The Wolf Hunters by James Oliver Curwood (page 3)

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