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For a long time Minnetaki had been ardently wooed by a powerful young chief named Woonga, whom she cordially detested, but upon whose favor and friendship depended the existence of her father's sway over his hunting-grounds.
Why had Woonga reached out his hands for Minnetaki? He worked to free himself of the weight that had fallen on him, stirred the fire until clouds of sparks shot high up into the gloom of the trees, and added new fuel.
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.
Did great scalp business!" Mukoki had not done chuckling to himself even when they reached camp. Scarcely ten minutes were taken in eating breakfast. Snow was already beginning to fall, and if the hunters took up their trail at once their tracks would undoubtedly be entirely obliterated by midday, which was the best possible thing that could happen for them in the Woonga country.
And how different were their plans from those of two or three days ago! Not one of them now but realized their peril. They were in an ideal hunting range, but it was evidently very near, if not actually in, the Woonga country. At any moment they might be forced to fight for their lives or abandon their camp, and perhaps they would be compelled to do both.
He bent over, seized an object, and flung it in the light of the fire. "Heap big Woonga! Kill nice fat lynx!" With a wail, half feigned, half real, Rod flung himself back upon the balsam while Wabi set up a roar that made the night echo. Mukoki's face was creased in a broad grin. "Heap big Woonga heem!" he repeated, chuckling. "Nice fat lynx shot well in face.
As a last chance we doubled up the teams and I came on alone. I left Mukoki a dozen miles back on the trail." Rod's blood had turned cold with horror at the knowledge that Minnetaki was in the clutches of Woonga himself. The terrible change in Wabi was no longer a mystery.
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.
He rose to his feet, tying the flap of his caribou skin coat about his throat. Then he unbolted and opened the door. Faintly there came to them, as if from a great distance, the wailing grief of Woonga, the dog. "You said there was death here," whispered Howland, leaning close to his shoulder. "There is one who has lived here since the last plague," replied Croisset under his breath.
"We must strike for the Woonga trail without a moment of unnecessary delay," declared Wabi. "Minutes are priceless, an hour lost or gained may mean everything!" "But the dogs " "You can take mine," interrupted the courier. "There are six of them, all good heavy fellows and not overly bushed. You can add a few of your own and I'll take what's left to drive on the mail.
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