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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.
There was once a tribe in the country of Mukoki's fore-fathers, along the Makoki River, which empties into the Albany, whose men were great thieves, and who stole from one another. No man's snare was safe from his neighbor, fights and killings were of almost daily occurrence, and the chief of the tribe was the greatest thief of all, and of course escaped punishment.
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.
There was no uneasiness in Mukoki's manner now. His eyes gleamed, but it was with the fire of battle and resolution, not with excitement. Once before Rod had seen that look in the old warrior's face, when they two had fought to save Wabigoon's life as they were now about to fight to save Minnetaki. And he knew what it meant.
Wasn't that Mukoki's whistle?" As he paused Mukoki came running around the end of the rock. "See fun!" he cried softly. "Quick see heem quick!" He turned and darted toward the precipitous edge of the ridge, closely followed by the two boys. "Cari-boo-oo!" he whispered excitedly as they came up beside him. "Cari-boo-oo making big play!" He pointed down into the snowy wilderness.
With a chuckle of pleasure Mukoki jumped to his feet and ran out to where the ribs of the doe were slowly broiling over the fire. They were already done to a rich brown and their dripping juice filled the nostrils with an appetizing odor. By the time Wabi had applied Mukoki's prescription to his comrade's wounds, and had done them up in bandages, the tempting feast was spread before them.
He knew that he was the only one of the three who fully realized the horror of their situation. Mukoki's mind, simple in its reasoning of things that did not belong to the wilderness, had accepted the assurances and explanations of Rod and Wabigoon. Wabi, half-bred in the wild, felt alarm only in the sense of physical peril. It was different with the white youth.
Golden bullets and cries and Mukoki's superstitions are going to be worse than Woongas if we don't watch out!" "But the whole thing is as plain as day!" declared Rod in astonishment. "A man shot at the bear, and the same man shot at Mukoki, and he fired gold each time. Surely " "It's not the man part of it," interrupted the other. "It's the cry. There, Mukoki has his pack ready.
Rod was quivering with the old, thrilling excitement that had first come to him in the cabin where they had found the skeletons and the buckskin bag with its precious nuggets, and Mukoki's face was a study. The thin, long fingers which held the two pieces of the gold bullet trembled, which was an unusual symptom in the old pathfinder.
"It weighs an ounce," he declared. "Twenty dollars' worth of gold!" gasped Rod, as if he lacked breath to express himself. "Who in the wide world is shooting twenty dollar bullets at bear?" he cried more excitedly, repeating Mukoki's question of a minute before. He, too, weighed the yellow pellets in his hand. The puzzled look had gone out of Mukoki's face.
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