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Wolf Hunters, The

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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. <center> <ANTIMG src="wh002.jpg" width-obs="450" height-obs="708" alt="" title="The leader stopped in his snow-shoes"> </center> 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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