WESTERN CLASSICS: James Oliver Curwood Edition. James Oliver Curwood
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Rod and the old Indian been attacked? In another instant Wabi was bounding over the trail with the speed of a deer.
CHAPTER V
MYSTERIOUS SHOTS IN THE WILDERNESS
As the Indian youth sped over the trail in the direction of the rifle-shots he flung his usual caution to the winds. His blood thrilled with the knowledge that there was not a moment to lose—that even now, in all probability, he would be too late to assist his friends. This fear was emphasized by the absolute silence which followed the five shots. Eagerly, almost prayerfully, he listened as he ran for other sounds of battle—for the report of Mukoki's revolver, or the whoops of the victors. If there had been an ambush it was all over now. Each moment added to his conviction, and as he thrust the muzzle of his gun ahead of him, his finger hovering near the trigger and his snow-blinded eyes staring ahead into the storm, something like a sob escaped his lips.
Ahead of him the stream narrowed until it almost buried itself under a mass of towering cedars. The closeness of the forest walls now added to the general gloom, intensified by the first gray pallor of the Northern dusk, which begins to fall in these regions early in the afternoon of November days. For a moment, just before plunging into the gloomy trail between the cedars, Wabi stopped and listened. He heard nothing but the beating of his own heart, which worked like a trip-hammer within his breast. The stillness was oppressive. And the longer he listened the more some invisible power seemed to hold him back. It was not fear, it was not lack of courage, but—
What was there just beyond those cedars, lurking cautiously in the snow gloom?
With instinct that was almost animal in its unreasonableness Wabi sank upon his knees. He had seen nothing, he had heard nothing; but he crouched close, until he was no larger than a waiting wolf, and there was a deadly earnestness in the manner in which he turned his rifle into the deeper gloom of those close-knit walls of forest. Something was approaching, cautiously, stealthily, and with extreme slowness. The Indian boy felt that this was so, and yet if his life had depended upon it he could not have told why. He huddled himself lower in the snow. His eyes gleamed with excitement. Minute after minute passed, and still there came no sound. Then, from far up that dusky avenue of cedars, there came the sudden startled chatter of a moose-bird. It was a warning which years of experience had taught Wabi always to respect. Perhaps a roving fox had frightened it, perhaps the bird had taken to noisy flight at the near tread of a moose, a caribou, or a deer. But—
To Wabi the soft, quick notes of the moose-bird spelled man! In an instant he was upon his feet, darting quickly into the sheltering cedars of the shore. Through these he now made his way with extreme caution, keeping close to the bank of the frozen stream. After a little he paused again and concealed himself behind the end of a fallen log. Ahead of him he could look into the snow gloom between the cedars, and whatever was coming through that gloom would have to pass within a dozen yards of him. Each moment added to his excitement. He heard the chatter of a red squirrel, much nearer than the moose-bird. Once he fancied that he heard the striking of two objects, as though a rifle barrel had accidentally come into contact with the dead limb of a tree.
Suddenly the Indian youth imagined that he saw something—an indistinct shadow that came in the snow gloom, then disappeared, and came again. He brushed the water and snow from his eyes with one of his mittened hands and stared hard and steadily. Once more the shadow disappeared, then came again, larger and more distinct than before. There was no doubt now. Whatever had startled the moose-bird was coming slowly, noiselessly.
Wabi brought his rifle to his shoulder. Life and death hovered with his anxious, naked finger over the gun trigger. But he was too well trained in the ways of the wilderness to fire just yet. Yard by yard the shadow approached, and divided itself into two shadows. Wabi could now see that they were men. They were advancing in a cautious, crouching attitude, as though they expected to meet enemies somewhere ahead of them. Wabi's heart thumped with joy. There could be no surer sign that Mukoki and Rod were still among the living, for why should the Woongas employ this caution if they had already successfully ambushed the hunters? With the chill of a cold hand at his throat the answer flashed into Wabigoon's brain. His friends had been ambushed, and these two Woongas were stealing back over the trail to slay him!
Very slowly, very gently, the young Indian's finger pressed against the trigger of his rifle. A dozen feet more, and then—
The shadows had stopped, and now drew together as if in consultation. They were not more than twenty yards away, and for a moment Wabi lowered his rifle and listened hard. He could hear the low unintelligible mutterings of their conversation. Then there came to him a single incautious reply from one of the shadows.
"All right!"
Surely that was not the English of a Woonga! It sounded like—
In a flash Wabi had called softly.
"Ho, Muky—Muky—Rod!"
In another moment the three wolf hunters were together, silently wringing one another's hands, the death-like pallor of Rod's face and the tense lines in the bronzed countenances of Mukoki and Wabigoon plainly showing the tremendous strain they had been under.
"You shoot?" whispered Mukoki.
"No!" replied Wabi, his eyes widening in surprise. "Didn't you shoot?"
"No!"
Only the one word fell from the old Indian, but it was filled with a new warning. Who had fired the five shots? The hunters gazed blankly at one another, mute questioning in their eyes. Without speaking, Mukoki pointed suggestively to the clearer channel of the river beyond the cedars. Evidently he thought the shots had come from there. Wabi shook his head.
"There was no trail," he whispered. "Nobody has crossed the river."
"I thought they were there!" breathed Rod. He pointed into the forest. "But Mukoki said no."
For a long time the three stood and listened. Half a mile back in the forest they heard the howl of a single wolf, and Wabi flashed a curious glance into the eyes of the old Indian.
"That's a man's cry," he whispered. "The wolf has struck a human trail. It isn't mine!"
"Nor ours," replied Rod.
This one long howl of the wolf was the only sound that broke the stillness of approaching night. Mukoki turned, and the others followed in his trail. A quarter of a mile farther on the stream became still narrower and plunged between great masses of rock which rose into wild and precipitous hills that were almost mountains a little way back. No longer could the hunters now follow the channel of the rushing torrent. Through a break in a gigantic wall of rock and huge boulders led the trail of Rod and Mukoki. Ten minutes more and the three had clambered to the top of the ridge where, in the lee of a great rock, the remains of a fire were still burning. Here the old Indian and his companion had struck camp and were waiting for Wabigoon when they heard the shots which they, too, believed were those of an ambush.
A comfortable shelter of balsam had already been erected against the rock, and close beside the fire, where Mukoki had dropped it at the sound of the shots, was a large piece of spitted venison. The situation was ideal for a camp and after the hard day's tramp through the snow the young wolf hunters regarded it with expressions of pleasure, in spite of the enemies whom they knew might be lurking near them. Both Wabi and Rod had accepted the place as their night's home, and were stirring up the fire, when their attention was drawn to the singular attitude of Mukoki. The old warrior stood leaning on his rifle, speechless and motionless, his eyes regarding the process of rekindling the fire with mute disapprobation. Wabi, poised on one knee, looked at him questioningly.
"No make more fire," said the old Indian, shaking his head. "No dare stay here. Go on—beyond mountain!"
Mukoki straightened himself and stretched a long arm toward the north.
"River go like much devil 'long edge of mountain," he continued. "Make heap noise through rock, then make swamp thick for cow moose—then