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Updated: September 9, 2025
Here, somewhere very near, John Ball had been murdered, and Rod almost fancied that along the sandy edge of the chasm stream they might stumble on the footprints of the men whose skeletons they had discovered in the ancient cabin. Mukoki uttered no sound as he guided the canoe ashore. Still without word, the three picked up their rifles and Wabigoon led the way along the edge of the stream.
Rod put his arms about the old man's shoulders, and the gray, shaggy head fell against him. The sobbing voice grew lower, the weight of the head greater, and after a little Rod called loudly for Mukoki and Wabigoon, for there was no longer movement or sound from the form at his feet, and he knew that something had happened to John Ball.
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.
He'll drown if we don't get him out," shouted Wabi. Rod leaped to the edge of the pool, with Mukoki between him and Wabigoon. Ready to spring into the cold depths at the first sign of the old man's gray head or struggling arms the three stood with every muscle ready for action. A second, two seconds, five seconds passed, and there was no sign of him.
"Eighteen hundred fifty-nine," mused Rod. "That was forty-nine years ago, before the great Civil War. Say " He stopped and looked hard at Wabigoon. "Did it ever strike you that John Ball might not have been murdered?" Wabi leaned forward with more than usual eagerness. "I have had a thought " he began. "What?" "That perhaps he was not killed."
Not the smallest twig broke under his moccasined feet; the movement of the smallest bird, the trembling of a bush, the scurry of a rabbit halted him, rigid, his rifle half to shoulder. And Rod and Wabigoon soon become filled with this same panic-stricken fear. What terrible dread was it that filled Mukoki's soul? Had he seen something of which he had not told them?
And with that same nameless fear always close behind him, urging him on with its terrors, he sped back over the trail that he had followed that day, nor for an instant did he stop to rest until he came to the camp-fire of Rod and Wabigoon. Usually an Indian hides his fears; he conceals them as a white man does his sins.
A few moments later the long line of dogs was speeding swiftly over the trail of the Hudson Bay mail, and beside the sled ran Wabigoon. Thus this thrilling pursuit of the dog mail had continued since early dawn. For never more than a minute or two at a time had there been a rest.
"Ugh!" shuddered the white youth. "Let's talk of something more cheerful. What a glorious fire that poplar makes!" "Mak' light more as twent' t'ous'nd candles!" agreed Mukoki. "Heem bright!" "Once upon a time, many ages ago, there was a great chief in this country," began Wabigoon, "and he had seven beautiful daughters.
"It's blowing straight toward them. Unless we are so high that our scent goes above them they won't come much nearer." Another minute and Rod nudged Wabigoon. "They're within range!" "Yes, but we won't shoot. We don't need meat." As the young Indian spoke the cow brought herself to a dead stop so suddenly that Wabi gave a delighted grunt. "Great!" he whispered.
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