian returned to the fire to finish the preparation of breakfast,
leaving Rod alone in his enchantment. What unsolved mysteries, what
unwritten tragedies, what romance, what treasure of gold that vast North
must hold! For a thousand, perhaps a million centuries, it had lain thus
undisturbed in the embrace of nature; few white men had broken its
solitudes, and the wild things still lived there as they had lived in
the winters of ages and ages ago.

The call to breakfast came almost as an unpleasant interruption to Rod.
But it did not shock his appetite as it had his romantic fancies, and he
performed his part at the morning meal with considerable credit. Wabi
and Mukoki had already decided that they would not take up the trail
again that day but would remain in their present camp until the
following morning. There were several reasons for this delay.

"We can't travel without snow-shoes now," explained Wabi to Rod, "and
we've got to take a day off to teach you how to use them. Then, all the
wild things are lying low. Moose, deer, caribou, and especially wolves
and fur animals, won't begin traveling much until this afternoon and
to-night, and if we took up the trail now we would have no way of
telling what kind of a game country we were in. And that is the
important thing just now. If we strike a first-rate game country during
the next couple days we'll stop and build our winter camp."

"Then you believe we are far enough away from the Woongas?" asked Rod.

Mukoki grunted.

"No believe Woongas come over mountain. Heap good game country back
there. They stay."

During the meal the white boy asked a hundred questions about the vast
wilderness which lay stretched out before them in a great panorama, and
in which they were soon to bury themselves, and every answer added to
his enthusiasm. Immediately after they had finished eating Rod expressed
a desire to begin his study in snow-shoeing, and for an hour after that
Wabi and Mukoki piloted him back and forth along the ridge, instructing
him in this and in that, applauding when he made an especially good dash
and enjoying themselves immensely when he took one of his frequent
tumbles into the snow. By noon Rod secretly believed that he was
becoming quite an adept.

Although the day in camp was an exceedingly pleasant one for Rod, he
could not but observe that at times something seemed to be troubling
Wabi. Twice he discovered the Indian youth alone within the shelter
sitting in silent and morose dejection, and finally he insisted upon an
explanation.

"I want you to tell me what the trouble is, Wabi," he demanded. "What
has gone wrong?"

Wabi jumped to his feet with a little laugh.

"Did you ever have a dream that bothered you, Rod?" he asked. "Well, I
had one last night, and since then--somehow--I can't keep from worrying
about the people back at the Post, and especially about Minnetaki. It's
all--what do you call it--bosh? Listen! Wasn't that Mukoki's whistle?"

As he paused Mukoki came running around the end of the rock.

"See fun!" he cried softly. "Quick--see heem quick!"

He turned and darted toward the precipitous edge of the ridge, closely
followed by the two boys.

"Cari-boo-oo!" he whispered excitedly as they came up beside him.
"Cari-boo-oo--making big play!"

He pointed down into the snowy wilderness. Three-quarters of a mile
away, though to Rod apparently not more than a third of that distance
from where they stood, half a dozen animals were disporting themselves
in a singular fashion in a meadow-like opening between the mountain and
a range of forest. It was Rod's first real glimpse of that wonderful
animal of the North of which he had read so much, the caribou--commonly
known beyond the Sixtieth Degree as the reindeer; and at this moment
those below him were indulging in the queer play known in the Hudson Bay
regions as the "caribou dance."

"What's the matter with them?" he asked, his voice quivering with
excitement. "What--"

"Making big fun!" chuckled Mukoki, drawing the boy closer to the rock
that concealed them.

Wabi had thrust a finger in his mouth and now held it above his head,
the Indian's truest guide for discovering the direction of the wind. The
lee side of his finger remained cold and damp, while that side upon
which the breeze fell was quickly dried.

"The wind is toward us, Muky," he announced. "There's a fine chance for
a shot. You go! Rod and I will stay here and watch you."

Roderick heard--knew that Mukoki was creeping back to the camp for his
rifle, but not for an instant did his spellbound eyes leave the
spectacle below him. Two other animals had joined those in the open. He
could see the sun glistening on their long antlers as they tossed their
heads in their amazing antics. Now three or four of them would dash away
with the speed of the wind, as though the deadliest of enemies were
close behind them. Two or three hundred yards away they would stop with
equal suddenness, whirl about in a circle, as though flight were
interrupted on all sides of them, then tear back with lightning speed to
rejoin the herd. In twos and threes and fours they performed these
evolutions again and again. But there was another antic that held Rod's
eyes, and if it had not been so new and wonderful to him he would have
laughed, as Wabi was doing--silently--behind him. From out of the herd
would suddenly dash one of the agile creatures, whirl about, jump and
kick, and finally bounce up and down on all four feet, as though
performing a comedy sketch in pantomime for the amusement of its
companions; and when this was done it would start out in another mad
flight, with others of the herd at its heels.

"They are the funniest, swiftest, and shrewdest animals in the North,"
said Wabi. "They can smell you over a mountain if the wind is right, and
hear you for half a mile. Look!"

He pointed downward over Rod's shoulder. Mukoki had already reached the
base of the ridge and was stealing straight out in the direction of the
caribou. Rod gave a surprised gasp.

"Great Scott! They'll see him, won't they?" he cried.

"Not if Mukoki knows himself," smiled the Indian youth. "Remember that
we are looking down on things. Everything seems clear and open to us,
while in reality it's quite thick down there. I'll bet Muky can't see
one hundred yards ahead of him. He has got his bearings and will go as
straight as though he was on a blazed trail; but he won't see the
caribou until he conies to the edge of the open."

Each minute now added to Rod's excitement. Each of those minutes brought
the old warrior nearer his game. Seldom, thought Rod, had such a scene
been unfolded to the eyes of a white boy. The complete picture--the
playful rompings of the dumb children of the wilderness; the stealthy
approach of the old Indian; every rock, every tree that was to play its
part--all were revealed to their eyes. Not a phase in this drama in wild
life escaped them. Five minutes, ten, fifteen passed. They could see
Mukoki as he stopped and lifted a hand to test the wind. Then he
crouched, advancing foot by foot, yard by yard, so slowly that he seemed
to be on his hands and knees.

"He can hear them, but he can't see them!" breathed Wabigoon. "See! He
places his ear to the ground! Now he has got his bearings again--as
straight as a die! Good old Muky!"

The old Indian crept on. In his excitement Rod clenched his hands and he
seemed to live without breathing. Would Mukoki never shoot? Would he
_never_ shoot? He seemed now to be within a stone's throw of the herd.

"How far, Wabi?"

"Four hundred yards, perhaps five," replied the Indian. "It's a long
shot! He can't see them yet."

Rod gripped his companion's arm.

Mukoki had stopped. Down and down he slunk, until he became only a blot
in the snow.

"Now!"

There came a moment of startled silence. In the midst of their play the
animals in the open stood for a single instant paralyzed by a knowledge
of impending danger, and in that instant there came to the young hunters
the report of Mukoki's rifle.

"No good!" cried Wabi.

In his excitement he leaped to his feet. The caribou had turned and the
whole eight of them were racing across the open. Another shot, and
another--three in quick succession, and one of the fleeing animals fell,
scrambled to its knees--and plunged on again! A fifth shot--the last in
Mukoki's rifle! Again the wounded animal fell, struggled to its
knees--to its forefeet--and fell again.

"Good work! Five hundred yards if it was a foot!" exclaimed Wabigoon
with a relieved laugh. "Fresh steak for supper, Rod!"

Mukoki came out into the open, reloading his rifle. Quickly he moved
across the wilderness playground, now crimson with blood, unsheathed his
knife, and dropped upon his knees close to the throat of the slain
animal.

"I'll go down and give him a little help, Rod," said Wabi. "Your legs
are pretty sore, and it's a hard climb down there; so if you will keep
up the fire, Mukoki and I will bring back the meat."

During the next hour Rod busied himself with collecting firewood for the
night and in practising with his snow-shoes. He was astonished to find
how swiftly and easily he could travel in them, and was satisfied that
he could make twenty miles a day even as a tenderfoot.

Left to his own thoughts he found his mind recurring once more to the
Woongas and Minnetaki. Why was Wabi worried? Inwardly he did not believe
that it was a dream alone that was troubling him. There was still some
cause for fear. Of that he was certain. And why would not the Woongas
penetrate beyond this mountain? He had asked himself this question a
score of times during the last twenty-four hours, in spite of the fact
that both Mukoki and Wabigoon were quite satisfied that they were well
out of the Woonga territory.

It was growing dusk when Wabi and the old Indian returned with the meat
of the caribou. No time was lost in preparing supper, for the hunters
had decided that the next day's trail would begin with dawn and probably
end with darkness, which meant that they would require all the rest they
could get before then. They were all eager to begin the winter's hunt.
That day Mukoki's eyes had glistened at each fresh track he encountered.
Wabi and Rod were filled with enthusiasm. Even Wolf, now and then
stretching his gaunt self, would nose the air with eager suspicion, as
if longing for the excitement of the tragedies in which he was to play
such an important part.

"If you can stand it," said Wabi, nodding at Rod over his caribou steak,
"we won't lose a minute from now on. Over that country we ought to make
twenty-five or thirty miles to-morrow. We may strike our hunting-ground
by noon, or it may take us two or three days; but in either event we
haven't any time to waste. Hurrah for the big camp, I say--and our fun
begins!"

It seemed to Rod as though he had hardly fallen asleep that night when
somebody began tumbling him about in his bed of balsam. Opening his eyes
he beheld Wabi's laughing face, illuminated in the glow of a roaring
fire.

"Time's up!" he called cheerily. "Hustle out, Rod. Breakfast is sizzling
hot, everything is packed, and here you are still dreaming of--what?"

"Minnetaki!" shot back Rod with unblushing honesty.

In another minute he was outside, straightening his disheveled garments
and smoothing his tousled hair. It was still very dark, but Rod assured
himself by his watch that it was nearly four o'clock. Mukoki had already
placed their breakfast on a flat rock beside the fire and, according to
Wabigoon's previous scheme, no time was lost in disposing of it.

Dawn was just breaking when the little cavalcade of adventurers set out
from the camp. More keenly than ever Rod now felt the loss of his rifle.
They were about to enter upon a hunter's paradise--and he had no gun!
His disappointment was acute and he could not repress a confession of
his feelings to Wabi. The Indian youth at once suggested a happy remedy.
They would take turns in using his gun, Rod to have it one day and he
the next; and Wabi's heavy revolver would also change hands, so that the
one who did not possess the rifle would be armed with the smaller
weapon. This solution of the difficulty lifted a dampening burden from
Rod's heart, and when the little party began its descent into the
wilderness regions under the mountain the city lad carried the rifle,
for Wabi insisted that he have the first "turn."

Once free of the rock-strewn ridge the two boys joined forces in pulling
the toboggan while Mukoki struck out a trail ahead of them. As it became
lighter Rod found his eyes glued with keen interest to Mukoki's
snow-shoes, and for the first time in his life he realized what it
really meant to "make a trail." The old Indian was the most famous
trailmaker as well as the keenest trailer of his tribe, and in the
comparatively open bottoms through which they were now traveling he was
in his element. His strides were enormous, and with each stride he threw
up showers of snow, leaving a broad level path behind him in which the
snow was packed by his own weight, so that when Wabi and Rod came to
follow him they were not impeded by sinking into a soft surface.

Half a mile from the mountain Mukoki stopped and waited for the others
to come up to him.

"Moose!" he called, pointing at a curious track in the snow.

Rod leaned eagerly over the track.

"The snow is still crumbling and falling where he stepped," said Wabi.
"Watch that little chunk, Rod. See--it's slipping--down--down--there! It
was an old bull--a big fellow--and he passed here less than an hour
ago."

Signs of the night carnival of the wild things now became more and more
frequent as the hunters advanced. They crossed and recrossed the trail
of a fox; and farther on they discovered where this little pirate of
darkness had slaughtered a big white rabbit. The snow was covered with
blood and hair and part of the carcass remained uneaten. Again Wabi
forgot his determination to waste no time and paused to investigate.

"Now, if we only knew what kind of a fox he was!" he exclaimed to Rod.
"But we don't. All we know is that he's a fox. And all fox tracks are
alike, no matter what kind of a fox makes them. If there was only some
difference our fortunes would be made!"

"How?" asked Rod.

Mukoki chuckled as if the mere thought of such a possibility filled him
with glee.

"Well, that fellow may be an ordinary red fox," explained the Indian
youth. "If so, he is only worth from ten to twenty dollars; or he may be
a black fox, worth fifty or sixty; or what we call a 'cross'--a mixture
of silver and black--worth from seventy-five to a hundred. Or--"

"Heap big silver!" interrupted Mukoki with another chuckle.

"Yes, or a silver," finished Wabi. "A poor silver is worth two hundred
dollars, and a good one from five hundred to a thousand! Now do you see
why we would like to have a difference in the tracks? If that was a
silver, a black or a 'cross,' we'd follow him; but in all probability he
is red."

Every hour added to Rod's knowledge of the wilderness and its people.
For the first time in his life he saw the big dog-like tracks made by
wolves, the dainty hoof-prints of the red deer and the spreading
imprints of a traveling lynx; he pictured the hugeness of the moose that
made a track as big as his head, discovered how to tell the difference
between the hoof-print of a small moose and a big caribou, and in almost
every mile learned something new.

Half a dozen times during the morning the hunters stopped to rest. By
noon Wabi figured that they had traveled twenty miles, and, although
very tired, Rod declared that he was still "game for another ten." After
dinner the aspect of the country changed. The river which they had been
following became narrower and was so swift in places that it rushed
tumultuously between its frozen edges. Forest-clad hills, huge boulders
and masses of rock now began to mingle again with the bottoms, which in
this country are known as plains. Every mile added to the roughness and
picturesque grandeur of the country. A few miles to the east rose
another range of wild and rugged hills; small lakes became more and more
numerous, and everywhere the hunters crossed and recrossed frozen
creeks.

And each step they took now added to the enthusiasm of Wabi and his
companions. Evidences of game and fur animals were plenty. A thousand
ideal locations for a winter camp were about them, and their progress
became slow and studied.

A gently sloping hill of considerable height now lay in their path and
Mukoki led the ascent. At the top the three paused in joyful
astonishment. At their feet lay a "dip," or hollow, a dozen acres in
extent, and in the center of this dip was a tiny lake partly surrounded
by a mixed forest of cedar, balsam and birch that swept back over the
hill, and partly inclosed by a meadow-like opening. One might have
traveled through the country a thousand times without discovering this
bit of wilderness paradise hidden in a hilltop. Without speaking Mukoki
threw off his heavy pack. Wabi unbuckled his harness and relieved his
shoulders of their burden. Rod, following their example, dropped his
small pack beside that of the old Indian, and Wolf, straining at his
babeesh thong, gazed with eager eyes into the hollow as though he, too,
knew that it was to be their winter home.

Wabi broke the silence.

"How is that, Muky?" he asked.

Mukoki chuckled with unbounded satisfaction.

"Ver' fine. No get bad wind--never see smoke--plenty wood--plenty
water."

Relieved of their burdens, and leaving Wolf tied to the toboggan, the
hunters made their way down to the lake. Hardly had they reached its
edge when Wabi halted with a startled exclamation and pointed into the
forest on the opposite side.

"Look at that!"

A hundred yards away, almost concealed among the trees, was a cabin.
Even from where they stood they could see that it was deserted. Snow was
drifted high about it. No chimney surmounted its roof. Nowhere was there
a sign of life.

Slowly the hunters approached. It was evident that the cabin was very
old. The logs of which it was built were beginning to decay. A mass of
saplings had taken root upon its roof, and everything about it gave
evidence that it had been erected many years before. The door, made of
split timber and opening toward the lake, was closed; the one window,
also opening upon the lake, was tightly barred with lengths of sapling.

Mukoki tried the door, but it resisted his efforts. Evidently it was
strongly barred from within.

Curiosity now gave place to astonishment.

How could the door be locked within, and the window barred from within,
without there being somebody inside?

For a few moments the three stood speechless, listening.

"Looks queer, doesn't it?" spoke Wabi softly.

Mukoki had dropped on his knees beside the door. He could hear no sound.
Then he kicked off his snow-shoes, gripped his belt-ax and stepped to
the window.

A dozen blows and one of the bars fell. The old Indian sniffed
suspiciously, his ear close to the opening. Damp, stifling air greeted
his nostrils, but still there was no sound. One after another he knocked
off the remaining bars and thrust his head and shoulders inside.
Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the darkness and he pulled
himself in.

Half-way--and he stopped.

"Go on, Muky," urged Wabi, who was pressing close behind.

There came no answer from the old Indian. For a full minute he remained
poised there, as motionless as a stone, as silent as death.

Then, very slowly--inch by inch, as though afraid of awakening a
sleeping person, he lowered himself to the ground. When he turned toward
the young hunters it was with an expression that Rod had never seen upon
Mukoki's face before.

"What is it, Mukoki?"

The old Indian gasped, as if for fresh air.

"Cabin--she filled with twent' t'ousand dead men!" he replied.

[Illustration: "Knife--fight--heem killed!"]



CHAPTER VII

RODERICK DISCOVERS THE BUCKSKIN BAG


For one long breath Rod and Wabi stared at their companion, only half
believing, yet startled by the strange look in the old warrior's face.

"Twent' t'ousand dead men!" he repeated. As he raised his hand, partly
to give emphasis and partly to brush the cobwebs from his face, the boys
saw it trembling in a way that even Wabi had never witnessed before.

"Ugh!"

In another instant Wabi was at the window, head and shoulders in, as
Mukoki had been before him. After a little he pulled himself back and as
he glanced at Rod he laughed in an odd thrilling way, as though he had
been startled, but not so much so as Mukoki, who had prepared him for
the sight which had struck his own vision with the unexpectedness of a
shot in the back.

"Take a look, Rod!"

With his breath coming in little uneasy jerks Rod approached the black
aperture. A queer sensation seized upon him--a palpitation, not of fear,
but of something; a very unpleasant feeling that seemed to choke his
breath, and made him wish that he had not been asked to peer into that
mysterious darkness. Slowly he thrust his head through the hole. It was
as black as night inside. But gradually the darkness seemed to be
dispelled. He saw, in a little while, the opposite wall of the cabin. A
table outlined itself in deep shadows, and near the table there was a
pile of something that he could not name; and tumbled over that was a
chair, with an object that might have been an old rag half covering it.

His eyes traveled nearer. Outside Wabi and Mukoki heard a startled,
partly suppressed cry. The boy's hands gripped the sides of the window.
Fascinated, he stared down upon an object almost within arm's reach of
him.

There, leaning against the cabin wall, was what half a century or more
ago had been a living man! Now it was a mere skeleton, a grotesque,
terrible-looking object, its empty eye-sockets gleaming dully with the
light from the window, its grinning mouth, distorted into ghostly life
by the pallid mixture of light and gloom, turned full up at him!

Rod fell back, trembling and white.

"I only saw one," he gasped, remembering Mukoki's excited estimate.

Wabi, who had regained his composure, laughed as he struck him two or
three playful blows on the back. Mukoki only grunted.

"You didn't look long enough, Rod!" he cried banteringly. "He got on
your nerves too quick. I don't blame you, though. By George, I'll bet
the shivers went up Muky's back when he first saw 'em! I'm going in to
open the door."

Without trepidation the young Indian crawled through the window. Rod,
whose nervousness was quickly dispelled, made haste to follow him, while
Mukoki again threw his weight against the door. A few blows of Wabi's
belt-ax and the door shot inward so suddenly that the old Indian went
sprawling after it upon all fours.

A flood of light filled the interior of the cabin. Instinctively Rod's
eyes sought the skeleton against the wall. It was leaning as if, many
years before, a man had died there in a posture of sleep. Quite near
this ghastly tenant of the cabin, stretched at full length upon the log
floor, was a second skeleton, and near the overturned chair was a small
cluttered heap of bones which were evidently those of some animal. Rod
and Wabi drew nearer the skeleton against the wall and were bent upon
making a closer examination when an exclamation from Mukoki attracted
their attention to the old pathfinder. He was upon his knees beside the
second skeleton, and as the boys approached he lifted eyes to them that
were filled with unbounded amazement, at the same time pointing a long
forefinger to come object among the bones.

"Knife--fight--heem killed!"

Plunged to the hilt in what had once been the breast of a living being,
the boys saw a long, heavy-bladed knife, its handle rotting with age,
its edges eaten by rust--but still erect, held there by the murderous
road its owner had cleft for it through the flesh and bone of his
victim.

Rod, who had fallen upon his knees, gazed up blankly; his jaw dropped,
and he asked the first question that popped into his head.

"Who--did it?"

Mukoki chuckled, almost gleefully, and nodded toward the gruesome thing
reclining against the wall.

"Heem!"

Moved by a common instinct the three drew near the other skeleton. One
of its long arms was resting across what had once been a pail, but
which, long since, had sunk into total collapse between its hoops. The
finger-bones of this arm were still tightly shut, clutching between them
a roll of something that looked like birch-bark. The remaining arm had
fallen close to the skeleton's side, and it was on this side that
Mukoki's critical eyes searched most carefully, his curiosity being
almost immediately satisfied by the discovery of a short, slant-wise cut
in one of the ribs.

"This un die here!" he explained. "Git um stuck knife in ribs. Bad way
die! Much hurt--no die quick, sometime. Ver' bad way git stuck!"

"Ugh!" shuddered Rod. "This cabin hasn't had any fresh air in it for a
century, I'll bet. Let's get out!"

Mukoki, in passing, picked up a skull from the heap of bones near the
chair.

"Dog!" he grunted. "Door lock'--window shut--men fight--both kill. Dog
starve!"

As the three retraced their steps to the spot where Wolf was guarding
the toboggan, Rod's imaginative mind quickly painted a picture of the
terrible tragedy that had occurred long ago in the old cabin. To Mukoki
and Wabigoon the discovery of the skeletons was simply an incident in a
long life of wilderness adventure--something of passing interest, but of
small importance. To Rod it was the most tragic event that had ever come
into his city-bound existence, with the exception of the thrilling
conflict at Wabinosh House. He reconstructed that deadly hour in the
cabin; saw the men in fierce altercation, saw them struggling, and
almost heard the fatal blows as they were struck--the blows that slew
one with the suddenness of a lightning bolt and sent the other,
triumphant but dying, to breathe his last moments with his back propped
against the wall. And the dog! What part had he taken? And after
that--long days of maddening loneliness, days of starvation and of
thirst, until he, too, doubled himself up on the floor and died. It was
a terrible, a thrilling picture that burned in Roderick's brain. But why
had they quarreled? What cause had there been for that sanguinary night
duel? Instinctively Rod accepted it as having occurred at night, for the
door had been locked, the window barred. Just then he would have given a
good deal to have had the mystery solved.

At the top of the hill Rod awoke to present realities. Wabi, who had
harnessed himself to the toboggan, was in high spirits.

"That cabin is a dandy!" he exclaimed as Rod joined him. "It would have
taken us at least two weeks to build as good a one. Isn't it luck?"

"We're going to live in it?" inquired his companion.

"Live in it! I should say we were. It is three times as big as the shack
we had planned to build. I can't understand why two men like those
fellows should have put up such a large cabin. What do you think,
Mukoki?"

Mukoki shook his head. Evidently the mystery of the whole thing, beyond
the fact that the tenants of the cabin had killed themselves in battle,
was beyond his comprehension.

The winter outfit was soon in a heap beside the cabin door.

"Now for cleaning up," announced Wabi cheerfully. "Muky, you lend me a
hand with the bones, will you? Rod can nose around and fetch out
anything he likes."

This assignment just suited Rod's curiosity. He was now worked up to a
feverish pitch of expectancy. Might he not discover some clue that would
lead to a solution of the mystery?

One question alone seemed to ring incessantly in his head. Why had they
fought? _Why had they fought?_

He even found himself repeating this under his breath as he began
rummaging about. He kicked over the old chair, which was made of
saplings nailed together, scrutinized a heap of rubbish that crumbled to
dust under his touch, and gave a little cry of exultation when he found
two guns leaning in a corner of the cabin. Their stocks were decaying;
their locks were encased with rust, their barrels, too, were thick with
the accumulated rust of years. Carefully, almost tenderly, he took one
of these relics of a past age in his hands. It was of ancient pattern,
almost as long as he was tall.

"Hudson Bay gun--the kind they had before my father was born!" said
Wabi.

With bated breath and eagerly beating heart Rod pursued his search. On
one of the walls he found the remains of what had once been
garments--part of a hat, that fell in a thousand pieces when he touched
it; the dust-rags of a coat and other things that he could not name. On
the table there were rusty pans, a tin pail, an iron kettle, and the
remains of old knives, forks and spoons. On one end of this table there
was an unusual-looking object, and he touched it. Unlike the other rags
it did not crumble, and when he lifted it he found that it was a small
bag, made of buckskin, tied at the end--and heavy! With trembling
fingers he tore away the rotted string and out upon the table there
rattled a handful of greenish-black, pebbly looking objects.

Rod gave a sharp quick cry for the others.

Wabi and Mukoki had just come through the door after bearing out one of
their gruesome loads, and the young Indian hurried to his side. He
weighed one of the pieces in the palm of his hand.

"It's lead, or--"

"Gold!" breathed Rod.

He could hear his own heart thumping as Wabi jumped back to the light of
the door, his sheath-knife in his hand. For an instant the keen blade
sank into the age-discolored object, and before Rod could see into the
crease that it made Wabi's voice rose in an excited cry.

"It's a gold nugget!"

"And _that's_ why they fought!" exclaimed Rod exultantly.

He had hoped--and he had discovered the reason. For a few moments this
was of more importance to him than the fact that he had found gold. Wabi
and Mukoki were now in a panic of excitement. The buckskin bag was
turned inside out; the table was cleared of every other object; every
nook and cranny was searched with new enthusiasm. The searchers hardly
spoke. Each was intent upon finding--finding--finding. Thus does
gold--virgin gold--stir up the sparks of that latent, feverish fire
which is in every man's soul. Again Rod joined in the search. Every rag,
every pile of dust, every bit of unrecognizable debris was torn, sifted
and scattered. At the end of an hour the three paused, hopelessly
baffled, even keenly disappointed for the time.

"I guess that's all there is," said Wabi.

It was the longest sentence that he had spoken for half an hour.

"There is only one thing to do, boys. We'll clean out everything there
is in the cabin, and to-morrow we'll tear up the floor. You can't tell
what there might be under it, and we've got to have a new floor anyway.
It is getting dusk, and if we have this place fit to sleep in to-night
we have got to hustle."

No time was lost in getting the debris of the cabin outside, and by the
time darkness had fallen a mass of balsam boughs had been spread upon
the log floor just inside the door, blankets were out, packs and
supplies stowed away in one corner, and everything "comfortable and
shipshape," as Rod expressed it. A huge fire was built a few feet away
from the open door and the light and heat from this made the interior of
the cabin quite light and warm, and, with the assistance of a couple of
candles, more home-like than any camp they had slept in thus far.
Mukoki's supper was a veritable feast--broiled caribou, cold beans that
the old Indian had cooked at their last camp, meal cakes and hot coffee.
The three happy hunters ate of it as though they had not tasted food for
a week.

The day, though a hard one, had been fraught with too much excitement
for them to retire to their blankets immediately after this meal, as
they had usually done in other camps. They realized, too, that they had
reached the end of their journey and that their hardest work was over.
There was no long jaunt ahead of them to-morrow. Their new life--the
happiest life in the world to them--had already begun. Their camp was
established, they were ready for their winter's sport, and from this
moment on they felt that their evenings were their own to do with as
they pleased.

So for many hours that night Rod, Mukoki and Wabigoon sat up and talked
and kept the fire roaring before the door. Twenty times they went over
the tragedy of the old cabin; twenty times they weighed the half-pound
of precious little lumps in the palms of their hands, and bit by bit
they built up that life romance of the days of long ago, when all this
wilderness was still an unopened book to the white man. And that story
seemed very clear to them now. These men had been prospectors. They had
discovered gold. Afterward they had quarreled, probably over some
division of it--perhaps over the ownership of the very nuggets they had
found; and then, in the heat of their anger, had followed the knife
battle.

But where had they discovered the gold? That was the question of supreme
interest to the hunters, and they debated it until midnight. There were
no mining tools in the camp; no pick, shovel or pan. Then it occurred to
them that the builders of the cabin had been hunters, had discovered
gold by accident and had collected that in the buckskin bag without the
use of a pan.

There was little sleep in the camp that night, and with the first light
of day the three were at work again. Immediately after breakfast the
task of tearing up the old and decayed floor began. One by one the split
saplings were pried up and carried out for firewood, until the earth
floor lay bare. Every foot of it was now eagerly turned over with a
shovel which had been brought in the equipment; the base-logs were
undermined, and filled in again; the moss that had been packed in the
chinks between the cabin timbers was dug out, and by noon there was not
a square inch of the interior of the camp that had not been searched.

There was no more gold.

In a way this fact brought relief with it. Both Wabi and Rod gradually
recovered from their nervous excitement. The thought of gold gradually
faded from their minds; the joy and exhilaration of the "hunt life"
filled them more and more. Mukoki set to work cutting fresh cedars for
the floor; the two boys scoured every log with water from the lake and
afterward gathered several bushels of moss for refilling the chinks.
That evening supper was cooked on the sheet-iron "section stove" which
they had brought on the toboggan, and which was set up where the ancient
stove of flat stones had tumbled into ruin. By candle-light the work of
"rechinking" with moss progressed rapidly. Wabi was constantly bursting
into snatches of wild Indian song, Rod whistled until his throat was
sore and Mukoki chuckled and grunted and talked with constantly
increasing volubility. A score of times they congratulated one another
upon their good luck. Eight wolf-scalps, a fine lynx and nearly two
hundred dollars in gold--all within their first week! It was enough to
fill them with enthusiasm and they made little effort to repress their
joy.

During this evening Mukoki boiled up a large pot of caribou fat and
bones, and when Rod asked what kind of soup he was making he responded
by picking up a handful of steel traps and dropping them into the
mixture.

"Make traps smell good for fox--wolf--fisher, an' marten, too; heem
come--all come--like smell," he explained.

"If you don't dip the traps," added Wabi, "nine fur animals out of ten,
and wolves most of all, will fight shy of the bait. They can smell the
human odor you leave on the steel when you handle it. But the grease
'draws' them."

When the hunters wrapped themselves in their blankets that night their
wilderness home was complete. All that remained to be done was the
building of three bunks against the ends of the cabin, and this work it
was agreed could be accomplished at odd hours by any one who happened to
be in camp. In the morning, laden with traps, they would strike out
their first hunting-trails, keeping their eyes especially open for signs
of wolves; for Mukoki was the greatest wolf hunter in all the Hudson Bay
region.



CHAPTER VIII

HOW WOLF BECAME THE COMPANION OF MEN


Twice that night Rod was awakened by Mukoki opening the cabin door. The
second time he raised himself upon his elbows and quietly watched the
old warrior. It was a brilliantly clear night and a flood of moonlight
was pouring into the camp. He could hear Mukoki chuckling and grunting,
as though communicating with himself, and at last, his curiosity getting
the better of him, he wrapped his blanket about him and joined the
Indian at the door.

Mukoki was peering up into space. Rod followed his gaze. The moon was
directly above the cabin. The sky was clear of clouds and so bright was
the light that objects on the farther side of the lake were plainly
visible.

Besides, it was bitter cold--so cold that his face began to tingle as he
stood there. These things he noticed, but he could see nothing to hold
Mukoki's vision in the sky above unless it was the glorious beauty of
the night.

"What is it, Mukoki?" he asked.

The old Indian looked silently at him for a moment, some mysterious,
all-absorbing joy revealed in every lineament of his face.

"Wolf night!" he whispered.

He looked back to where Wabi was sleeping.

"Wolf night!" he repeated, and slipped like a shadow to the side of the
unconscious young hunter. Rod regarded his actions with growing wonder.
He saw him bend over Wabi, shake him by the shoulders, and heard him
repeat again, "Wolf night! Wolf night!"

Wabi awoke and sat up in his blankets, and Mukoki came back to the door.
He had dressed himself before this, and now, with his rifle, slipped out
into the night. The young Indian had joined Rod at the open door and
together they watched Mukoki's gaunt figure as it sped swiftly across
the lake, up the hill and over into the wilderness desolation beyond.

When Rod looked at Wabi he saw that the Indian boy's eyes were wide and
staring, with an expression in them that was something between fright
and horror. Without speaking he went to the table and lighted the
candles and then dressed. When he was done his face still bore traces of
suppressed excitement.

He ran back to the door and whistled loudly. From his shelter beside the
cabin the captive wolf responded with a snarling whine. Again he
whistled, a dozen times, twenty, but there came no reply. More swiftly
than Mukoki the Indian youth sped across the lake and to the summit of
the hill. Mukoki had completely disappeared in the white, brilliant
vastness of the wilderness that stretched away at his feet.

When Wabi returned to the cabin Rod had a fire roaring in the stove. He
seated himself beside it, holding out a pair of hands blue with cold.

"Ugh! It's an awful night!" he shivered.

He laughed across at Rod, a little uneasily, but with the old light back
in his eyes. Suddenly he asked:

"Did Minnetaki ever tell you--anything--queer--about Mukoki, Rod?"

"Nothing more than you have told me yourself."

"Well, once in a great while Mukoki has--not exactly a fit, but a little
mad spell! I have never determined to my own satisfaction whether he is
really out of his head or not. Sometimes I think he is and sometimes I
think he is not. But the Indians at the Post believe that at certain
times he goes crazy over wolves."

"Wolves!" exclaimed Rod.

"Yes, wolves. And he has good reason. A good many years ago, just about
when you and I were born, Mukoki had a wife and child. My mother and
others at the Post say that he was especially gone over the kid. He
wouldn't hunt like other Indians, but would spend whole days at his
shack playing with it and teaching it to do things; and when he did go
hunting he would often tote it on his back, even when it wasn't much
more than a squalling papoose. He was the happiest Indian at the Post,
and one of the poorest. One day Mukoki came to the Post with a little
bundle of fur, and most of the things he got in exchange for it, mother
says, were for the kid. He reached the store at night and expected to
leave for home the next noon, which would bring him to his camp before
dark. But something delayed him and he didn't get started until the
morning after. Meanwhile, late in the afternoon of the day when he was
to have been home, his wife bundled up the kid and they set out to meet
him. Well--"

A weird howl from the captive wolf interrupted Wabi for a moment.

"Well, they went on and on, and of course did not meet him. And then,
the people at the Post say, the mother must have slipped and hurt
herself. Anyway, when Mukoki came over the trail the next day he found
them half eaten by wolves. From that day on Mukoki was a different
Indian. He became the greatest wolf hunter in all these regions. Soon
after the tragedy he came to the Post to live and since then he has not
left Minnetaki and me. Once in a great while when the night is just
right, when the moon is shining and it is bitter cold, Mukoki seems to
go a little mad. He calls this a 'wolf night.' No one can stop him from
going out; no one can get him to talk; he will allow no one to accompany
him when in such a mood. He will walk miles and miles to-night. But he
will come back. And when he returns he will be as sane as you and I, and
if you ask him where he has been he will say that he went out to see if
he could get a shot at something."

Rod had listened in rapt attention. To him, as Wabi proceeded with his
story of the tragedy in Mukoki's life, the old Indian was transformed
into another being. No longer was he a mere savage reclaimed a little
from the wilderness. There had sprung up in Rod's breast a great, human,
throbbing sympathy for him, and in the dim candle-glow his eyes
glistened with a dampness which he made no attempt to conceal.

"What does Mukoki mean by 'wolf night'?" he asked.

"Muky is a wizard when it comes to hunting wolves," Wabi went on. "He
has studied them and thought of them every day of his life for nearly
twenty years. He knows more about wolves than all the rest of the
hunters in this country together. He can catch them in every trap he
sets, which no other trapper in the world can do; he can tell you a
hundred different things about a certain wolf simply by its track, and
because of his wonderful knowledge he can tell, by some instinct that is
almost supernatural, when a 'wolf night' comes. Something in the air
to-night, something in the sky--in the moon--in the very way the
wilderness looks, tells him that stray wolves in the plains and hills
are 'packing' or banding together to-night, and that in the morning the
sun will be shining, and they will be on the sunny sides of the
mountains. See if I am not right. To-morrow night, if Mukoki comes back
by then, we shall have some exciting sport with the wolves, and then you
will see how Wolf out there does his work!"

There followed several minutes of silence. The fire roared up the
chimney, the stove glowed red hot and the boys sat and looked and
listened. Rod took out his watch. It lacked only ten minutes of
midnight. Yet neither seemed possessed with a desire to return to their
interrupted sleep.

"Wolf is a curious beast," mused Wabi softly. "You might think he was a
sneaking, traitorous cur of a wolf to turn against his own breed and
lure them to death. But he isn't. Wolf, as well as Mukoki, has good
cause for what he does. You might call it animal vengeance. Did you ever
notice that a half of one of his ears is gone? And if you thrust back
his head you will find a terrible sear in his throat, and from his left
side just back of the fore leg a chunk of flesh half as big as my hand
has been torn away. We caught Wolf in a lynx trap, Mukoki and I. He
wasn't much more than a whelp then--about six months old, Mukoki said.
And while he was in the trap, helpless and unable to defend himself,
three or four of his lovely tribe jumped upon him and tried to kill him
for breakfast. We hove in sight just in time to drive the cannibals off.
We kept Wolf, sewed up his side and throat, tamed him--and to-morrow
night you will see how Mukoki has taught him to get even with his
people."

It was two hours later when Rod and Wabigoon extinguished the candles
and returned to their blankets. And for another hour after that the
former found it impossible to sleep. He wondered where Mukoki
was--wondered what he was doing, and how in his strange madness he found
his way in the trackless wilderness.

When he finally fell asleep it was to dream of the Indian mother and her
child; only after a little there was no child, and the woman changed
into Minnetaki, and the ravenous wolves into men. From this unpleasant
picture he was aroused by a series of prods in his side, and opening his
eyes he beheld Wabi in his blankets a yard away, pointing over and
beyond him and nodding his head. Rod looked, and caught his breath.

There was Mukoki--peeling potatoes!

"Hello, Muky!" he shouted.

The old Indian looked up with a grin. His face bore no signs of his mad
night on the trail. He nodded cheerfully and proceeded with the
preparation of breakfast as though he had just risen from his blankets
after a long night's rest.

"Better get up," he advised. "Big day's hunt. Much fine sunshine to-day.
Find wolves on mountain--plenty wolves!"

The boys tumbled from their blankets and began dressing.

"What time did you get in?" asked Wabi.

"Now," replied Mukoki, pointing to the hot stove and the peeled
potatoes. "Just make fire good."

Wabi gave Rod a suggestive look as the old Indian bent over the stove.

"What were you doing last night?" he questioned.

"Big moon--might get shot," grunted Mukoki. "See lynx on hill. See
wolf-tracks on red deer trail. No shot."

This was as much of the history of Mukoki's night on the trail as the
boys could secure, but during their breakfast Wabi shot another glance
at Rod, and as Mukoki left the table for a moment to close the damper in
the stove he found an opportunity to whisper:

"See if I'm not right. He will choose the mountain trail." When their
companion returned, he said: "We had better split up this morning,
hadn't we, Muky? It looks to me as though there are two mighty good
lines for traps--one over the hill, where that creek leads off through
the range of ridges to the east, and the other along the creek which
runs through the hilly plains to the north. What do you think of it?"

"Good" agreed the old hunter. "You two go north--I take ridges."

"No, you and I will take the ridges and Wabi will go north alone,"
amended Rod quickly. "I'm going with you, Mukoki!"

Mukoki, who was somewhat flattered by this preference of the white
youth, grinned and chuckled and began to talk more volubly about the
plans which were in his head. It was agreed that they all would return
to the cabin at an early hour in the afternoon, for the old Indian
seemed positive that they would have their first wolf hunt that night.

Rod noticed that the captive wolf received no breakfast that morning,
and he easily guessed the reason.

The traps were now divided. Three different sizes had been brought from
the Post--fifty small ones for mink, marten and other small fur animals;
fifteen fox traps, and as many larger ones for lynx and wolves. Wabi
equipped himself with twenty of the small traps and four each of fox and
lynx traps, while Rod and Mukoki took about forty in all. The remainder
of the caribou meat was then cut into chunks and divided equally among
them for bait.

The sun was just beginning to show itself above the wilderness when the
hunters left camp. As Mukoki had predicted, it was a glorious day, one
of those bitterly cold, cloudless days when, as the Indians believe, the
great Creator robs the rest of the world of the sun that it may shine in
all its glory upon their own savage land. From the top of the hill that
sheltered their home Rod looked out over the glistening forests and
lakes in rapt and speechless admiration; but only for a few moments did
the three pause, then took up their different trails.

At the foot of this hill Mukoki and his companion struck the creek. They
had not progressed more than fifty rods when the old Indian stopped and
pointed at a fallen log which spanned the stream. The snow on this log
was beaten by tiny footprints. Mukoki gazed a moment, cast an observant
eye along the trail, and at once threw off his pack.

"Mink!" he explained. He crossed the frozen creek, taking care not to
touch the log. On the opposite side the tracks spread out over a
windfall of trees. "Whole family mink live here," continued Mukoki.
"T'ree--mebby four--mebby five. Build trap-house right here!"

Never before had Rod seen a trap set as the old Indian now set his. Very
near the end of the log over which the mink made their trail he quickly
built a shelter of sticks which when completed was in the form of a tiny
wigwam. At the back of this was placed a chunk of the caribou meat, and
in front of this bait, so that an animal would have to spring it in
passing, was set a trap, carefully covered with snow and a few leaves.
Within twenty minutes Mukoki had built two of these shelters and had set
two traps.

"Why do you build those little houses?" asked Rod, as they again took up
their trail.

"Much snow come in winter," elucidated the Indian. "Build house to keep
snow off traps. No do that, be digging out traps all winter. When
mink--heem smell meat--go in house he got to go over trap. Make house
for all small animal like heem. No good for lynx. He see house--walk
roun' 'n' roun' 'n' roun'--and then go 'way. Smart fellow--lynx. Wolf
and fox, too."

"Is a mink worth much?"

"Fi' dollar--no less that. Seven--eight dollar for good one."

During the next mile six other mink traps were set. The creek now ran
along the edge of a high rocky ridge and Mukoki's eyes began to shine
with a new interest. No longer did he seem entirely absorbed in the
discovery of signs of fur animals. His eyes were constantly scanning the
sun-bathed side of the ridge ahead and his progress was slow and
cautious. He spoke in whispers, and Rod followed his example. Frequently
the two would stop and scan the openings for signs of life. Twice they
set fox traps where there were evident signs of runways; in a wild
ravine, strewn with tumbled trees and masses of rock, they struck a lynx
track and set a trap for him at each end of the ravine; but even during
these operations Mukoki's interest was divided. The hunters now walked
abreast, about fifty yards apart, Rod never forging a foot ahead of the
cautious Mukoki. Suddenly the youth heard a low call and he saw his
companion beckoning to him with frantic enthusiasm.

"Wolf!" whispered Mukoki as Rod joined him.

In the snow were a number of tracks that reminded Rod of those made by a
dog.

"T'ree wolf!" continued the Indian jubilantly. "Travel early this
morning. Somewhere in warm sun on mountain!"

They followed now in the wolf trail. A little way on Rod found part of
the carcass of a rabbit with fox tracks about it. Here Mukoki set
another trap. A little farther still they came across a fisher trail and
another trap was laid. Caribou and deer tracks crossed and recrossed the
creek, but the Indian paid little attention to them. A fourth wolf
joined the pack, and a fifth, and half an hour later the trail of three
other wolves cut at right angles across the one they were following and
disappeared in the direction of the thickly timbered plains. Mukoki's
face was crinkled with joy.

"Many wolf near," he exclaimed. "Many wolf off there 'n' off there 'n'
off there. Good place for night hunt."

Soon the creek swung out from the ridge and cut a circuitous channel
through a small swamp. Here there were signs of wild life which set
Rod's heart thumping and his blood tingling with excitement. In places
the snow was literally packed with deer tracks. Trails ran in every
direction, the bark had been rubbed from scores of saplings, and every
step gave fresh evidence of the near presence of game. The stealth with
which Mukoki now advanced was almost painful. Every twig was pressed
behind him noiselessly, and once when Rod struck his snow-shoe against
the butt of a small tree the old Indian held up his hands in mock
horror. Ten minutes, fifteen--twenty of them passed in this cautious,
breathless trailing of the swamp.

Suddenly Mukoki stopped, and a hand was held out behind him warningly.
He turned his face back, and Rod knew that he saw game. Inch by inch he
crouched upon his snow-shoes, and beckoned for Rod to approach, slowly,
quietly. When the boy had come near enough he passed back his rifle, and
his lips formed the almost noiseless word, "Shoot!"

Tremblingly Rod seized the gun and looked into the swamp ahead, Mukoki
doubling down in front of him. What he saw sent him for a moment into
the first nervous tremor of buck fever. Not more than a hundred yards
away stood a magnificent buck browsing the tips of a clump of hazel, and
just beyond him were two does. With a powerful effort Rod steadied
himself. The buck was standing broadside, his head and neck stretched
up, offering a beautiful shot at the vital spot behind his fore leg. At
this the young hunter aimed and fired. With one spasmodic bound the
animal dropped dead.

Hardly had Rod seen the effect of his shot before Mukoki was traveling
swiftly toward the fallen game, unstrapping his pack as he ran. By the
time the youth reached his quarry the old Indian had produced a large
whisky flask holding about a quart. Without explanation he now proceeded
to thrust his knife into the quivering animal's throat and fill this
flask with blood. When he had finished his task he held it up with an
air of unbounded satisfaction.

"Blood for wolf. Heem like blood. Smell um--come make big shoot
to-night. No blood, no bait--no wolf shoot!"

Mukoki no longer maintained his usual quiet, and it was evident to Rod
that the Indian considered his mission for that day practically
accomplished. After taking the heart, liver and one of the hind quarters
of the buck Mukoki drew a long rope of babeesh from his pack, tied one
end of it around the animal's neck, flung the other end over a near
limb, and with his companion's assistance hoisted the carcass until it
was clear of the ground.

"If somethin' happen we no come back to-night heem safe from wolf," he
explained.

The two now continued through the swamp. At its farther edge the ground
rose gently from the creek toward the hills, and this sloping plain was
covered with huge boulders and a thin growth of large spruce and birch.
Just beyond the creek was a gigantic rock which immediately caught
Mukoki's attention. All sides except one were too precipitous for
ascent, and even this one could not be climbed without the assistance of
a sapling or two. They could see, however, that the top of the, rock was
flat, and Mukoki called attention to this fact with an exultant chuckle.

"Fine place for wolf hunt!" he exclaimed. "Many wolf off there in swamp
an' in hill. We call heem here. Shoot from there!" He pointed to a clump
of spruce a dozen rods away.

By Rod's watch it was now nearly noon and the two sat down to eat the
sandwiches they had brought with them. Only a few minutes were lost in
taking up the home trail. Beyond the swamp Mukoki cut at right angles to
their trap-line until he had ascended to the top of the ridge that had
been on their right and which would take them very near their camp. From
this ridge Rod could look about him upon a wild and rugged scene. On one
side it sloped down to the plains, but on the other it fell in almost
sheer walls, forming at its base five hundred feet below a narrow and
gloomy chasm, through which a small stream found its way. Several times
Mukoki stopped and leaned perilously close to the dizzy edge of the
mountain, peering down with critical eyes, and once when he pulled
himself back cautiously by means of a small sapling he explained his
interest by saying:

"Plenty bear there in spring!"

But Rod was not thinking of bears. Once more his head was filled with
the thought of gold. Perhaps that very chasm held the priceless secret
that had died with its owners half a century ago. The dark and gloomy
silence that hung between those two walls of rock, the death-like
desolation, the stealthy windings of the creek--everything in that dim
and mysterious world between the two mountains, unshattered by sound and
impenetrable to the winter sun, seemed in his mind to link itself with
the tragedy of long ago.

Did that chasm hold the secret of the dead men?

Again and again Rod found himself asking this question as he followed
Mukoki, and the oftener he asked it the nearer he seemed to an answer,
until at last, with a curious, thrilling certainty that set his blood
tingling he caught Mukoki by the arm and pointing back, said:

"Mukoki--the gold was found between those mountains!"



CHAPTER IX

WOLF TAKES VENGEANCE UPON HIS PEOPLE


From that hour was born in Roderick Drew's breast a strange,
imperishable desire. Willingly at this moment would he have given up the
winter trapping to have pursued that golden _ignis fatuus_ of all
ages--the lure of gold. To him the story of the old cabin, the skeletons
and the treasure of the buckskin bag was complete. Those skeletons had
once been men. They had found a mine--a place where they had picked up
nuggets with their fingers. And that treasure ground was somewhere near.
No longer was he puzzled by the fact that they had discovered no more
gold in the old log cabin. In a flash he had solved that mystery. The
men had just begun to gather their treasure when they had fought. What
was more logical than that? One day, two, three--and they had quarreled
over division, over rights. That was the time when they were most likely
to quarrel. Perhaps one had discovered the gold and had therefore
claimed a larger share. Anyway, the contents of the buckskin bag
represented but a few days' labor. Rod was sure of that.

Mukoki had grinned and shrugged his shoulders with an air of stupendous
doubt when Rod had told him that the gold lay between the mountains, so
now the youth kept his thoughts to himself. It was a silent trail home.
Rod's mind was too active in its new channel, and he was too deeply
absorbed in impressing upon his memory certain landmarks which they
passed to ask questions; and Mukoki, with the natural taciturnity of his
race, seldom found occasion to break into conversation unless spoken to
first. Although his eyes were constantly on the alert, Rod could see no
way in which a descent could be made into the chasm from the ridge they
were on. This was a little disappointing, for he had made up his mind to
explore the gloomy, sunless gulch at his first opportunity. He had no
doubt that Wabi would join in the adventure. Or he might take his own
time, and explore it alone. He was reasonably sure that from somewhere
on the opposite ridge a descent could be made into it.

Wabi was in camp when they arrived. He had set eighteen traps and had
shot two spruce partridges. The birds were already cleaned for their
early supper, and a thick slice of venison steak was added to the menu.
During the preparation of the meal Rod described their discovery of the
chasm and revealed some of his thoughts concerning it, but Wabi betrayed
only passing flashes of interest. At times he seemed strangely
preoccupied and would stand in an idle, contemplative mood, his hands
buried deep in his pockets, while Rod or Mukoki proceeded with the
little duties about the table or the stove. Finally, after arousing
himself from one of these momentary spells, he pulled a brass shell from
his pocket and held it out to the old Indian.

"See here," he said. "I don't want to stir up any false fears, or
anything of that sort--but I found that on the trail to-day!"

Mukoki clutched at the shell as though it had been another newly found
nugget of gold. The shell was empty. The lettering on the rim was still
very distinct. He read ".35 Rem."

"Why, that's--"

"A shell from Rod's gun!"

For a few moments Rod and Mukoki stared at the young Indian in blank
amazement.

"It's a .35 caliber Remington," continued Wabi, "and it's an auto-loading
shell. There are only three guns like that in this country. I've got
one, Mukoki has another--and you lost the third in your fight with the
Woongas!"

The venison had begun to burn, and Mukoki quickly transferred it to the
table. Without a word the three sat down to their meal.

"That means the Woongas are on our trail," declared Rod presently.

"That is what I have been trying to reason out all the afternoon,"
replied Wabi. "It certainly is proof that they are, or have been quite
recently, on this side of the mountain. But I don't believe they know we
are here. The trail I struck was about five miles from camp. It was at
least two days old. Three Indians on snow-shoes were traveling north. I
followed back on their trail and found after a time that the Indians had
come from the north, which leads me to believe that they were simply on
a hunting expedition, cut a circle southward, and then returned to their
camp. I don't believe they will come farther south. But we must keep our
eyes open."

Wabi's description of the manner in which the strange trail turned gave
great satisfaction to Mukoki, who nodded affirmatively when the young
hunter expressed it as his belief that the Woongas would not come so far
as their camp. But the discovery of their presence chilled the buoyant
spirits of the hunters. There was, however, a new spice of adventure
lurking in this possible peril that was not altogether displeasing, and
by the time the meal was at an end something like a plan of campaign had
been formed. The hunters would not wait to be attacked and then act in
self-defense, possibly at a disadvantage. They would be constantly on
the lookout for the Woongas, and if a fresh trail or a camp was found
they would begin the man-hunt themselves.

The sun was just beginning to sink behind the distant hills in the
southwest when the hunters again left camp. Wolf had received nothing to
eat since the previous night, and with increasing hunger the fiery
impatience lurking in his eyes and the restlessness of his movements
became more noticeable. Mukoki called attention to these symptoms with a
gloating satisfaction.

The gloom of early evening was enveloping the wilderness by the time the
three wolf hunters reached the swamp in which Rod had slain the buck.
While he carried the guns and packs, Mukoki and Wabigoon dragged the
buck between them to the huge flat-top rock. Now for the first time the
city youth began to understand the old pathfinder's scheme. Several
saplings were cut, and by means of a long rope of babeesh the deer was
dragged up the side of the rock until it rested securely upon the flat
space. From the dead buck's neck the babeesh rope was now stretched
across the intervening space between the rock and the clump of cedars in
which the hunters were to conceal themselves. In two of these cedars, at
a distance of a dozen feet from the ground, were quickly made three
platforms of saplings, upon which the ambushed watchers could
comfortably seat themselves. By the time complete darkness had fallen
the "trap" was finished, with the exception of a detail which Rod
followed with great interest.

From inside his clothes, where it had been kept warm by his body, Mukoki
produced the flask of blood. A third of this blood he scattered upon the
face of the rock and upon the snow at its base. The remainder he
distributed, drop by drop, in trails running toward the swamp and
plains.

There still remained three hours before the moon would be up, and the
hunters now joined Wolf, who had been fastened half-way up the ridge. In
the shelter of a big rock a small fire was built, and during their long
wait the hunters passed the time away by broiling and eating chunks of
venison and in going over again the events of the day.

It was nine o'clock before the moon rose above the edge of the
wilderness. This great orb of the Northern night seemed to hold a
never-ending fascination for Rod. It crept above the forests, a glowing,
throbbing ball of red, quivering and palpitating in an effulgence that
neither cloud nor mist dimmed in this desolation beyond the sphere of
man; and as it rose, almost with visible movement to the eyes, the blood
in it faded, until at last it seemed a great blaze of soft light between
silver and gold. It was then that the whole world was lighted up under
it. It was then that Mukoki, speaking softly, beckoned the others to
follow him, and with Wolf at his side went down the ridge.

Making a circuit around the back of the rock, Mukoki paused near a small
sapling twenty yards from the dead buck and secured Wolf by his babeesh
thong. Hardly had he done so when the animal began to exhibit signs of
excitement. He trotted about nervously, sniffing the air, gathering the
wind from every direction, and his jaws dropped with a snarling whine.
Then he struck one of the clots of blood in the snow.

"Come," whispered Wabi, pulling at Rod's sleeve, "come--quietly."

They slipped back among the shadows of the spruce and watched Wolf in
unbroken silence. The animal now stood rigidly over the blood clot. His
head was level with his quivering back, his ears half aslant, his
nostrils pointing to a strange thrilling scent that came to him from
somewhere out there in the moonlight. Once more the instinct of his
breed was flooding the soul of the captive wolf. There was the odor of
blood in his widening nostrils. It was not the blood of the camp, of the
slaughtered game dragged in by human hands before his eyes. It was the
blood of the chase!

A flashing memory of his captors turned the animal's head for an instant
in backward inspection. They were gone. He could neither hear nor see
them. He sniffed the sign of human presence, but that sign was always
with him, and was not disturbing. The blood held him--and the strange
scent, the game scent--that was coming to him more clearly every
instant.

He crunched about cautiously in the snow. He found other spots of blood,
and to the watchers there came a low long whine that seemed about to end
in the wolf song. The blood trails were leading him away toward the game
scent, and he tugged viciously at the babeesh that held him captive,
gnawing at it vainly, like an angry dog, forgetting what experience had
taught him many times before. Each moment added to his excitement He ran
about the sapling, gulped mouthfuls of the bloody snow, and each time he
paused for a moment with his open dripping jaws held toward the dead
buck on the rock. The game was very near. Brute sense told him that. Oh,
the longing that was in him, the twitching, quivering longing to
kill--kill--kill!

He made another effort, tore up the snow in his frantic endeavors to
free himself, to break loose, to follow in the wild glad cry of freed
savagery in the calling of his people. He failed again, panting, whining
in piteous helplessness.

Then he settled upon his haunches at the end of his babeesh thong.

For a moment his head turned to the moonlit sky, his long nose poised at
right angles to the bristling hollows between his shoulders.

There came then a low, whining wail, like the beginning of the
"death-song" of a husky dog--a wail that grew in length and in strength
and in volume until it rose weirdly among the mountains and swept far
out over the plains--the hunt call of the wolf on the trail, which calls
to him the famished, gray-gaunt outlaws of the wilderness, as the
bugler's notes call his fellows on the field of battle.

Three times that blood-thrilling cry went up from the captive wolf's
throat, and before those cries had died away the three hunters were
perched upon their platforms among the spruce.

There followed now the ominous, waiting silence of an awakened
wilderness. Rod could hear his heart throbbing within him. He forgot the
intense cold. His nerves tingled. He looked out over the endless plains,
white and mysteriously beautiful as they lay bathed in the glow of the
moon. And Wabi knew more than he what was happening. All over that wild
desolation the call of the wolf had carried its meaning. Down there,
where a lake lay silent in its winter sleep, a doe started in trembling
and fear; beyond the mountain a huge bull moose lifted his antlered head
with battle-glaring eyes; half a mile away a fox paused for an instant
in its sleuth-like stalking of a rabbit; and here and there in that
world of wild things the gaunt hungry people of Wolf's blood stopped in
their trails and turned their heads toward the signal that was coming in
wailing echoes to their ears.

And then the silence was broken. From afar--it might have been a mile
away--there came an answering cry; and at that cry the wolf at the end
of his babeesh thong settled upon his haunches again and sent back the
call that comes only when there is blood upon the trail or when near the
killing time.

There was not the rustle of a bough, not a word spoken, by the silent
watchers in the spruce. Mukoki had slipped back and half lay across his
support in shooting attitude. Wabi had braced a foot, and his rifle was
half to his shoulder, leveled over a knee. It was Rod's turn with the
big revolver, and he had practised aiming through a crotch that gave a
rest to his arm.

In a few moments there came again the howl of the distant wolf on the
plains, and this time it was joined by another away to the westward. And
after that there came two from the plains instead of one, and then a far
cry to the north and east. For the first time Rod and Wabi heard the
gloating chuckle of Mukoki in his spruce a dozen feet away.

At the increasing responses of his brethren Wolf became more frantic in
his efforts. The scent of fresh blood and of wounded game was becoming
maddening to the captive. But his frenzy no longer betrayed itself in
futile efforts to escape from the babeesh thong. Wolf knew that his
cries were assembling the hunt-pack. Nearer and nearer came the
responses of the leaders, and there were now only momentary rests
between the deep-throated exhortations which he sent in all directions
into the night.

Suddenly, almost from the swamp itself, there came a quick, excited,
yelping reply, and Wabi gripped Rod by the arm.

"He has struck the place where you killed the buck," he whispered.
"There'll be quick work now!"

Hardly had he spoken when a series of excited howls broke forth from the
swamp, coming nearer and nearer as the hunger-crazed outlaw of the
plains followed over the rich-scented trail made by the two Indians as
they carried the slaughtered deer. Soon he nosed one of the trails of
blood, and a moment later the watchers saw a gaunt shadow form running
swiftly over the snow toward Wolf.

For an instant, as the two beasts of prey met, there fell a silence;
then both animals joined in the wailing hunt-pack cry, and the wolf that
was free came to the edge of the great rock and stood with his fore feet
on its side, and his cry changed from that of the chase to the still
more thrilling signal that told the gathering pack of game at bay.

Swiftly the wolves closed in. From over the edge of the mountain one
came and joined the wolf at the rock without the hunters seeing his
approach. From out of the swamp there came a pack of three, and now
about the rock there grew a maddened, yelping horde, clambering and
scrambling and fighting in their efforts to climb up to the game that
was so near and yet beyond their reach. And sixty feet away Wolf
crouched, watching the gathering of his clan, helpless, panting from his
choking efforts to free himself, and quieting, gradually quieting, until
in sullen silence he looked upon the scene, as though he knew the moment
was very near when that thrilling spectacle would be changed into a
scene of direst tragedy.

And it was Mukoki who had first said that this was the vengeance of Wolf
upon his people.

From Mukoki there now came a faint hissing warning, and Wabi threw his
rifle to his shoulder. There were at least a score of wolves at the base
of the rock. Gradually the old Indian pulled upon the babeesh rope that
led to the dead buck--pulled until he was putting a half of his strength
into the effort, and could feel the animal slowly slipping from the flat
ledge. A moment more and the buck tumbled down in the midst of the
waiting pack.

As flies gather upon a lump of sugar the famished animals now crowded
and crushed and fought over the deer's body, and as they came thus
together there sounded the quick sharp signal to fire from Mukoki.

For five seconds the edge of the spruce was a blaze of death-dealing
flashes, and the deafening reports of the two rifles and the big Colt
drowned the cries and struggles of the animals. When those five seconds
were over fifteen shots had been fired, and five seconds later the vast,
beautiful silence of the wilderness night had fallen again. About the
rock was the silence of death, broken only faintly by the last gasping
throes of the animals that lay dying in the snow.

In the trees there sounded the metallic clink of loading shells.

Wabi spoke first.

"I believe we did a good job, Mukoki!"

Mukoki's reply was to slip down his tree. The others followed, and
hastened across to the rock. Five bodies lay motionless in the snow. A
sixth was dragging himself around the side of the rock, and Mukoki
attacked it with his belt-ax. Still a seventh had run for a dozen rods,
leaving a crimson trail behind, and when Wabi and Rod came up to it the
animal was convulsed in its last dying struggles.

"Seven!" exclaimed the Indian youth. "That is one of the best shoots we
ever had. A hundred and five dollars in a night isn't bad, is it?"

The two came back to the rock, dragging the wolf with them. Mukoki was
standing as rigid as a statue in the moonlight, his face turned into the
north. He pointed one arm far out over the plains, and said, without
turning his head,

"See!"

Far out in that silent desolation the hunters saw a lurid flash of
flame. It climbed up and up, until it filled the night above it with a
dull glow--a single unbroken stream of fire that rose far above the
swamps and forests of the plains.

"That's a burning jackpine!" said Wabigoon.

"Burning jackpine!" agreed the old warrior. Then he added, "Woonga
signal fire!"



CHAPTER X

RODERICK EXPLORES THE CHASM


To Rod the blazing pine seemed to be but a short distance away--a mile,
perhaps a little more. In the silence of the two Indians as they
contemplated the strange fire he read an ominous meaning. In Mukoki's
eyes was a dull sullen glare, not unlike that which fills the orbs of a
wild beast in a moment of deadly anger. Wabi's face was filled with an
eager flush, and three times, Rod observed, he turned eyes strangely
burning with some unnatural passion upon Mukoki.

Slowly, even as the instincts of his race had aroused the latent,
brutish love of slaughter and the chase in the tamed wolf, the long
smothered instincts of these human children of the forest began to
betray themselves in their bronzed countenances. Rod watched, and he was
thrilled to the soul. Back at the old cabin they had declared war upon
the Woongas. Both Mukoki and Wabigoon had slipped the leashes that had
long restrained them from meting first vengeance upon their enemies. Now
the opportunity had come. For five minutes the great pine blazed, and
then died away until it was only a smoldering tower of light. Still
Mukoki gazed, speechless and grim, out into the distance of the night.
At last Wabi broke the silence.

"How far away is it, Muky?"

"T'ree mile," answered the old warrior without hesitation.

"We could make it in forty minutes."

"Yes."

Wabi turned to Rod.

"You can find your way back to camp alone, can't you?" he asked.

"Not if you're going over there!" declared the white boy. "I'm going
with you."

Mukoki broke in upon them with a harsh disappointed laugh.

"No go. No go over there." He spoke with emphasis, and shook his head.
"We lose pine in five minutes. No find Woonga camp--make big trail for
Woongas to see in morning. Better wait. Follow um trail in day, then
shoot!"

Rod found immense relief in the old Indian's decision. He did not fear a
fight; in fact, he was a little too anxious to meet the outlaws who had
stolen his gun, now that they had determined upon opening fire on sight.
But in this instance he was possessed of the cooler judgment of his
race. He believed that as yet the Woongas were not aware of their
presence in this region, and that there was still a large possibility of
the renegades traveling northward beyond their trapping sphere. He hoped
that this would be the case, in spite of his desire to recapture his
gun. A scrimmage with the Woongas just now would spoil the plans he had
made for discovering gold.

The "Skeleton Mine," as he had come to call it, now absorbed his
thoughts beyond everything else. He felt confident that he would
discover the lost treasure ground if given time, and he was just as
confident that if war was once begun between themselves and the Woongas
it would mean disaster or quick flight from the country. Even Wabi,
worked up more in battle enthusiasm than by gold fever, conceded that if
half of the Woongas were in this country they were much too powerful for
them to cope with successfully, especially as one of them was without a
rifle.

It was therefore with inward exultation that Rod saw the project of
attack dropped and Mukoki and Wabigoon proceed with their short task of
scalping the seven wolves. During this operation Wolf was allowed to
feast upon the carcass of the buck.

That night there was but little sleep in the old cabin. It was two
o'clock when the hunters arrived in camp and from that hour until nearly
four they sat about the hot stove making plans for the day that was
nearly at hand. Rod could but contrast the excitement that had now taken
possession of them with the tranquil joy with which they had first taken
up their abode in this dip in the hilltop. And how different were their
plans from those of two or three days ago! Not one of them now but
realized their peril. They were in an ideal hunting range, but it was
evidently very near, if not actually in, the Woonga country. At any
moment they might be forced to fight for their lives or abandon their
camp, and perhaps they would be compelled to do both.

So the gathering about the stove was in reality a small council of war.
It was decided that the old cabin should immediately be put into a
condition of defense, with a loophole on each side, strong new bars at
the door, and with a thick barricade near at hand that could be quickly
fitted against the window in case of attack. Until the war-clouds
cleared away, if they cleared at all, the camp would be continually
guarded by one of the hunters, and with this garrison would be left both
of the heavy revolvers. At dawn or a little later Mukoki would set out
upon Wabi's trap-line, both to become acquainted with it and to extend
the line of traps, while later in the day the Indian youth would follow
Mukoki's line, visiting the houses already built and setting other
traps. This scheme left to Rod the first day's watch in camp.

Mukoki aroused himself from his short sleep with the first approach of
dawn but did not awaken his tired companions until breakfast was ready.
When the meal was finished he seized his gun and signified his intention
of visiting the mink traps just beyond the hill before leaving on his
long day's trail. Rod at once joined him, leaving Wabi to wash the
dishes.

They were shortly within view of the trap-houses near the creek.
Instinctively the eyes of both rested upon these houses and neither gave
very close attention to the country ahead or about them. As a result
both were exceedingly startled when they heard a huge snort and a great
crunching in the deep snow close beside them. From out of a small growth
of alders had dashed a big bull moose, who was now tearing with the
speed of a horse up the hillside toward the hidden camp, evidently
seeking the quick shelter of the dip.

"Wait heem git top of hill!" shouted Mukoki, swinging his rifle to his
shoulder. "Wait!"

It was a beautiful shot and Rod was tempted to ignore the old Indian's
advice. But he knew that there was some good reason for it, so he held
his trembling finger. Hardly had the animal's huge antlered head risen
to the sky-line when Mukoki shouted again, and the young hunter pressed
the trigger of his automatic gun three times in rapid succession. It was
a short shot, not more than two hundred yards, and Mukoki fired but once
just as the bull mounted the hilltop.

The next instant the moose was gone and Rod was just about to dash in
pursuit when his companion caught him by the arm.

"We got um!" he grinned. "He run downhill, then fall--ver' close to
camp. Ver' good scheme--wait heem git on top hill. No have to carry meat
far!"

As coolly as though nothing had occurred the Indian turned again in the
direction of the traps. Rod stood as though he had been nailed to the
spot, his mouth half open in astonishment.

"We go see traps," urged Mukoki. "Find moose dead when we go back."

But Roderick Drew, who had hunted nothing larger than house rats in his
own city, was not the young man to see the logic of this reasoning, and
before Mukoki could open his mouth again he was hurrying up the hill. On
its summit he saw a huge torn-up blotch in the snow, spattered with
blood, where the moose had fallen first after the shots; and at the foot
of the hill, as the Indian had predicted, the great animal lay dead.

Wabi was hastening across the lake, attracted by the shots, and both
reached the slain bull at about the same time. Rod quickly perceived
that three shots had taken effect; one, which was undoubtedly Mukoki's
carefully directed ball, in a vital spot behind the fore leg, and two
through the body. The fact that two of his own shots had taken good
effect filled the white youth with enthusiasm, and he was still
gesticulating excitedly in describing the bull's flight to Wabi when the
old Indian came over the hill, grinning broadly, and holding up for
their inspection a magnificent mink.

The day could not have begun more auspiciously for the hunters, and by
the time Mukoki was ready to leave upon his long trail the adventurers
were in buoyant spirits, the distressing fears of the preceding night
being somewhat dispelled by their present good fortune and the glorious
day which now broke in full splendor upon the wilderness.

Until their early dinner Wabi remained in camp, securing certain parts
of the moose and assisting Rod in putting the cabin into a state of
defense according to their previous plans. It was not yet noon when he
started over Mukoki's trap-line.

Left to his own uninterrupted thoughts, Rod's mind was once more
absorbed in his scheme of exploring the mysterious chasm. He had noticed
during his inspection from the top of the ridge that the winter snows
had as yet fallen but little in the gloomy gulch between the mountains,
and he was eager to attempt his adventure before other snows came or the
fierce blizzards of December filled the chasm with drifts. Later in the
afternoon he brought forth the buckskin bag from a niche in the log wall
where it had been concealed, and one after another carefully examined
the golden nuggets. He found, as he had expected, that they were worn to
exceeding smoothness, and that every edge had been dulled and rounded.
Rod's favorite study in school had been a minor branch of geology and
mineralogy, and he knew that only running water could work this
smoothness. He was therefore confident that the nuggets had been
discovered in or on the edge of a running stream. And that stream, he
was sure, was the one in the chasm.

But Rod's plans for an early investigation were doomed to
disappointment. Late that day both Mukoki and Wabi returned, the latter
with a red fox and another mink, the former with a fisher, which
reminded Rod of a dog just growing out of puppyhood, and another story
of strange trails that renewed their former apprehensions. The old
Indian had discovered the remnants of the burned jackpine, and about it
were the snow-shoe tracks of three Indians. One of these trails came
from the north and two from the west, which led him to believe that the
pine had been fired as a signal to call the two. At the very end of
their trap-line, which extended about four miles from camp, a single
snow-shoe trail had cut across at right angles, also swinging into the
north.

These discoveries necessitated a new arrangement of the plans that had
been made the preceding night. Hereafter, it was agreed, only one
trap-line would be visited each day, and by two of the hunters in
company, both armed with rifles. Rod saw that this meant the abandonment
of his scheme for exploring the chasm, at least for the present.

Day after day now passed without evidences of new trails, and each day
added to the hopes of the adventurers that they were at last to be left
alone in the country. Never had Mukoki or Wabigoon been in a better
trapping ground, and every visit to their lines added to their hoard of
furs. If left unmolested it was plainly evident that they would take a
small fortune back to Wabinosh House with them early in the spring.
Besides many mink, several fisher, two red foxes and a lynx, they added
two fine "cross" foxes and three wolf scalps to their treasure during
the next three weeks. Rod began to think occasionally of the joy their
success would bring to the little home hundreds of miles away, where he
knew that the mother was waiting and praying for him every day of her
life; and there were times, too, when he found himself counting the days
that must still elapse before he returned to Minnetaki and the Post.

But at no time did he give up his determination to explore the chasm.
From the first Mukoki and Wabigoon had regarded this project with little
favor, declaring the impossibility of discovering gold under snow, even
though gold was there; so Rod waited and watched for an opportunity to
make the search alone, saying nothing about his plans.

On a beautiful day late in December, when the sun rose with dazzling
brightness, his opportunity came. Wabi was to remain in camp, and
Mukoki, who was again of the belief that they were safe from the
Woongas, was to follow one of the trap-lines alone. Supplying himself
well with food, taking Wabi's rifle, a double allowance of cartridges, a
knife, belt-ax, and a heavy blanket in his pack, Rod set out for the
chasm. Wabi laughed as he stood in the doorway to see him off.

"Good luck to you, Rod; hope you find gold," he cried gaily, waving a
final good-by with his hand.

"If I don't return to-night don't you fellows worry about me," called
back the youth. "If things look promising I may camp in the chasm and
take up the hunt again in the morning."

He now passed quickly to the second ridge, knowing from previous
experience that it would be impossible to make a descent into the gulch
from the first mountain. This range, a mile south of the camp, had not
been explored by the hunters, but Rod was sure that there was no danger
of losing himself as long as he followed along the edge of the chasm
which was in itself a constant and infallible guide. Much to his
disappointment he found that the southern walls of this mysterious break
between the mountains were as precipitous as those on the opposite side,
and for two hours he looked in vain for a place where he might climb
down. The country was now becoming densely wooded and he was constantly
encountering signs of big game. But he paid little attention to these.
Finally he came to a point where the forest swept over and down the
steep side of the mountain, and to his great joy he saw that by
strapping his snow-shoes to his back and making good use of his hands it
was possible for him to make a descent.

Fifteen minutes later, breathless but triumphant, he stood at the bottom
of the chasm. On his right rose the strip of cedar forest; on his left
he was shut in by towering walls of black and shattered rock. At his
feet was the little stream which had played such an important part in
his golden dreams, frozen in places, and in others kept clear of ice by
the swiftness of its current. A little ahead of him was that gloomy,
sunless part of the chasm into which he had peered so often from the top
of the ridge on the north. As he advanced step by step into its
mysterious silence, his eyes alert, his nerves stretched to a tension of
the keenest expectancy, there crept over him a feeling that he was
invading that enchanted territory which, even at this moment, might be
guarded by the spirits of the two mortals who had died because of the
treasure it held.

Narrower and narrower became the walls high over his head. Not a ray of
sunlight penetrated into the soundless gloom. Not a leaf shivered in the
still air. The creek gurgled and spattered among its rocks, without the
note of a bird or the chirp of a squirrel to interrupt its monotony.
Everything was dead. Now and then Rod could hear the wind whispering
over the top of the chasm. But not a breath of it came down to him.
Under his feet was only sufficient snow to deaden his own footsteps, and
he still carried his snow-shoes upon his back.

Suddenly, from the thick gloom that hung under one of the cragged walls,
there came a thundering, unearthly sound that made him stop, his rifle
swung half to shoulder. He saw that he had disturbed a great owl, and
passed on. Now and then he paused beside the creek and took up handful
after handful of its pebbles, his heart beating high with hope at every
new gleam he caught among them, and never sinking to disappointment
though he found no gold. The gold was here--somewhere. He was as certain
of that as he was of the fact that he was living, and searching for it.
Everything assured him of that; the towering masses of cleft rock, whole
walls seeming about to crumble into ruin, the broad margins of pebbles
along the creek--everything, to the very stillness and mystery in the
air, spoke this as the abode of the skeletons' secret.

It was this inexplicable _something_--this unseen, mysterious element
hovering in the air that caused the white youth to advance step by step,
silently, cautiously, as though the slightest sound under his feet might
awaken the deadliest of enemies. And it was because of this stealth in
his progress that he came very close upon something that was living, and
without startling it. Less than fifty yards ahead of him he saw an
object moving slowly among the rocks. It was a fox. Even before the
animal had detected his presence he had aimed and fired.

Thunderous echoes rose up about him. They rolled down the chasm, volume
upon volume, until in the ghostly gloom between the mountain walls he
stood and listened, a nervous shiver catching him once or twice. Not
until the last echo had died away did he approach where the fox lay upon
the snow. It was not red. It was not black. It was not--

His heart gave a big excited thump. The bleeding creature at his feet
was the most beautiful animal he had ever seen--and the tip of its thick
black fur was silver gray.

Then, in that lonely chasm, there went up a great human whoop of joy.

"A silver fox!"

Rod spoke the words aloud. For five minutes he stood and looked upon his
prize. He held it up and stroked it, and from what Wabi and Mukoki had
told him he knew that the silken pelt of this creature was worth more to
them than all the furs at the camp together.

He made no effort to skin it, but put the animal in his pack and resumed
his slow, noiseless exploration of the gulch.

He had now passed beyond those points in the range from which he had
looked down into this narrow, shut-in world. Ever more wild and gloomy
became the chasm. At times the two walls of rock seemed almost to meet
far above his head; under gigantic, overhanging crags there lurked the
shadows of night. Fascinated by the grandeur and loneliness of the
scenes through which he was passing Rod forgot the travel of time. Mile
after mile he continued his tireless trail. He had no inclination to
eat. He stopped only once at the creek to drink. And when he looked at
his watch he was astonished to find that it was three o'clock in the
afternoon.

It was now too late to think of returning to camp. Within an hour the
day gloom of the chasm would be thickening into that of night. So Rod
stopped at the first good camp site, threw off his pack, and proceeded
with the building of a cedar shelter. Not until this was completed and a
sufficient supply of wood for the night's fire was at hand did he begin
getting supper. He had brought a pail with him and soon the appetizing
odors of boiling coffee and broiling moose sirloin filled the air.

Night had fallen between the mountain walls by the time Rod sat down to
his meal.



CHAPTER XI

RODERICK'S DREAM


A chilling loneliness now crept over the young adventurer. Even as he
ate he tried to peer out into the mysterious darkness. A sound from up
the chasm, made by some wild prowler of the night, sent a nervous tremor
through him. He was not afraid; he would not have confessed to that. But
still, the absolute, almost gruesome silence between the two mountains,
the mere knowledge that he was alone in a place where the foot of man
had not trod for more than half a century, was not altogether quieting
to his nerves. What mysteries might not these grim walls hold? What
might not happen here, where everything was so strange, so weird, and so
different from the wilderness world just over the range?

Rod tried to laugh away his nervousness, but the very sound of his own
voice was distressing. It rose in unnatural shivering echoes--a low,
hollow mockery of a laugh beating itself against the walls; a ghost of a
laugh, Rod thought, and that very thought made him hunch closer to the
fire. The young hunter was not superstitious, or at least he was not
unnaturally so; but what man or boy is there in this whole wide world of
ours who does not, at some time, inwardly cringe from something in the
air--something that does not exist and never did exist, but which holds
a peculiar and nameless fear for the soul of a human being?

And Rod, as he piled his fire high with wood and shrank in the warmth of
his cedar shelter, felt that nameless dread; and there came to him no
thought of sleep, no feeling of fatigue, but only that he was alone,
absolutely alone, in the mystery and almost unending silence of the
chasm. Try as he would he could not keep from his mind the vision of the
skeletons as he had first seen them in the old cabin.

Many, many years ago, even before his own mother was born, those
skeletons had trod this very chasm. They had drunk from the same creek
as he, they had clambered over the same rocks, they had camped perhaps
where he was camping now! They, too, in flesh and life, had strained
their ears in the grim silence, they had watched the flickering light of
their camp-fire on the walls of rock--and they had found gold!

Just now, if Rod could have moved himself by magic, he would have been
safely back in camp. He listened. From far back over the trail he had
followed there came a lonely, plaintive, almost pleading cry.

"'Ello--'ello--'ello!"

It sounded like a distant human greeting, but Rod knew that it was the
awakening night cry of what Wabi called the "man owl." It was weirdly
human-like; and the echoes came softly, and more softly, until ghostly
voices seemed to be whispering in the blackness about him.

"'Ello--'ello--'ello!"

The boy shivered and laid his rifle across his knees. There was
tremendous comfort in the rifle. Rod fondled it with his fingers, and
two or three times he felt as though he would almost like to talk to it.
Only those who have gone far into the silence and desolation of the
unblazed wilderness know just how human a good rifle becomes to its
owner. It is a friend every hour of the night and day, faithful to its
master's desires, keeping starvation at bay and holding death for his
enemies; a guaranty of safety at his bedside by night, a sharp-fanged
watch-dog by day, never treacherous and never found wanting by the one
who bestows upon it the care of a comrade and friend. Thus had Rod come
to look upon his rifle. He rubbed the barrel now with his mittens; he
polished the stock as he sat in his loneliness, and long afterward,
though he had determined to remain awake during the night, he fell
asleep with it clasped tightly in his hands.

It was an uneasy, troubled slumber in which the young adventurer's
visions and fears took a more realistic form. He half sat, half lay,
upon his cedar boughs; his head fell forward upon his breast, his feet
were stretched out to the fire. Now and then unintelligible sounds fell
from his lips, and he would start suddenly as if about to awaken, but
each time would sink back into his restless sleep, still clutching the
gun.

The visions in his head began to take a more definite form. Once more he
was on the trail, and had come to the old cabin. But this time he was
alone. The window of the cabin was wide open, but the door was tightly
closed, just as the hunters had found it when they first came down into
the dip. He approached cautiously. When very near the window he heard
sounds--strange sounds--like the clicking of bones!

Step by step in his dream he approached the window and looked in. And
there he beheld a sight that froze him to the marrow. Two huge skeletons
were struggling in deadly embrace. He could hear no sound but the
click-click-click of their bones. He saw the gleam of knives held
between fleshless fingers, and he saw now that both were struggling for
the possession of something that was upon the table. Now one almost
reached it, now the other, but neither gained possession.

The clicking of the bones became louder, the struggle fiercer, the
knives of the skeleton combatants rose and fell. Then one staggered back
and sank in a heap on the floor.

For a moment the victor swayed, tottered to the table, and gripped the
mysterious object in its bony fingers.

As it stumbled weakly against the cabin wall the gruesome creature held
the object up, and Rod saw that it was a roll of birch-bark!

An ember in the dying fire snapped with a sound like the report of a
small pistol and Rod sat bolt upright, awake, staring, trembling. What a
horrible dream! He drew in his cramped legs and approached the fire on
his knees, holding his rifle in one hand while he piled on wood with the
other.

What a horrible dream!

He shuddered and ran his eyes around the impenetrable wall of blackness
that shut him in, the thought constantly flashing through his mind, what
a horrible dream--what a horrible dream!

He sat down again and watched the flames of his fire as they climbed
higher and higher. The light and the heat cheered him, and after a
little he allowed his mind to dwell upon the adventure of his slumber.
It had made him sweat. He took off his cap and found that the hair about
his forehead was damp.

All the different phases of a dream return to one singly when awake, and
it was with the suddenness of a shot that there came to Rod a
remembrance of the skeleton hand held aloft, clutching between its
gleaming fleshless fingers the roll of birch-bark. And with that memory
of his dream there came another--the skeleton in the cabin was clutching
a piece of birch-bark when they had buried it!

Could that crumpled bit of bark hold the secret of the lost mine?

Was it for the possession of that bark instead of the buckskin bag that
the men had fought and died?

As the minutes passed Rod forgot his loneliness, forgot his nervousness
and only thought of the possibilities of the new clue that had come to
him in a dream. Wabi and Mukoki had seen the bark clutched in the
skeleton fingers, but they as well as he had given it no special
significance, believing that it had been caught up in some terrible part
of the struggle when both combatants were upon the floor, or perhaps in
the dying agonies of the wounded man against the wall. Rod remembered
now that they had found no more birch-bark upon the floor, which they
would have done if a supply had been kept there for kindling fires. Step
by step he went over the search they had made in the old cabin, and more
and more satisfied did he become that the skeleton hand held something
of importance for them.

He replenished his fire and waited impatiently for dawn. At four
o'clock, before day had begun to dispel the gloom of night, he cooked
his breakfast and prepared his pack for the homeward journey. Soon
afterward a narrow rim of light broke through the rift in the chasm.
Slowly it crept downward, until the young hunter could make out objects
near him and the walls of the mountains.

Thick shadows still defied his vision when he began retracing his steps
over the trail he had made the day before. He returned with the same
caution that he had used in his advance. Even more carefully, if
possible, did he scrutinize the rocks and the creek ahead. He had
already found life in the chasm, and he might find more.

The full light of day came quickly now, and with it the youth's progress
became more rapid. He figured that if he lost no time in further
investigation of the creek he would arrive at camp by noon, and they
would dig up the skeleton without delay. There was little snow in the
chasm, in spite of the lateness of the season, and if the roll of bark
held the secret of the lost gold it would be possible for them to locate
the treasure before other snows came to baffle them.

At the spot where he had killed the silver fox Rod paused for a moment.
He wondered if foxes ever traveled in pairs, and regretted that he had
not asked Wabi or Mukoki that question. He could see where the fox had
come straight from the black wall of the mountain. Curiosity led him
over the trail. He had not followed it more than two hundred yards when
he stopped in sudden astonishment. Plainly marked in the snow before him
was the trail of a pair of snow-shoes! Whoever had been there had passed
since he shot the fox, for the imprints of the animal's feet were buried
under those of the snow-shoes.

Who was the other person in the chasm?

Was it Wabi?

Had Mukoki or he come to join him? Or--

He looked again at the snow-shoe trail. It was a peculiar trail, unlike
the one made by his own shoes. The imprints were a foot longer than his
own, and narrower. Neither Wabi nor Mukoki wore shoes that would make
that trail!

At this point the strange trail had turned and disappeared among the
rocks along the wall of the mountain, and it occurred to Rod that
perhaps the stranger had not discovered his presence in the chasm. There
was some consolation in this thought, but it was doomed to quick
disappointment. Very cautiously the youth advanced, his rifle held in
readiness and his eyes searching every place of concealment ahead of
him. A hundred yards farther on the stranger had stopped, and from the
way in which the snow was packed Rod knew that he had stood in a
listening and watchful attitude for some time. From this point the trail
took another turn and came down until, from behind a huge rock, the
stranger had cautiously peered out upon the path made by the white
youth.

It was evident that he was extremely anxious to prevent the discovery of
his own trail, for now the mysterious spy threaded his way behind rocks
until he had again come to the shelter of the mountain wall.

Rod was perplexed. He realized the peril of his dilemma, and yet he knew
not what course to take to evade it. He had little doubt that the trail
was made by one of the treacherous Woongas, and that the Indian not only
knew of his presence, but was somewhere in the rocks ahead of him,
perhaps even now waiting behind some ambuscade to shoot him. Should he
follow the trail, or would it be safer to steal along among the rocks of
the opposite wall of the chasm?

He had decided upon the latter course when his eyes caught a narrow
horizontal slit cleaving the face of the mountain on his left, toward
which the snow-shoe tracks seemed to lead. With his rifle ready for
instant use the youth slowly approached the fissure, and was surprised
to find that it was a complete break in the wall of rock, not more than
four feet wide, and continuing on a steady incline to the summit of the
ridge. At the mouth of this fissure his mysterious watcher had taken off
his snow-shoes and Rod could see where he had climbed up the narrow exit
from the chasm.

With a profound sense of relief the young hunter hurried along the base
of the mountain, keeping well within its shelter so that eyes that might
be spying from above could not see his movements. He now felt no fear of
danger. The stranger's flight up the cleft in the chasm wall and his
careful attempts to conceal his trail among the rocks assured Rod that
he had no designs upon his life. His chief purpose had seemed to be to
keep secret his own presence in the gorge, and this fact in itself added
to the mystification of the white youth. For a long time he had been
secretly puzzled, and had evolved certain ideas of his own because of
the movements of the Woongas. Contrary to the opinions of Mukoki and
Wabigoon, he believed that the red outlaws were perfectly conscious of
their presence in the dip. From the first their actions had been
unaccountable, but not once had one of their snow-shoe trails crossed
their trap-lines.

Was this fact in itself not significant? Rod was of a contemplative
theoretical turn of mind, one of those wide-awake, interesting young
fellows who find food for conjecture in almost every incident that
occurs, and his suspicions were now aroused to an unusual pitch. A chief
fault, however, was that he kept most of his suspicions to himself, for
he believed that Mukoki and Wabigoon, born and taught in the life of the
wilderness, were infallible in their knowledge of the ways and the laws
and the perils of the world they were in.



CHAPTER XII

THE SECRET OF THE SKELETON'S HAND


A little before noon Rod arrived at the top of the hill from which he
could look down on their camp. He was filled with pleasurable
anticipation, and with an unbounded swelling satisfaction that caused
him to smile as he proceeded into the dip. He had found a fortune in the
mysterious chasm. The burden of the silver fox upon his shoulders was a
most pleasing reminder of that, and he pictured the moment when the
good-natured raillery of Mukoki and Wabigoon would be suddenly turned
into astonishment and joy.

As he approached the cabin the young hunter tried to appear disgusted
and half sick, and his effort was not bad in spite of his decided
inclination to laugh. Wabi met him in the doorway, grinning broadly, and
Mukoki greeted him with a throatful of his inimitable chuckles.

"Aha, here's Rod with a packful of gold!" cried the young Indian,
striking an expectant attitude. "Will you let us see the treasure?" In
spite of his banter there was gladness in his face at Rod's arrival.

The youth threw off his pack with a spiritless effort and flopped into a
chair as though in the last stage of exhaustion.

"You'll have to undo the pack," he replied. "I'm too tired and hungry."

Wabi's manner changed at once to one of real sympathy.

"I'll bet you're tired, Rod, and half starved. We'll have dinner in a
hurry. Ho, Muky, put on the steak, will you?"

There followed a rattle of kettles and tin pans and the Indian youth
gave Rod a glad slap on the back as he hurried to the table. He was
evidently in high spirits, and burst into a snatch of song as he cut up
a loaf of bread.

"I'm tickled to see you back," he admitted, "for I was getting a little
bit nervous. We had splendid luck on our lines yesterday. Brought in
another 'cross' and three mink. Did you see anything?"

"Aren't you going to look in the pack?"

Wabi turned and gazed at his companion with a half-curious hesitating
smile.

"Anything in it?" he asked suspiciously.

"See here, boys," cried Rod, forgetting himself in his suppressed
enthusiasm. "I said there was a treasure in that chasm, and there was. I
found it. You are welcome to look into that pack if you wish!"

Wabi dropped the knife with which he was cutting the bread and went to
the pack. He touched it with the toe of his boot, lifted it in his
hands, and glanced at Rod again.

"It isn't a joke?" he asked.

"No."

Rod turned his back upon the scene and began to take off his coat as
coolly as though it were the commonest thing in the world for him to
bring silver foxes into camp. Only when Wabi gave a suppressed yell did
he turn about, and then he found the Indian standing erect and holding
out the silver to the astonished gaze of Mukoki.

"Is it a good one?" he asked.

"A beauty!" gasped Wabi.

Mukoki had taken the animal and was examining it with the critical eyes
of a connoisseur.

"Ver' fine!" he said. "At Post heem worth fi' hundred dollars--at
Montreal t'ree hundred more!"

Wabi strode across the cabin and thrust out his hand.

"Shake, Rod!"

As the two gripped hands he turned to Mukoki.

"Bear witness, Mukoki, that this young gentleman is no longer a
tenderfoot. He has shot a silver fox. He has done a whole winter's work
in one day. I take off my hat to you, Mr. Drew!"

Roderick's face reddened with a flush of pleasure.

"And that isn't all, Wabi," he said. His eyes were filled with a sudden
intense earnestness, and in the strangeness of the change Wabi forgot to
loosen the grip of his fingers about his companion's hand.

"You don't mean that you found--"

"No, I didn't find gold," anticipated Rod. "But the gold is there! I
know it. And I think I have found a clue. You remember that when you and
I examined the skeleton against the wall we saw that it clutched
something that looked like birch-bark in its hand? Well, I believe that
birch-bark holds the key to the lost mine!"

Mukoki had come beside them and stood listening to Rod, his face alive
with keen interest. In Wabi's eyes there was a look half of doubt, half
of belief.

"It might," he said slowly. "It wouldn't do any harm to see."

He stepped to the stove and took off the partly cooked steak. Rod
slipped on his coat and hat and Mukoki seized his belt-ax and the
shovel. No words were spoken, but there was a mutual understanding that
the investigation was to precede dinner. Wabi was silent and thoughtful
and Rod could see that his suggestion had at least made a deep
impression upon him. Mukoki's eyes began to gleam again with the old
fire with which he had searched the cabin for gold.

The skeletons were buried only a few inches deep in the frozen earth in
the edge of the cedar forest, and Mukoki soon exposed them to view.
Almost the first object that met their eyes was the skeleton hand
clutching its roll of birch-bark. It was Rod who dropped upon his knees
to the gruesome task.

With a shudder at the touch of the cold bones he broke the fingers back.
One of them snapped with a sharp sound, and as he rose with the bark in
his hand his face was bloodlessly white. The bones were covered again
and the three returned to the cabin.

Still silent, they gathered about the table. With age the bark of the
birch hardens and rolls itself tightly, and the piece Rod held was
almost like thin steel. Inch by inch it was spread out, cracking and
snapping in brittle protest. The hunters could see that the bark was in
a single unbroken strip about ten inches long by six in width. Two
inches, three, four were unrolled--and still the smooth surface was
blank. Another half-inch, and the bark refused to unroll farther.

"Careful!" whispered Wabi.

With the point of his knife he loosened the cohesion.

"I guess--there's--nothing--" began Rod.

Even as he spoke he caught his breath. A mark had appeared on the bark,
a black, meaningless mark with a line running down from it into the
scroll.

Another fraction of an inch and the line was joined by a second, and
then with an unexpectedness that was startling the remainder of the roll
released itself like a spring--and to the eyes of the three wolf hunters
was revealed the secret of the skeleton hand.

Spread out before them was a map, or at least what they at once accepted
as a map, though in reality it was more of a crude diagram of straight
and crooked lines, with here and there a partly obliterated word to give
it meaning. In several places there were mere evidences of words, now
entirely illegible. But what first held the attention of Rod and his
companions were several lines in writing under the rough sketch on the
bark, still quite plain, which formed the names of three men. Roderick
read them aloud.

"John Ball, Henri Langlois, Peter Plante."

Through the name of John Ball had been drawn a broad black line which
had almost destroyed the letters, and at the end of this line, in
brackets, was printed a word in French which Wabi quickly translated.

"Dead!" he breathed. "The Frenchmen killed him!"

The words shot from him in hot excitement.

Rod did not reply. Slowly he drew a trembling finger over the map. The
first word he encountered was unintelligible. Of the next he could only
make out one letter, which gave him no clue. Evidently the map had been
made with a different and less durable substance than that with which
the names had been written. He followed down the first straight black
line, and where this formed a junction with a wider crooked line were
two words quite distinct:

"Second waterfall."

Half an inch below this Rod could make out the letters T, D and L,
widely scattered.

"That's the third waterfall," he exclaimed eagerly.

At this point the crude lines of the diagram stopped, and immediately
below, between the map and the three names, it was evident that there
had been considerable writing. But not a word of it could the young
hunters make out. That writing, without doubt, had given the key to the
lost gold. Rod looked up, his face betraying the keenness of his
disappointment. He knew that under his hand he held all that was left of
the secret of a great treasure. But he was more baffled than ever.
Somewhere in this vast desolation there were three waterfalls, and
somewhere near the third waterfall the Englishman and the two Frenchmen
had found their gold. That was all he knew. He had not found a waterfall
in the chasm; they had not discovered one in all their trapping and
hunting excursions.

Wabi was looking down into his face in silent thought. Suddenly he
reached out and seized the sheet of bark and examined it closely. As he
looked there came a deeper flush in his face, his eyes brightened and he
gave a cry of excitement.

"By George, I believe we can peel this!" he cried. "See here, Muky!" He
thrust the birch under the old Indian's eyes. Even Mukoki's hands were
trembling.

"Birch-bark is made up of a good many layers, each as thin as the
thinnest paper," he explained to Rod as Mukoki continued his
examination. "If we can peel off that first layer, and then hold it up
to the light, we shall be able to see the impression of every word that
was ever made on it--even though they were written a hundred years ago!"

Mukoki had gone to the door, and now he turned, grinning exultantly.

"She peel!"

He showed them where he had stripped back a corner of the film-like
layer. Then he sat down in the light, his head bent over, and for many
minutes he worked at his tedious task while Wabi and Rod hung back in
soundless suspense. Half an hour later Mukoki straightened himself, rose
to his feet and held out the precious film to Rod.

As tenderly as though his own life depended upon its care, Rod held the
piece of birch, now a silken, almost transparent sheet, between himself
and the light. A cry welled up into his throat. It was repeated by Wabi.
And then there was silence--a silence broken only by their bated breaths
and the excited thumpings of their hearts.

As though they had been written but yesterday, the mysterious words on
the map were disclosed to their eyes. Where Rod had made out only three
letters there were now plainly discernible the two words "third
waterfall," and very near to these was the word "cabin." Below them were
several lines, clearly impressed in the birch film. Slowly, his voice
trembling, Rod read them to his companions.

"We, John Ball, Henri Langlois, and Peter Plante, having discovered gold
at this fall, do hereby agree to joint partnership in the same, and do
pledge ourselves to forget our past differences and work in mutual good
will and honesty, so help us God. Signed,

"JOHN BALL, HENRI LANGLOIS, PETER PLANTE."

At the very top of the map the impression of several other words caught
Rod's eyes. They were more indistinct than any of the others, but one by
one he made them out. A hot blurring film seemed to fall over his eyes
and he felt as though his heart had suddenly come up into his throat.
Wabi's breath was burning against his cheek, and it was Wabi who spoke
the words aloud.

"Cabin and head of chasm."

Rod went back to the table and sat down, the precious bit of birch-bark
under his hand. Mukoki, standing mute, had listened and heard, and was
as if stunned by their discovery. But now his mind returned to the moose
steak, and he placed it on the stove. Wabi stood with his hands in his
pockets, and after a little he laughed a trembling, happy laugh.

"Well, Rod, you've found your mine. You are as good as rich!"

"You mean that we have found our mine," corrected the white youth. "We
are three, and we just naturally fill the places of John Ball, Henri
Langlois and Peter Plante. They are all dead. The gold is ours!"

Wabi had taken up the map.

"I can't see the slightest possibility of our not finding it," he said.
"The directions are as plain as day. We follow the chasm, and somewhere
in that chasm we come to a waterfall. A little beyond this the creek
that runs through the gorge empties into a larger stream, and we follow
this second creek or river until we come to the third fall. The cabin is
there, and the gold can not be far away."

He had carried the map to the door again, and Rod joined him.

"There is nothing that gives us an idea of distance on the map," he
continued. "How far did you travel down the chasm?"

"Ten miles, at least," replied Rod.

"And you discovered no fall?"

"No."

With a splinter picked up from the floor Wabi measured the distances
between the different points on the diagram.

"There is no doubt but what this map was drawn by John Ball," he said
after a few moments of silent contemplation. "Everything points to that
fact. Notice that all of the writing is in one hand, except the
signatures of Langlois and Plante, and you could hardly decipher the
letters in those signatures if you did not already know their names from
this writing below. Ball wrote a good hand, and from the construction of
the agreement over the signatures he was a man of pretty fair education.
Don't you think so? Well, he must have drawn this map with some idea of
distance in his mind. The second fall is only half as far from the first
fall as the third fall is from the second, which seems to me conclusive
evidence of this. If he had not had distance in mind he would not have
separated the falls in this way on the map."

"Then if we can find the first fall we can figure pretty nearly how far
the last fall is from the head of the chasm," said Rod.

"Yes. I believe the distance from here to the first fall will give us a
key to the whole thing."

Rod had produced a pencil from one of his pockets and was figuring on
the smooth side of a chip.

"The gold is a long way from here at the best, Wabi. I explored the
chasm for ten miles. Say that we find the first fall within fifteen
miles. Then, according to the map, the second fall would be about twenty
miles from the first, and the third forty miles from the second. If the
first fall is within fifteen miles of this cabin the third fall is at
least seventy-five miles away."

Wabi nodded.

"But we may not find the first fall within that distance," he said. "By
George--" He stopped and looked at Rod with an odd look of doubt in his
face. "If the gold is seventy-five or a hundred miles away, why were
those men here, and with only a handful of nuggets in their possession?
Is it possible that the gold played out--that they found only what was
in the buckskin bag?"

"If that were so, why should they have fought to the death for the
possession of the map?" argued Rod.

Mukoki was turning the steak. He had not spoken, but now he said:

"Mebby going to Post for supplies."

"That's exactly what they were doing!" shouted the Indian youth. "Muky,
you have solved the whole problem. They were going for supplies. And
they didn't fight for the map--not for the map alone!"

His face flushed with new excitement.

"Perhaps I am wrong, but it all seems clear to me now," he continued.
"Ball and the two Frenchmen worked their find until they ran out of
supplies. Wabinosh House is over a hundred years old, and fifty years
ago that was the nearest point where they could get more. In some way it
fell to the Frenchmen to go. They had probably accumulated a hoard of
gold, and before they left they murdered Ball. They brought with them
only enough gold to pay for their supplies, for it was their purpose not
to arouse the suspicion of any adventurers who happened to be at the
Post. They could easily have explained their possession of those few
nuggets. In this cabin either Langlois or Plante tried to kill his
companion, and thus become the sole possessor of the treasure, and the
fight, fatal to both, ensued. I may be wrong, but--by George, I believe
that is what happened!"

"And that they buried the bulk of their gold somewhere back near the
third fall?"

"Yes; or else they brought the gold here and buried it somewhere near
this very cabin!"

They were interrupted by Mukoki.

"Dinner ready!" he called.



CHAPTER XIII

SNOWED IN


Until the present moment Rod had forgotten to speak of the mysterious
man-trail he had encountered in the chasm. The excitement of the past
hour had made him oblivious to all other things, but now as they ate
their dinner he described the strange maneuvers of the spying Woonga. He
did not, however, voice those fears which had come to him in the gorge,
preferring to allow Mukoki and Wabigoon to draw their own conclusions.
By this time the two Indians were satisfied that the Woongas were not
contemplating attack, but that for some unaccountable reason they were
as anxious to evade the hunters as the hunters were to evade them.
Everything that had passed seemed to give evidence of this. The outlaw
in the chasm, for instance, could easily have waylaid Rod; a dozen times
the almost defenseless camp could have been attacked, and there were
innumerable places where ambushes might have been laid for them along
the trap-lines.

So Rod's experience with the Woonga trail between the mountains
occasioned little uneasiness, and instead of forming a scheme for the
further investigation of this trail on the south, plans were made for
locating the first fall. Mukoki was the swiftest and most tireless
traveler on snow-shoes, and it was he who volunteered to make the first
search. He would leave the following morning, taking with him a supply
of food, and during his absence Rod and Wabigoon would attend to the
traps.

"We must have the location of the first fall before we return to the
Post," declared Wabi. "If from that we find that the third fall is not
within a hundred miles of our present camp it will be impossible for us
to go in search of our gold during this trip. In that event we shall
have to go back to Wabinosh House and form a new expedition, with fresh
supplies and the proper kind of tools. We can not do anything until the
spring freshets are over, anyway."

"I have been thinking of that," replied Rod, his eyes softening. "You
know mother is alone, and--her--"

"I understand," interrupted the Indian boy, laying a hand fondly across
his companion's arm.

"--her funds are small, you know," Rod finished. "If she has been
sick--or--anything like that--"

"Yes, we've got to get back with our furs," helped Wabi, a tremor of
tenderness in his own voice. "And if you don't mind, Rod, I might take a
little run down to Detroit with you. Do you suppose she would care?"

"Care!" shouted Rod, bringing his free hand down upon Wabi's arm with a
force that hurt. "Care! Why, she thinks as much of you as she does of
me, Wabi! She'd be tickled to death! Do you mean it?"

Wabi's bronzed face flushed a deeper red at his friend's enthusiasm.

"I won't promise--for sure," he said. "But I'd like to see her--almost
as much as you, I guess. If I can, I'll go."

Rod's face was suffused with a joyful glow.

"And I'll come back with you early in the summer and we'll start out for
the gold," he cried. He jumped to his feet and slapped Mukoki on the
back in the happy turn his mind had taken. "Will you come, too, Mukoki?
I'll give you the biggest 'city time' you ever had in your life!"

The old Indian grinned and chuckled and grunted, but did not reply in
words. Wabi laughed, and answered for him.

"He is too anxious to become Minnetaki's slave again, Rod. No, Muky
won't go, I'll wager that. He will stay at the Post to see that she
doesn't get lost, or hurt, or stolen by the Woongas. Eh, Mukoki?" Mukoki
nodded, grinning good-humoredly. He went to the door, opened it and
looked out.

"Devil--she snow!" he cried. "She snow like twent' t'ousand--like
devil!"

This was the strongest English in the old warrior's vocabulary, and it
meant something more than usual. Wabi and Rod quickly joined him. Never
in his life had the city youth seen a snow-storm like that which he now
gazed out into. The great north storm had arrived--a storm which comes
just once each year in the endless Arctic desolation. For days and weeks
the Indians had expected it and wondered at its lateness. It fell
softly, silently, without a breath of air to stir it; a smothering,
voiceless sea of white, impenetrable to human vision, so thick that it
seemed as though it might stifle one's breath. Rod held out the palm of
his hand and in an instant it was covered with a film of white. He
walked out into it, and a dozen yards away he became a ghostly, almost
invisible shadow.

When he came back a minute later he brought a load of snow into the
cabin with him.

All that afternoon the snow fell like this, and all that night the storm
continued. When he awoke in the morning Rod heard the wind whistling and
howling through the trees and around the ends of the cabin. He rose and
built the fire while the others were still sleeping. He attempted to
open the door, but it was blocked. He lowered the barricade at the
window, and a barrel of snow tumbled in about his feet. He could see no
sign of day, and when he turned he saw Wabi sitting up in his blankets,
laughing silently at his wonder and consternation.

"What in the world--" he gasped.

"We're snowed in," grinned Wabi. "Does the stove smoke?"

"No," replied Rod, throwing a bewildered glance at the roaring fire.
"You don't mean to say--"

"Then we are not completely, buried," interrupted the other. "At least
the top of the chimney is sticking out!"

Mukoki sat up and stretched himself.

"She blow," he said, as a tremendous howl of wind swept over the cabin.
"Bime-by she blow some more!"

Rod shoveled the snow into a corner and replaced the barricade while his
companions dressed.

"This means a week's work digging out traps," declared Wabi. "And only
Mukoki's Great Spirit, who sends all blessings to this country, knows
when the blizzard is going to stop. It may last a week. There is no
chance of finding our waterfall in this."

"We can play dominoes," suggested Rod cheerfully. "You remember we
haven't finished that series we began at the Post. But you don't expect
me to believe that it snowed enough yesterday afternoon and last night
to cover this cabin, do you?"

"It didn't exactly _snow_ enough to cover it," explained his comrade.
"But we're covered for all of that. The cabin is on the edge of an open,
and of course the snow just naturally drifts around us, blown there by
the wind. If this blizzard keeps up we shall be under a small mountain
by night."

"Won't it--smother us?" faltered Rod.

Wabi gave a joyous whoop of merriment at the city-bred youth's
half-expressed fear and a volley of Mukoki's chuckles came from where he
was slicing moose-steak on the table.

"Snow mighty nice thing live under," he asserted with emphasis.

"If you were under a mountain of snow you could live, if you weren't
crushed to death," said Wabi. "Snow is filled with air. Mukoki was
caught under a snow-slide once and was buried under thirty feet for ten
hours. He had made a nest about as big as a barrel and was nice and
comfortable when we dug him out. We won't have to burn much wood to keep
warm now."

After breakfast the boys again lowered the barricade at the window and
Wabi began to bring small avalanches of snow down into the cabin with
his shovel. At the third or fourth upward thrust a huge mass plunged
through the window, burying them to the waist, and when they looked out
they could see the light of day and the whirling blizzard above their
heads.

"It's up to the roof," gasped Rod. "Great Scott, what a snow-storm!"

"Now for some fun!" cried the Indian youth. "Come on, Rod, if you want
to be in it."

He crawled through the window into the cavity he had made in the drift,
and Rod followed. Wabi waited, a mischievous smile on his face, and no
sooner had his companion joined him than he plunged his shovel deep into
the base of the drift. Half a dozen quick thrusts and there tumbled down
upon their heads a mass of light snow that for a few moments completely
buried them. The suddenness of it knocked Rod to his knees, where he
floundered, gasped and made a vain effort to yell. Struggling like a
fish he first kicked his feet free, and Wabi, who had thrust out his
head and shoulders, shrieked with laughter as he saw only Rod's boots
sticking out of the snow.

"You're going the wrong way, Rod!" he shouted. "Wow--wow!"

He seized his companion's legs and helped to drag him out, and then
stood shaking, the tears streaming down his face, and continued to laugh
until he leaned back in the drift, half exhausted. Rod was a curious and
ludicrous-looking object. His eyes were wide and blinking; the snow was
in his ears, his mouth, and in his floundering he had packed his coat
collar full of it. Slowly he recovered from his astonishment, saw Wabi
and Mukoki quivering with laughter, grinned--and then joined them in
their merriment.

It was not difficult now for the boys to force their way through the
drift and they were soon standing waist-deep in the snow twenty yards
from the cabin.

"The snow is only about four feet deep in the open," said Wabi. "But
look at that!"

He turned and gazed at the cabin, or rather at the small part of it
which still rose triumphant above the huge drift which had almost
completely buried it. Only a little of the roof, with the smoking
chimney rising out of it, was to be seen. Rod now turned in all
directions to survey the wild scene about him. There had come a brief
lull in the blizzard, and his vision extended beyond the lake and to the
hilltop. There was not a spot of black to meet his eyes; every rock was
hidden; the trees hung silent and lifeless under their heavy mantles and
even their trunks were beaten white with the clinging volleys of the
storm. There came to him then a thought of the wild things in this
seemingly uninhabitable desolation. How could they live in this endless
desert of snow? What could they find to eat? Where could they find water
to drink? He asked Wabi these questions after they had returned to the
cabin.

"Just now, if you traveled from here to the end of this storm zone you
wouldn't find a living four-legged creature," said Wabigoon. "Every
moose in this country, every deer and caribou, every fox and wolf, is
buried in the snow. And as the snow falls deeper about them the warmer
and more comfortable do they become, so that even as the blizzard
increases in fury the kind Creator makes it easier for them to bear.
When the storm ceases the wilderness will awaken into life again. The
moose and deer and caribou will rise from their snow-beds and begin to
eat the boughs of trees and saplings; a crust will have formed on the
snow, and all the smaller animals, like foxes, lynx and wolves, will
begin to travel again, and to prey upon others for food. Until they find
running water again snow and ice take the place of liquid drink; warm
caverns dug in the snow give refuge in place of thick swamp moss and
brush and leaves. All the big animals, like moose, deer and caribou,
will soon make 'yards' for themselves by trampling down large areas of
snow, and in these yards they will gather in big herds, eating their way
through the forests, fighting the wolves and waiting for spring. Oh,
life isn't altogether bad for the animals in a deep winter like this!"

Until noon the hunters were busy cleaning away the snow from the cabin
door. As the day advanced the blizzard increased in its fury, until,
with the approach of night, it became impossible for the hunters to
expose themselves to it. For three days the storm continued with only
intermittent lulls, but with the dawn of the fourth day the sky was
again cloudless, and the sun rose with a blinding effulgence. Rod now
found himself suffering from that sure affliction of every tenderfoot in
the far North--snow-blindness. For only a few minutes at a time could he
stand the dazzling reflections of the snow-waste where nothing but
white, flashing, scintillating white, seemingly a vast sea of burning
electric points in the sunlight, met his aching eyes. On the second day
after the storm, while Wabi was still inuring Rod to the changed world
and teaching him how to accustom his eyes to it gradually, Mukoki left
the cabin to follow the chasm in his search for the first waterfall.

That same day Wabi began his work of digging out and resetting the
traps, but it was not until the day following that Rod's eyes would
allow him to assist. The task was a most difficult one; rocks and other
landmarks were completely hidden, and the lost traps averaged one out of
four. It was not until the end of the second day after Mukoki's
departure that the young hunters finished the mountain trap-line, and
when they turned their faces toward camp just at the beginning of dusk
it was with the expectant hope that they would find the old Indian
awaiting them. But Mukoki had not returned. The next day came and
passed, and a fourth dawned without his arrival. Hope now gave way to
fear. In three days Mukoki could travel nearly a hundred miles. Was it
possible that something had happened to him? Many times there recurred
to Rod a thought of the Woonga in the chasm. Had the mysterious spy, or
some of his people, waylaid and killed him?

Neither of the hunters had a desire to leave camp during the fourth day.
Trapping was exceptionally good now on account of the scarcity of animal
food and since the big storm they had captured a wolf, two lynx, a red
fox and eight mink. But as Mukoki's absence lengthened their enthusiasm
grew less.

In the afternoon, as they were watching, they saw a figure climb wearily
to the summit of the hill.

It was Mukoki.

With shouts of greeting both youths hurried through the snow toward him,
not taking time to strap on their snow-shoes. The old Indian was at
their side a couple of minutes later. He smiled in a tired good-natured
way, and answered the eagerness in their eyes with a nod of his head.

"Found fall. Fift' mile down mountain."

Once in the cabin he dropped into a chair, exhausted, and both Rod and
Wabigoon joined in relieving him of his boots and outer garments. It was
evident that Mukoki had been traveling hard, for only once or twice
before in his life had Wabi seen him so completely fatigued. Quickly the
young Indian had a huge steak broiling over the fire, and Rod put an
extra handful of coffee in the pot.

"Fifty miles!" ejaculated Wabi for the twentieth time. "It was an awful
jaunt, wasn't it, Muky?"

"Rough--rough like devil th'ough mountains," replied Mukoki. "Not like
that!" He swung an arm in the direction of the chasm.

Rod stood silent, open-eyed with wonder. Was it possible that the old
warrior had discovered a wilder country than that through which he had
passed in the chasm?

"She little fall," went on Mukoki, brightening as the odor of coffee and
meat filled his nostrils. "No bigger than--that!" He pointed to the roof
of the cabin.

Rod was figuring on the table. Soon he looked up.

"According to Mukoki and the map we are at least two hundred and fifty
miles from the third fall," he said.

Mukoki shrugged his shoulders and his face was crinkled in a suggestive
grimace.

"Hudson Bay," he grunted.

Wabi turned from his steak in sudden astonishment.

"Doesn't the chasm continue east?" he almost shouted.

"No. She turn--straight north."

Rod could not understand the change that came over Wabi's face.

"Boys," he said finally, "if that is the case I can tell you where the
gold is. If the stream in the chasm turns northward it is bound for just
one place--the Albany River, and the Albany River empties into James
Bay! The third waterfall, where our treasure in gold is waiting for us,
is in the very heart of the wildest and most savage wilderness in North
America. It is safe. No other man has ever found it. But to get it means
one of the longest and most adventurous expeditions we ever planned in
all our lives!"

"Hurrah!" shouted Rod. "Hurrah--"

He had leaped to his feet, forgetful of everything but that their gold
was safe, and that their search for it would lead them even to the last
fastnesses of the snow-bound and romantic North.

"Next spring, Wabi!" He held out his hand and the two boys joined their
pledge in a hearty grip.

"Next spring!" reiterated Wabi.

"And we go in canoe," joined Mukoki. "Creek grow bigger. We make
birch-bark canoe at first fall."

"That is better still," added Wabi. "It will be a glorious trip! We'll
take a little vacation at the third fall and run up to James Bay."

"James Bay is practically the same as Hudson Bay, isn't it?" asked Rod.

"Yes. I could never see a good reason for calling it James Bay. It is in
reality the lower end, or tail, of Hudson Bay."

There was no thought of visiting any of the traps that day, and the next
morning Mukoki insisted upon going with Rod, in spite of his four days
of hard travel. If he remained in camp his joints would get stiff, he
said, and Wabigoon thought he was right. This left the young Indian to
care for the trap-line leading into the north.

Two weeks of ideal trapping weather now followed. It had been more than
two months since the hunters had left Wabinosh House, and Rod now began
to count the days before they would turn back over the homeward trail.
Wabi had estimated that they had sixteen hundred dollars' worth of furs
and scalps and two hundred dollars in gold, and the white youth was
satisfied to return to his mother with his share of six hundred dollars,
which was as much as he would have earned in a year at his old position
in the city. Neither did he attempt to conceal from Wabi his desire to
see Minnetaki; and his Indian friend, thoroughly pleased at Rod's liking
for his sister, took much pleasure in frequent good-natured banter on
the subject. In fact, Rod possessed a secret hope that he might induce
the princess mother to allow her daughter to accompany himself and Wabi
to Detroit, where he knew that his own mother would immediately fall in
love with the beautiful little maiden from the North.

In the third week after the great storm Rod and Mukoki had gone over the
mountain trap-line, leaving Wabi in camp. They had decided that the
following week would see them headed for Wabinosh House, where they
would arrive about the first of February, and Roderick was in high
spirits.

On this day they had started toward camp early in the afternoon, and
soon after they had passed through the swamp Rod expressed his intention
of ascending the ridge, hoping to get a shot at game somewhere along the
mountain trail home. Mukoki, however, decided not to accompany him, but
to take the nearer and easier route.

On the top of the mountain Rod paused to take a survey of the country
about him. He could see Mukoki, now hardly more than a moving speck on
the edge of the plain; northward the same fascinating, never-ending
wilderness rolled away under his eyes; eastward, two miles away, he saw
a moving object which he knew was a moose or a caribou; and westward--

Instinctively his eyes sought the location of their camp. Instantly the
expectant light went out of his face. He gave an involuntary cry of
horror, and there followed it a single, unheard shriek for Mukoki.

Over the spot where he knew their camp to be now rose a huge volume of
smoke. The sky was black with it, and in the terrible moment that
followed his piercing cry for Mukoki he fancied that he heard the sound
of rifle-shots.

"Mukoki! Mukoki!" he shouted.

The old Indian was beyond hearing. Quickly it occurred to Rod that early
in their trip they had arranged rifle signals for calling help--two
quick shots, and then, after a moment's interval, three others in rapid
succession.

He threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired into the air; once,
twice--and then three times as fast as he could press the trigger.

As he watched Mukoki he reloaded. He saw the Indian pause, turn about
and look back toward the mountain.

Again the thrilling signals for help went echoing over the plains. In a
few seconds the sounds had reached Mukoki's ears and the old warrior
came swinging back at running speed.

Rod darted along the ridge to meet him, firing a single shot now and
then to let him know where he was, and in fifteen minutes Mukoki came
panting up the mountain.

"The Woongas!" shouted Rod. "They've attacked the camp! See!" He pointed
to the cloud of smoke. "I heard shots--I heard shots--"

For an instant the grim pathfinder gazed in the direction of the burning
camp, and then without a word he started at terrific speed down the
mountain.

The half-hour race that followed was one of the most exciting
experiences of Rod's life. How he kept up with Mukoki was more than he
ever could explain afterward. But from the time they struck the old
trail he was close at the Indian's heels. When they reached the hill
that sheltered the dip his face was scratched and bleeding from contact
with swinging bushes; his heart seemed ready to burst from its
tremendous exertion; his breath came in an audible hissing, rattling
sound, and he could not speak. But up the hill he plunged behind Mukoki,
his rifle cocked and ready. At the top they paused.

The camp was a smoldering mass of ruins. Not a sign of life was about
it. But--

With a gasping, wordless cry Rod caught Mukoki's arm and pointed to an
object lying in the snow a dozen yards from where the cabin had been.
The warrior had seen it. He turned one look upon the white youth, and it
was a look that Rod had never thought could come into the face of a
human being. If that was Wabi down there--if Wabi had been killed--what
would Mukoki's vengeance be! His companion was no longer Mukoki--as he
had known him; he was the savage. There was no mercy, no human instinct,
no suggestion of the human soul in that one terrible look. If it was
Wabi--

They plunged down the hill, into the dip, across the lake, and Mukoki
was on his knees beside the figure in the snow. He turned it over--and
rose without a sound, his battle-glaring eyes peering into the smoking
ruins.

Rod looked, and shuddered.

The figure in the snow was not Wabi.

It was a strange, terrible-looking object--a giant Indian, distorted in
death--and a half of his head was shot away!

When he again looked at Mukoki the old Indian was in the midst of the
hot ruins, kicking about with his booted feet and poking with the butt
of his rifle.



CHAPTER XIV

THE RESCUE OF WABIGOON


Rod had sunk into the snow close to the dead man. His endurance was gone
and he was as weak as a child. He watched every movement Mukoki made;
saw every start, every glance, and became almost sick with fear whenever
the warrior bent down to examine some object.

Was Wabi dead--and burned in those ruins?

Foot by foot Mukoki searched. His feet became hot; the smell of burning
leather filled his nostrils; glowing coals burned through to his feet.
But the old Indian was beyond pain. Only two things filled his soul. One
of these was love for Minnetaki; the other was love for Wabigoon. And
there was only one other thing that could take the place of these, and
that was merciless, undying, savage passion--passion at any wrong or
injury that might be done to them. The Woongas had sneaked upon Wabi. He
knew that. They had caught him unaware, like cowards; and perhaps he was
dead--and in those ruins!

He searched until his feet were scorched and burned in a score of
places, and then he came out, smoke-blackened, but with some of the
terrible look gone out of his face.

"He no there!" he said, speaking for the first time.

Again he crouched beside the dead man, and grimaced at Rod with a
triumphant, gloating chuckle.

"Much dead!" he grinned.

In a moment the grimace had gone from his face, and while Rod still
rested he continued his examination of the camp. Close around it the
snow was beaten down with human tracks. Mukoki saw where the outlaws had
stolen up behind the cabin from the forest and he saw where they had
gone away after the attack.

Five had come down from the cedars, only four had gone away!

Where was Wabi?

If he had been captured, and taken with the Indians, there would have
been five trails. Rod understood this as well as Mukoki, and he also
understood why his companion went back to make another investigation of
the smoldering ruins. This second search, however, convinced the Indian
that Wabi's body had not been thrown into the fire. There was only one
conclusion to draw. The youth had made a desperate fight, had killed one
of the outlaws, and after being wounded in the conflict had been carried
off bodily. Wabi and his captors could not be more than two or three
miles away. A quick pursuit would probably overtake them within an hour.

Mukoki came to Rod's side.

"Me follow--kill!" he said. "Me kill so many quick!" He pointed toward
the four trails. "You stay--"

Rod clambered to his feet.

"You mean we'll kill 'em, Muky," he broke in. "I can follow you again.
Set the pace!"

There came the click of the safety on Mukoki's rifle, and Rod, following
suit, cocked his own.

"Much quiet," whispered the Indian when they had come to the farther
side of the dip. "No noise--come up still--shoot!"

The snow-shoe trail of the outlaws turned from the dip into the timbered
bottoms to the north, and Mukoki, partly crouched, his rifle always to
the front, followed swiftly. They had not progressed a hundred yards
into the plain when the old hunter stopped, a puzzled look in his face.
He pointed to one of the snow-shoe trails which was much deeper than the
others.

"Heem carry Wabi," he spoke softly. "But--" His eyes gleamed in sudden
excitement. "They go slow! They no hurry! Walk very slow! Take much
time!"

Rod now observed for the first time that the individual tracks made by
the outlaws were much shorter than their own, showing that instead of
being in haste they were traveling quite slowly. This was a mystery
which was not easy to explain. Did the Woongas not fear pursuit? Was it
possible that they believed the hunters would not hasten to give them
battle? Or were they relying upon the strength of their numbers, or,
perhaps, planning some kind of ambush?

Mukoki's advance now became slower and more cautious. His keen eyes took
in every tree and clump of bushes ahead. Only when he could see the
trail leading straight away for a considerable distance did he hasten
the pursuit. Never for an instant did he turn his head to Rod. But
suddenly he caught sight of something that brought from him a guttural
sound of astonishment. A fifth track had joined the trail! Without
questioning Rod knew what it meant. Wabi had been lowered from the back
of his captor and was now walking. He was on snow-shoes and his strides
were quite even and of equal length with the others. Evidently he was
not badly wounded.

Half a mile ahead of them was a high hill and between them and this hill
was a dense growth of cedar, filled with tangled windfalls. It was an
ideal place for an ambush, but the old warrior did not hesitate. The
Woongas had followed a moose trail, with which they were apparently well
acquainted, and in this traveling was easy. But Rod gave an involuntary
shudder as he gazed ahead into the chaotic tangle through which it led.
At any moment he expected to hear the sharp crack of a rifle and to see
Mukoki tumble forward upon his face. Or there might be a fusillade of
shots and he himself might feel the burning sting that comes with rifle
death. At the distance from which they would shoot the outlaws could not
miss. Did not Mukoki realize this? Maddened by the thought that his
beloved Wabi was in the hands of merciless enemies, was the old
pathfinder becoming reckless?

But when he looked into his companion's face and saw the cool deadly
resolution glittering in his eyes, the youth's confidence was restored.
For some reason Mukoki knew that there would not be an ambush.

Over the moose-run the two traveled more swiftly and soon they came to
the foot of the high hill. Up this the Woongas had gone, their trail
clearly defined and unswerving in its direction. Mukoki now paused with
a warning gesture to Rod, and pointed down at one of the snow-shoe
tracks. The snow was still crumbling and falling about the edges of this
imprint.

"Ver' close!" whispered the Indian.

It was not the light of the game hunt in Mukoki's eyes now; there was a
trembling, terrible tenseness in his whispered words. He crept up the
hill with Rod so near that he could have touched him. At the summit of
that hill he dragged himself up like an animal, and then, crouching, ran
swiftly to the opposite side, his rifle within six inches of his
shoulder. In the plain below them was unfolded to their eyes a scene
which, despite his companion's warning, wrung an exclamation of dismay
from Roderick's lips.

[Illustration: The leader stopped in his snow-shoes]

Plainly visible to them in the edge of the plain were the outlaw Woongas
and their captive. They were in single file, with Wabi following the
leader, and the hunters perceived that their comrade's arms were tied
behind him.

But it was another sight that caused Rod's dismay.

From an opening beside a small lake half a mile beyond the Indians below
there rose the smoke of two camp-fires, and Mukoki and he could make out
at least a score of figures about these fires.

Within rifle-shot of them, almost within shouting distance, there was
not only the small war party that had attacked the camp, but a third of
the fighting men of the Woonga tribe! Rod understood their terrible
predicament. To attack the outlaws in an effort to rescue Wabi meant
that an overwhelming force would be upon them within a few minutes; to
allow Wabi to remain a captive meant--he shuddered at the thought of
what it might mean, for he knew of the merciless vengeance of the
Woongas upon the House of Wabinosh.

And while he was thinking of these things the faithful old warrior
beside him had already formed his plan of attack. He would die with
Wabi, gladly--a fighting, terrible slave to devotion to the last; but he
would not see Wabi die alone. A whispered word, a last look at his
rifle, and Mukoki hurried down into the plains.

At the foot of the hill he abandoned the outlaw trail and Rod realized
that his plan was to sweep swiftly in a semicircle, surprising the
Woongas from the front or side instead of approaching from the rear.
Again he was taxed to his utmost to keep pace with the avenging Mukoki.
Less than ten minutes later the Indian peered cautiously from behind a
clump of hazel, and then looked back at Rod, a smile of satisfaction on
his face.

"They come," he breathed, just loud enough to hear. "They come!"

Rod peered over his shoulder, and his heart smote mightily within him.
Unconscious of their peril the Woongas were approaching two hundred
yards away. Mukoki gazed into his companion's face and his eyes were
almost pleading as he laid a bronzed crinkled hand upon the white boy's
arm.

"You take front man--ahead of Wabi," he whispered. "I take other t'ree.
See that tree--heem birch, with bark off? Shoot heem there. You no
tremble? You no miss?"

"No," replied Rod. He gripped the red hand in his own. "I'll kill,
Mukoki. I'll kill him dead--in one shot!"

They could hear the voices of the outlaws now, and soon they saw that
Wabi's face was disfigured with blood.

Step by step, slowly and carelessly, the Woongas approached. They were
fifty yards from the marked birch now--forty--thirty--now only ten.
Roderick's rifle was at his shoulder. Already it held a deadly bead on
the breast of the leader.

Five yards more--

The outlaw passed behind the tree; he came out, and the young hunter
pressed the trigger. The leader stopped in his snow-shoes. Even before
he had crumpled down into a lifeless heap in the snow a furious volley
of shots spat forth from Mukoki's gun, and when Rod swung his own rifle
to join again in the fray he found that only one of the four was
standing, and he with his hands to his breast as he tottered about to
fall. But from some one of those who had fallen there had gone out a
wild, terrible cry, and even as Rod and Makoki rushed out to free
Wabigoon there came an answering yell from the direction of the Woonga
camp.

Mukoki's knife was in his hand by the time he reached Wabi, and with one
or two slashes he had released his hands.

"You hurt--bad?" he asked.

"No--no!" replied Wabi. "I knew you'd come, boys--dear old friends!"

As he spoke he turned to the fallen leader and Rod saw him take
possession of the rifle and revolver which he had lost in their fight
with the Woongas weeks before. Mukoki had already spied their precious
pack of furs on one of the outlaw's backs, and he flung it over his own.

"You saw the camp?" queried Wabi excitedly.

"Yes."

"They will be upon us in a minute! Which way, Mukoki?"

"The chasm!" half shouted Rod. "The chasm! If we can reach the chasm--"

"The chasm!" reiterated Wabigoon.

Mukoki had fallen behind and motioned for Wabi and Rod to take the lead.
Even now he was determined to take the brunt of danger by bringing up
the rear.

There was no time for argument and Wabigoon set off at a rapid pace.
From behind there came the click of shells as the Indian loaded his
rifle on the run. While the other two had been busy at the scene of the
ambush Rod had replaced his empty shell, and now, as he led, Wabi
examined the armament that had been stolen from them by the outlaws.

"How many shells have you got, Rod?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Forty-nine."

"There's only four left in this belt besides five in the gun," called
back the Indian youth. "Give me--some."

Without halting Rod plucked a dozen cartridges from his belt and passed
them on.

Now they had reached the hill. At its summit they paused to recover
their breath and take a look at the camp.

The fires were deserted. A quarter of a mile out on the plain they saw
half a dozen of their pursuers speeding toward the hill. The rest were
already concealed in the nearer thickets of the bottom.

"We must beat them to the chasm!" said the young Indian.

As he spoke Wabi turned and led the way again.

Rod's heart fell like a lump within him. We must beat them to the chasm!
Those words of Wabi's brought him to the terrible realization that his
own powers of endurance were rapidly ebbing. His race behind Mukoki to
the burning cabin had seemed to rob the life from the muscles of his
limbs, and each step now added to his weakness. And the chasm was a mile
beyond the dip, and the entrance into that chasm still two miles
farther. Three miles! Could he hold out?

He heard Mukoki thumping along behind him; ahead of him Wabi was
unconsciously widening the distance between them. He made a powerful
effort to close the breach, but it was futile. Then from close in his
rear there came a warning halloo from the old Indian, and Wabi turned.

"He run t'ree mile to burning cabin," said Mukoki. "He no make chasm!"

Rod was deathly white and breathing so hard that he could not speak. The
quick-witted Wabi at once realized their situation.

"There is just one thing for us to do, Muky. We must stop the Woongas at
the dip. We'll fire down upon them from the top of the hill beyond the
lake. We can drop three or four of them and they won't dare to come
straight after us then. They will think we are going to fight them from
there and will take time to sneak around us. Meanwhile we'll get a good
lead in the direction of the chasm."

He led off again, this time a little slower. Three minutes later they
entered into the dip, crossed it safely, and were already at the foot of
the hill, when from the opposite side of the hollow there came a
triumphant blood-curdling yell.

"Hurry!" shouted Wabi. "They see us!" Even as he spoke there came the
crack of a rifle.

Bzzzzzzz-inggggg!

For the first time in his life Rod heard that terrible death-song of a
bullet close to his head and saw the snow fly up a dozen feet beyond the
young Indian.

For an interval of twenty seconds there was silence; then there came
another shot, and after that three others in quick succession. Wabi
stumbled.

"Not hit!" he called, scrambling to his feet. "Confound--that rock!"

He rose to the hilltop with Rod close behind him, and from the opposite
side of the lake there came a fusillade of half a dozen shots.
Instinctively Rod dropped upon his face. And in that instant, as he lay
in the snow, he heard the sickening thud of a bullet and a sharp sudden
cry of pain from Mukoki. But the old warrior came up beside him and they
passed into the shelter of the hilltop together.

"Is it bad? Is it bad, Mukoki? Is it bad--" Wabi was almost sobbing as
he turned and threw an arm around the old Indian. "Are you hit--bad?"

Mukoki staggered, but caught himself.

"In here," he said, putting a hand to his left shoulder. "She--no--bad."
He smiled, courage gleaming with pain in his eyes, and swung off the
light pack of furs. "We give 'em--devil--here!"

Crouching, they peered over the edge of the hill. Half a dozen Woongas
had already left the cedars and were following swiftly across the open.
Others broke from the cover, and Wabi saw that a number of them were
without snow-shoes. He exultantly drew Mukoki's attention to this fact,
but the latter did not lift his eyes. In a few moments he spoke.

"Now we give 'em--devil!"

Eight pursuers on snow-shoes were in the open of the dip. Six of them
had reached the lake. Rod held his fire. He knew that it was now more
important for him to recover his wind than to fight, and he drew great
drafts of air into his lungs while his two comrades leveled their
rifles. He could fire after they were done if it was necessary.

There was slow deadly deliberation in the way Mukoki and Wabigoon
sighted along their rifle-barrels. Mukoki fired first; one shot,
two--with a second's interval between--and an outlaw half-way across the
lake pitched forward into the snow. As he fell, Wabi fired once, and
there came to their ears shriek after shriek of agony as a second
pursuer fell with a shattered leg. At the cries and shots of battle the
hot blood rushed through Rod's veins, and with an excited shout of
defiance he brought his rifle to his shoulder and in unison the three
guns sent fire and death into the dip below.

Only three of the eight Woongas remained and they had turned and were
running toward the shelter of the cedars.

"Hurrah!" shouted Rod.

In his excitement he got upon his feet and sent his fifth and last shot
after the fleeing outlaws. "Hurrah! Wow! Let's go after 'em!"

"Get down!" commanded Wabi. "Load in a hurry!"

Clink--clink--clink sounded the new shells as Mukoki and Wabigoon thrust
them into their magazines. Five seconds more and they were sending a
terrific fusillade of shots into the edge of the cedars--ten in all--and
by the time he had reloaded his own gun Rod could see nothing to shoot
at.

"That will hold them for a while," spoke Wabi. "Most of them came in too
big a hurry, and without their snow-shoes, Muky. We'll beat them to the
chasm--easy!" He put an arm around the shoulders of the old Indian, who
was still lying upon his face in the snow. "Let me see, Muky--let me
see--"

"Chasm first," replied Mukoki. "She no bad. No hit bone. No
bleed--much."

From behind Rod could see that Mukoki's coat was showing a growing
blotch of red.

"Are you sure--you can reach the chasm?"

"Yes."

In proof of his assertion the wounded Indian rose to his feet and
approached the pack of furs. Wabi was ahead of him, and placed it upon
his own shoulders.

"You and Rod lead the way," he said. "You two know where to find the
opening into the chasm. I've never been there."

Mukoki started down the hill, and Rod, close behind, could hear him
breathing heavily; there was no longer fear for himself in his soul, but
for that grim faithful warrior ahead, who would die in his tracks
without a murmur and with a smile of triumph and fearlessness on his
lips.



CHAPTER XV

RODERICK HOLDS THE WOONGAS AT BAY


They traveled more slowly now and Rod found his strength returning. When
they reached the second ridge he took Mukoki by the arm and assisted him
up, and the old Indian made no demur. This spoke more strongly of his
hurt than words. There was still no sign of their enemies behind. From
the top of the second ridge they could look back upon a quarter of a
mile of the valley below, and it was here that Rod suggested that he
remain on watch for a few minutes while Wabigoon went on with Mukoki.
The young hunters could see that the Indian was becoming weaker at every
step, and Mukoki could no longer conceal this weakness in spite of the
tremendous efforts he made to appear natural.

"I believe it is bad," whispered Wabi to Rod, his face strangely white.
"I believe it is worse than we think. He is bleeding hard. Your idea is
a good one. Watch here, and if the Woongas show up in the valley open
fire on them. I'll leave you my gun, too, so they'll think we are going
to give them another fight. That will keep them back for a time. I'm
going to stop Muky up here a little way and dress his wound. He will
bleed to death if I don't."

"And then go on," added Rod. "Don't stop if you hear me fire, but hurry
on to the chasm. I know the way and will join you. I'm as strong as I
ever was now, and can catch up with you easily with Mukoki traveling as
slowly as he does."

During this brief conversation Mukoki had continued his way along the
ridge and Wabi hurried to overtake him. Meanwhile Rod concealed himself
behind a rock, from which vantage-point he could see the whole of that
part of the valley across which they had come.

He looked at his watch and in tense anxiety counted every minute after
that. He allowed ten minutes for the dressing of Mukoki's wound. Every
second gained from then on would be priceless. For a quarter of an hour
he kept his eyes with ceaseless vigilance upon their back trail. Surely
the Woongas had secured their snow-shoes by this time! Was it possible
that they had given up the pursuit--that their terrible experience in
the dip had made them afraid of further battle? Rod answered this
question in the negative. He was sure that the Woongas knew that Wabi
was the son of the factor of Wabinosh House. Therefore they would make
every effort to recapture him, even though they had to follow far and a
dozen lives were lost before that feat was accomplished.

A movement in the snow across the valley caught Rod's eyes. He
straightened himself, and his breath came quickly. Two figures had
appeared in the open. Another followed close behind, and after that
there came others, until the waiting youth had counted sixteen. They
were all on snow-shoes, following swiftly over the trail of the
fugitives.

The young hunter looked at his watch again. Twenty-five minutes had
passed. Mukoki and Wabigoon had secured a good start. If he could only
hold the outlaws in the valley for a quarter of an hour more--just
fifteen short minutes--they would almost have reached the entrance into
the chasm.

Alone, with his own life and those of his comrades depending upon him,
the boy was cool. There was no tremble in his hands to destroy the
accuracy of his rifle-fire, no blurring excitement or fear in his brain
to trouble his judgment of distance and range. He made up his mind that
he would not fire until they had come within four hundred yards. Between
that distance and three hundred he was sure he could drop at least one
or two of them.

He measured his range by a jackpine stub, and when two of the Woongas
had reached and passed that stub he fired. He saw the snow thrown up six
feet in front of the leader. He fired again, and again, and one of the
shots, a little high, struck the second outlaw. The leader had darted
back to the shelter of the stub and Rod sent another bullet whizzing
past his ears. His fifth he turned into the main body of the pursuers,
and then, catching up Wabi's rifle, he poured a hail of five bullets
among them in as many seconds.

The effect was instantaneous. The outlaws scattered in retreat and Rod
saw that a second figure was lying motionless in the snow. He began to
reload his rifles and by the time he had finished the Woongas had
separated and were running to the right and the left of him. For the
last time he looked at his watch. Wabi and Mukoki had been gone
thirty-five minutes.

The boy crept back from his rock, straightened himself, and followed in
their trail. He mentally calculated that it would be ten minutes before
the Woongas, coming up from the sides and rear, would discover his
flight, and by that time he would have nearly a mile the start of them.
He saw, without stopping, where Wabi had dressed Mukoki's wound. There
were spots of blood and a red rag upon the snow. Half a mile farther on
the two had paused again, and this time he knew that Mukoki had stopped
to rest. From now on they had rested every quarter of a mile or so, and
soon Roderick saw them toiling slowly through the snow ahead of him.

He ran up, panting, anxious.

"How--" he began.

Wabi looked at him grimly.

"How much farther, Rod?" he asked.

"Not more than half a mile."

Wabi motioned for him to take Mukoki's other arm.

"He has bled a good deal," he said. There was a hardness in his voice
that made Rod shudder, and he caught his breath as Wabi shot him a
meaning glance behind the old warrior's doubled shoulders.

They went faster now, almost carrying their wounded comrade between
them. Suddenly, Wabi paused, threw his rifle to his shoulder, and fired.
A few yards ahead a huge white rabbit kicked in his death struggles in
the snow.

"If we do reach the chasm Mukoki must have something to eat," he said.

"We'll reach it!" gasped Rod. "We'll reach it! There's the woods. We go
down there!"

They almost ran, with Mukoki's snow-shod feet dragging between them, and
five minutes later they were carrying the half-unconscious Indian down
the steep side of the mountain. At its foot Wabi turned, and his eyes
flashed with vengeful hatred.

"Now, you devils!" he shouted up defiantly. "Now!"

Mukoki aroused himself for a few moments and Rod helped him back to the
shelter of the chasm wall. He found a nook between great masses of rock,
almost clear of snow, and left him there while he hurried back to
Wabigoon.

"You stand on guard here, Rod," said the latter. "We must cook that
rabbit and get some life back into Mukoki. I think he has stopped
bleeding, but I am going to look again. The wound isn't fatal, but it
has weakened him. If we can get something hot into him I believe he will
be able to walk again. Did you have anything left over from your dinner
on the trail to-day?"

Rod unstrapped the small pack in which the hunters carried their food
while on the trail, and which had been upon his shoulders since noon.

"There is a double handful of coffee, a cupful of tea, plenty of salt
and a little bread," he said.

"Good! Few enough supplies for three people in this kind of a
wilderness--but they'll save Mukoki!"

Wabi went back, while Rod, sheltered behind a rock, watched the narrow
incline into the chasm. He almost hoped the Woongas would dare to
attempt a descent, for he was sure that he and Wabi would have them at a
terrible disadvantage and with their revolvers and three rifles could
inflict a decisive blow upon them before they reached the bottom. But he
saw no sign of their enemies. He heard no sound from above, yet he knew
that the outlaws were very near--only waiting for the protecting
darkness of night.

He heard the crackling of Wabi's fire and the odor of coffee came to
him; and Wabi, assured that their presence was known to the Woongas,
began whistling cheerily. In a few minutes he rejoined Rod behind the
rock.

"They will attack us as soon as it gets good and dark," he said coolly.
"That is, if they can find us. As soon as they are no longer able to see
down into the chasm we will find some kind of a hiding-place. Mukoki
will be able to travel then."

A memory of the cleft in the chasm wall came to Rod and he quickly
described it to his companion. It was an ideal hiding-place at night,
and if Mukoki was strong enough they could steal up out of the chasm and
secure a long start into the south before the Woongas discovered their
flight in the morning. There was just one chance of failure. If the spy
whose trail had revealed the break in the mountain to Rod was not among
the outlaws' wounded or dead the cleft might be guarded, or the Woongas
themselves might employ it in making a descent upon them.

"It's worth the risk anyway," said Wabi. "The chances are even that your
outlaw ran across the fissure by accident and that his companions are
not aware of its existence. And they'll not follow our trail down the
chasm to-night, I'll wager. In the cover of darkness they will steal
down among the rocks and then wait for daylight. Meanwhile we can be
traveling southward and when they catch up with us we will give them
another fight if they want it."

"We can start pretty soon?"

"Within an hour."

For some time the two stood in silent watchfulness. Suddenly Rod asked:

"Where is Wolf?"

Wabi laughed, softly, exultantly.

"Gone back to his people, Rod. He will be crying in the wild hunt-pack
to-night. Good old Wolf!" The laugh left his lips and there was a
tremble of regret in his voice. "The Woongas came from the back of the
cabin--took me by surprise--and we had it hot and heavy for a few
minutes. We fell back where Wolf was tied and just as I knew they'd got
me sure I cut his babeesh with the knife I had in my hand."

"Didn't he show fight?"

"For a minute. Then one of the Indians shot, at him and he hiked off
into the woods."

"Queer they didn't wait for Mukoki and me," mused Rod. "Why didn't they
ambush us?"

"Because they didn't want you, and they were sure they'd reach their
camp before you took up the trail. I was their prize. With me in their
power they figured on communicating with you and Mukoki and sending you
back to the Post with their terms. They would have bled father to his
last cent--and then killed me. Oh, they talked pretty plainly to me when
they thought they had me!"

There came a noise from above them and the young hunters held their
rifles in readiness. Nearer and nearer came the crashing sound, until a
small boulder shot past them into the chasm.

"They're up there," grinned Wabi, lowering his gun. "That was an
accident, but you'd better keep your eyes open. I'll bet the whole tribe
feel like murdering the fellow who rolled over that stone!"

He crept cautiously back to Mukoki, and Rod crouched with his face to
the narrow trail leading down from the top of the mountain. Deep shadows
were beginning to lurk among the trees and he was determined that any
movement there would draw his fire. Fifteen minutes later Wabi returned,
eating ravenously at a big hind quarter of broiled rabbit.

"I've had my coffee," he greeted. "Go back and eat and drink, and build
the fire up high. Don't mind me when I shoot. I am going to fire just to
let the Woongas know we are on guard, and after that we'll hustle for
that break in the mountain."

Rod found Mukoki with a chunk of rabbit in one hand and a cup of coffee
in the other. The wounded Indian smiled with something like the old
light in his eyes and a mighty load was lifted from Rod's heart.

"You're better?" he asked.

"Fine!" replied Mukoki. "No much hurt. Good fight some more. Wabi say,
'No, you stay.'" His face became a map of grimaces to show his
disapproval of Wabi's command.

Rod helped himself to the meat and coffee. He was hungry, but after he
was done there remained some of the rabbit and a biscuit and these he
placed in his pack for further use. Soon after this there came two shots
from the rock and before the echoes had died away down the chasm Wabi
approached through the gathering gloom.

It was easy for the hunters to steal along the concealment of the
mountain wall, and even if there had been prying eyes on the opposite
ridge they could not have penetrated the thickening darkness in the
bottom of the gulch. For some time the flight was continued with extreme
caution, no sound being made to arouse the suspicion of any outlaw who
might be patrolling the edge of the precipice. At the end of half an
hour Mukoki, who was in the lead that he might set a pace according to
his strength, quickened his steps. Rod was close beside him now, his
eyes ceaselessly searching the chasm wall for signs that would tell him
when they were nearing the rift. Suddenly Wabi halted in his tracks and
gave a low hiss that stopped them.

"It's snowing!" he whispered.

Mukoki lifted his face. Great solitary flakes of snow fell upon it.

"She snow hard--soon. Mebby cover snow-shoe trails!"

"And if it does--we're safe!" There was a vibrant joy in Wabi's voice.

For a full minute Mukoki held his face to the sky.

"Hear small wind over chasm," he said.

"She come from south. She snow hard--now--up there!"

They went on, stirred by new hope. Rod could feel that the flakes were
coming thicker. The three now kept close to the chasm wall in their
search for the rift. How changed all things were at night! Rod's heart
throbbed now with hope, now with doubt, now with actual fear. Was it
possible that he could not find it? Had they passed it among some of the
black shadows behind? He saw no rock that he recognized, no overhanging
crag, no sign to guide him. He stopped, and his voice betrayed his
uneasiness as he asked:

"How far do you think we have come?"

Mukoki had gone a few steps ahead, and before Wabi answered he called
softly to them from close up against the chasm wall. They hurried to him
and found him standing beside the rift.

"Here!"

Wabi handed his rifle to Rod.

"I'm going up first," he announced. "If the coast is clear I'll whistle
down."

For a few moments Mukoki and Rod could hear him as he crawled up the
fissure. Then all was silent. A quarter of an hour passed, and a low
whistle came to their ears. Another ten minutes and the three stood
together at the top of the mountain, Rod and the wounded Mukoki
breathing hard from their exertions.

For a time the three sat down in the snow and waited, watched, listened;
and from Rod's heart there went up something that was almost a prayer,
for it was snowing--snowing hard, and it seemed to him that the storm
was something which God had specially directed should fall in their path
that it might shield them and bring them safely home.

And when he rose to his feet Wabi was still silent, and the three
gripped hands in mute thankfulness at their deliverance.

Still speechless, they turned instinctively for a moment back to the
dark desolation beyond the chasm--the great, white wilderness in which
they had passed so many adventurous yet happy weeks; and as they gazed
into the chaos beyond the second mountain there came to them the lonely,
wailing howl of a wolf.

"I wonder," said Wabi softly. "I wonder--if that--is Wolf?"

And then, Indian file, they trailed into the south.



CHAPTER XVI

THE SURPRISE AT THE POST


From the moment that the adventurers turned their backs upon the Woonga
country Mukoki was in command. With the storm in their favor everything
else now depended upon the craft of the old pathfinder. There was
neither moon nor wind to guide them, and even Wabi felt that he was not
competent to strike a straight trail in a strange country and a night
storm. But Mukoki, still a savage in the ways of the wilderness, seemed
possessed of that mysterious sixth sense which is known as the sense of
orientation--that almost supernatural instinct which guides the carrier
pigeon as straight as a die to its home-cote hundreds of miles away.
Again and again during that thrilling night's flight Wabi or Rod would
ask the Indian where Wabinosh House lay, and he would point out its
direction to them without hesitation. And each time it seemed to the
city youth that he pointed a different way, and it proved to him how
easy it was to become hopelessly lost in the wilderness.

Not until midnight did they pause to rest. They had traveled slowly but
steadily and Wabi figured that they had covered fifteen miles. Five
miles behind them their trail was completely obliterated by the falling
snow. Morning would betray to the Woongas no sign of the direction taken
by the fugitives.

"They will believe that we have struck directly westward for the Post,"
said Wabi. "To-morrow night we'll be fifty miles apart."

During this stop a small fire was built behind a fallen log and the
hunters refreshed themselves with a pot of strong coffee and what little
remained of the rabbit and biscuits. The march was then resumed.

It seemed to Rod that they had climbed an interminable number of ridges
and had picked their way through an interminable number of swampy
bottoms between them, and he, even more than Mukoki, was relieved when
they struck the easier traveling of open plains. In fact, Mukoki seemed
scarcely to give a thought to his wound and Roderick was almost ready to
drop in his tracks by the time a halt was called an hour before dawn.
The old warrior was confident that they were now well out of danger and
a rousing camp-fire was built in the shelter of a thick growth of
spruce.

"Spruce partridge in mornin'," affirmed Mukoki. "Plenty here for
breakfast."

"How do you know?" asked Rod, whose hunger was ravenous.

"Fine thick spruce, all in shelter of dip," explained the Indian. "Birds
winter here."

Wabi had unpacked the furs, and the larger of these, including six lynx
and three especially fine wolf skins, he divided into three piles.

"They'll make mighty comfortable beds if you keep close enough to the
fire," he explained. "Get a few spruce boughs, Rod, and cover them over
with one of the wolf skins. The two lynx pelts will make the warmest
blankets you ever had."

Rod quickly availed himself of this idea, and within half an hour he was
sleeping soundly. Mukoki and Wabigoon, more inured to the hardships of
the wilderness, took only brief snatches of slumber, one or both
awakening now and then to replenish the fire. As soon as it was light
enough the two Indians went quietly out into the spruce with their guns,
and their shots a little later awakened Rod. When they returned they
brought three partridges with them.

"There are dozens of them among the spruce," said Wabi, "but just now we
do not want to shoot any oftener than is absolutely necessary. Have you
noticed our last night's trail?"

Rod rubbed his eyes, thus confessing that as yet he had not been out
from between his furs.

"Well, if you go out there in the open for a hundred yards you won't
find it," finished his comrade. "The snow has covered it completely."

Although they lacked everything but meat, this breakfast in the spruce
thicket was one of the happiest of the entire trip, and when the three
hunters were done each had eaten of his partridge until only the bones
were left. There was now little cause for fear, for it was still snowing
and their enemies were twenty-five miles to the north of them. This fact
did not deter the adventurers from securing an early start, however, and
they traveled southward through the storm until noon, when they built a
camp of spruce and made preparations to rest until the following day.

"We must be somewhere near the Kenogami trail," Wabi remarked to Mukoki.
"We may have passed it."

"No pass it," replied Mukoki. "She off there." He pointed to the south.

"You see the Kenogami trail is a sled trail leading from the little town
of Nipigon, on the railroad, to Kenogami House, which is a Hudson Bay
Post at the upper end of Long Lake," explained Wabi to his white
companion. "The factor of Kenogami is a great friend of ours and we have
visited back and forth often, but I've been over the Kenogami trail only
once. Mukoki has traveled it many times."

Several rabbits were killed before dinner. No other hunting was done
during the afternoon, most of which was passed in sleep by the exhausted
adventurers. When Rod awoke he found that it had stopped snowing and was
nearly dark.

Mukoki's wound was beginning to trouble him again, and it was decided
that at least a part of the next day should be passed in camp, and that
both Rod and Wabigoon should make an effort to kill some animal that
would furnish them with the proper kind of oil to dress it with, the fat
of almost any species of animal except mink or rabbit being valuable for
this purpose. With dawn the two started out, while Mukoki, much against
his will, was induced to remain in camp. A short distance away the
hunters separated, Rod striking to the eastward and Wabi into the south.

For an hour Roderick continued without seeing game, though there were
plenty of signs of deer and caribou about him. At last he determined to
strike for a ridge a mile to the south, from the top of which he was
more likely to get a shot than in the thick growth of the plains. He had
not traversed more than a half of the distance when much to his surprise
he came upon a well-beaten trail running slightly diagonally with his
own, almost due north. Two dog-teams had passed since yesterday's storm,
and on either side of the sleds were the snow-shoe trails of men. Rod
saw that there were three of these, and at least a dozen dogs in the two
teams. It at once occurred to him that this was the Kenogami trail, and
impelled by nothing more than curiosity he began to follow it.

Half a mile farther on he found where the party had stopped to cook a
meal. The remains of their camp-fire lay beside a huge log, which was
partly burned away, and about it were scattered bones and bits of bread.
But what most attracted Rod's attention were other tracks which joined
those of the three people on snow-shoes. He was sure that these tracks
had been made by women, for the footprints made by one of them were
unusually small. Close to the log he found a single impression in the
snow that caused his heart to give a sudden unexpected thump within him.
In this spot the snow had been packed by one of the snow-shoes, and in
this comparatively hard surface the footprint was clearly defined. It
had been made by a moccasin. Rod knew that. And the moccasin wore a
slight heel! He remembered, now, that thrilling day in the forest near
Wabinosh House when he had stopped to look at Minnetaki's footprints in
the soft earth through which she had been driven by her Woonga
abductors, and he remembered, too, that she was the only person at the
Post who wore heels on her moccasins. It was a queer coincidence! Could
Minnetaki have been here? Had she made that footprint in the snow?
Impossible, declared the young hunter's better sense. And yet his blood
ran a little faster as he touched the delicate impression with his bare
fingers. It reminded him of Minnetaki, anyway; her foot would have made
just such a trail, and he wondered if the girl who had stepped there was
as pretty as she.

He followed now a little faster than before, and ten minutes later he
came to where a dozen snow-shoe trails had come in from the north and
had joined the three. After meeting, the two parties had evidently
joined forces and had departed over the trail made by those who had
appeared from the direction of the Post.

"Friends from Kenogami House came down to meet them," mused Rod, and as
he turned back in the direction of the camp he formed a picture of that
meeting in the heart of the wilderness, of the glad embraces of husband
and wife, and the joy of the pretty girl with the tiny feet as she
kissed her father, and perhaps her big brother; for no girl could
possess feet just like Minnetaki's and not be pretty!

He found that Wabi had preceded him when he returned. The young Indian
had shot a small doe, and that noon witnessed a feast in camp. For his
lack of luck Rod had his story to tell of the people on the trail. The
passing of this party formed the chief topic of conversation during the
rest of the day, for after weeks of isolation in the wilderness even
this momentary nearness of living civilized men and women was a great
event to them. But there was one fact which Rod dwelt but slightly upon.
He did not emphasize the similarity of the pretty footprint and that
made by Minnetaki's moccasin, for he knew that a betrayal of his
knowledge and admiration of the Indian maiden's feet would furnish Wabi
with fun-making ammunition for a week. He did say, however, that the
footprint in the snow struck him as being just about the size that
Minnetaki would make.

All that day and night the hunters remained in camp, sleeping, eating
and taking care of Mukoki's wound, but the next morning saw them ready
for their homeward journey with the coming of dawn. They struck due
westward now, satisfied that they were well beyond the range of the
outlaw Woongas.

As the boys talked over their adventure on the long journey back toward
the Post, Wabi thought with regret of the moose head which he had left
buried in the "Indian ice-box," and even wished, for a moment, to go
home by the northern trail, despite the danger from the hostile Woongas,
in order to recover the valuable antlers. But Mukoki shook his head.

"Woonga make good fight. What for go again into wolf trap?"

And so they reluctantly gave up the notion of carrying the big head of
the bull moose back to the Post.

A little before noon of the second day they saw Lake Nipigon from the
top of a hill. Columbus when he first stepped upon the shore of his
newly discovered land was not a whit happier than Roderick Drew when
that joyous youth, running out upon the snow-covered ice, attempted to
turn a somersault with his snow-shoes on!

Just over there, thought Rod--just over there--a hundred miles or so, is
Minnetaki and the Post! Happy visions filled his mind all that afternoon
as they traveled across the foot of the lake. Three weeks more and he
would see his mother--and home. And Wabi was going with him! He seemed
tireless; his spirits were never exhausted; he laughed, whistled, even
attempted to sing. He wondered if Minnetaki would be very glad to see
him. He knew that she would be glad--but how glad?

Two days more were spent in circling the lower end of the lake. Then
their trail turned northward, and on the second evening after this, as
the cold red sun was sinking in all that heatless glory of the great
North's day-end, they came out upon a forest-clad ridge and looked down
upon the House of Wabinosh.

And as they looked--and as the burning disk of the sun, falling down and
down behind forest, mountain and plain, bade its last adieu to the land
of the wild, there came to them, strangely clear and beautiful, the
notes of a bugle.

And Wabi, listening, grew rigid with wonder. As the last notes died away
the cheers that had been close to his lips gave way to the question,
"What does that mean?"

"A bugle!" said Rod.

As he spoke there came to their ears the heavy, reverberating boom of a
big gun.

"If I'm not mistaken," he added, "that is a sunset salute. I didn't know
you had--soldiers--at the Post!"

"We haven't," replied the Indian youth. "By George, what do you suppose
it means?"

He hurried down the ridge, the others close behind him. Fifteen minutes
later they trailed out into the open near the Post. A strange change had
occurred since Rod and his companions had last seen Wabinosh House. In
the open half a dozen rude log shelters had been erected, and about
these were scores of soldiers in the uniform of his Majesty, the King of
England. Shouts of greeting died on the hunters' lips. They hastened to
the dwelling of the factor, and while Wabi rushed in to meet his mother
and father Rod cut across to the Company's store. He had often found
Minnetaki there. But his present hope was shattered, and after looking
in he turned back to the house. By the time he had reached the steps a
second time the princess mother, with Wabi close behind her, came out to
welcome him.

Wabi's face was flushed with excitement. His eyes sparkled.

"Rod, what do you think!" he exclaimed, after his mother had gone back
to see to the preparation of their supper. "The government has declared
war on the Woongas and has sent up a company of regulars to wipe 'em out!
They have been murdering and robbing as never before during the last two
months. The regulars start after them to-morrow!"

He was breathing hard and excitedly.

"Can't you stay--and join in the campaign?" he pleaded.

"I can't," replied Rod. "I can't, Wabi; I've got to go home. You know
that. And you're going with me. The regulars can get along without you.
Go back to Detroit with me--and get your mother to let Minnetaki go with
us."

"Not now, Rod," said the Indian youth, taking his friend's hand. "I
won't be able to go--now. Nor Minnetaki either. They have been having
such desperate times here that father has sent her away. He wanted
mother to go, but she wouldn't."

"Sent Minnetaki away?" gasped Rod.

"Yes. She started for Kenogami House four days ago in company with an
Indian woman and three guides. That was undoubtedly their trail you
found."

"And the footprint--"

"Was hers," laughed Wabi, putting an arm affectionately around his
chum's shoulders. "Won't you stay, Rod?"

"It is impossible."

He went to his old room, and until suppertime sat alone in silent
dejection. Two great disappointments had fallen upon him. Wabi could not
go home with him--and he had missed Minnetaki. The young girl had left a
note in her mother's care for him, and he read it again and again. She
had written it believing that she would return to Wabinosh House before
the hunters, but at the end she had added a paragraph in which she said
that if she did not do this Rod must make the Post a second visit very
soon, and bring his mother with him.

At supper the princess mother several times pressed Minnetaki's
invitation upon the young hunter. She read to him parts of certain
letters which she had received from Mrs. Drew during the winter, and Rod
was overjoyed to find that his mother was not only in good health, but
that she had given her promise to visit Wabinosh House the following
summer. Wabi broke all table etiquette by giving vent to a warlike whoop
of joy at this announcement, and once more Rod's spirits rose high above
his temporary disappointments.

That night the furs were appraised and purchased by the factor for his
Company, and Rod's share, including his third of the gold, was nearly
seven hundred dollars. The next morning the bi-monthly sled party, was
leaving for civilization, and he prepared to go with it, after writing a
long letter to Minnetaki, which was to be carried to her by the faithful
Mukoki. Most of that night Wabi and his friend sat up and talked, and
made plans. It was believed that the campaign against the Woongas would
be a short and decisive one. By spring all trouble would be over.

"And you'll come back as soon as you can?" pleaded Wabi for the
hundredth time. "You'll come back by the time the ice breaks up?"

"If I am alive!" pledged the city youth.

"And you'll bring your mother?"

"She has promised."

"And then--for the gold!"

"For the gold!"

Wabi held out his hand and the two gripped heartily.

"And Minnetaki will be here then--I swear it!" said the Indian youth,
laughing.

Rod blushed.

And that night alone he slipped quietly out into the still, white night;
and he looked, longingly, far into the southeast where he had found the
footprint in the snow; and he turned to the north, and the east, and the
west, and lastly to the south, and his eyes seemed to travel through the
distance of a thousand miles to where a home and a mother lay sleeping
in a great city. And as he turned back to the House of Wabinosh, where
all the lights were out, he spoke softly to himself:

"It's home--to-morrow!"

And then he added:

"But you bet I'll be back by the time the ice breaks up!"

THE END







End of Project Gutenberg's The Wolf Hunters, by James Oliver Curwood