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
