WESTERN CLASSICS: James Oliver Curwood Edition. James Oliver Curwood
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mountain and make wide, smooth river once more. We go over mountain. Snow all night. Morning come—no trail for Woonga. We stay here—make big trail in morning. Woonga follow like devil, ver' plain to see!"
Wabi rose to his feet, his face showing the keenness of his disappointment. Since early morning he had been traveling, even running at times, and he was tired enough to risk willingly a few dangers for the sake of sleep and supper. Rod was in even worse condition, though his trail had been much shorter. For a few moments the two boys looked at each other in silence, neither attempting to conceal the lack of favor with which Mukoki's suggestion was received. But Wabi was too wise openly to oppose the old pathfinder. If Mukoki said that it was dangerous for them to remain where they were during the night—well, it was dangerous, and it would be foolish of him to dispute it. He knew Mukoki to be the greatest hunter of his tribe, a human bloodhound on the trail, and what he said was law. So with a cheerful grin at Rod, who needed all the encouragement that could be given to him, Wabi began the readjustment of the pack which he had flung from his shoulders a few minutes before.
"Mountain not ver' far. Two—t'ree mile, then camp," encouraged Mukoki. "Walk slow—have big supper."
Only a few articles had been taken from the toboggan-sled on which the hunters were dragging the greater part of their equipment into the wilderness, and Mukoki soon had these packed again. The three adventurers now took up the new trail along the top of one of those wild and picturesque ridges which both the Indians and white hunters of this great Northland call mountains. Wabigoon led, weighted under his pack, selecting the clearest road for the toboggan and clipping down obstructing saplings with his keen-edged belt-ax. A dozen feet behind him followed Mukoki, dragging the sled; and behind the sled, securely tied with a thong of babeesh, or moose-skin rope, slunk the wolf. Rod, less experienced in making a trail and burdened with a lighter pack, formed the rear of the little cavalcade.
Darkness was now falling rapidly. Though Wabigoon was not more than a dozen yards ahead, Rod could only now and then catch a fleeting vision of him through the gloom. Mukoki, doubled over in his harness, was hardly more than a blotch in the early night. Only the wolf was near enough to offer companionship to the tired and down-spirited youth. Rod's enthusiasm was not easily cooled, but just now he mentally wished that, for this one night at least, he was back at the Post, with the lovely little Minnetaki relating to him some legend of bird or beast they had encountered that day. How much pleasanter that would be! The vision of the bewitching little maiden was suddenly knocked out of his head in a most unexpected and startling way. Mukoki had paused for a moment and Rod, unconscious of the fact, continued on his journey until he tumbled in a sprawling heap over the sled, knocking Mukoki's legs completely from under him in his fall. When Wabi ran back he found Rod flattened out, face downward, and Mukoki entangled in his site harness on top of him.
In a way this accident was fortunate. Wabi, who possessed a Caucasian sense of humor, shook with merriment as he gave his assistance, and Rod, after he had dug the snow from his eyes and ears and had emptied a handful of it from his neck, joined with him.
The ridge now became narrower as the trio advanced. On one side, far down, could be heard the thunderous rush of the river, and from the direction of the sound Rod knew they were near a precipice. Great beds of boulders and broken rock, thrown there by some tumultuous upheaval of past ages, now impeded their progress, and every step was taken with extreme caution. The noise of the torrent became louder and louder as they advanced and on one side of him Rod now thought that he could distinguish a dim massive shadow towering above them, like the precipitous side of a mountain. A few steps farther and Mukoki exchanged places with Wabigoon.
"Muky has been here before," cried Wabi close up to Rod's ear. His voice was almost drowned by the tumult below. "That's where the river rushes through the mountain!"
Rod forgot his fatigue in the new excitement. Never in his wildest dreams of adventure had he foreseen an hour like this. Each step seemed to bring them nearer the edge of the vast chasm through which the river plunged, and yet not a sign of it could he see. He strained his eyes and ears, each moment expecting to hear the warning voice of the old warrior. With a suddenness that chilled him he saw the great shadow close in upon them from the opposite side, and for the first time he realized their position. On their left was the precipice—on their right the sheer wall of the mountain! How wide was the ledge along which they were traveling? His foot struck a stick under the snow. Catching it up he flung it out into space. For a single instant he paused to listen, but there came no sound of the falling object. The precipice was very near—a little chill ran up his spine. It was a sensation he had never experienced in walking the streets of a city!
Though he could not see, he knew that the ledge was now leading them up. He could hear Wabigoon straining ahead of the toboggan and he began to assist by pushing on the rear of the loaded sled. For half an hour this upward climb continued, until the sound of the river had entirely died away. No longer was the mountain on the right. Five minutes later Mukoki called a halt.
"On top mountain," he said briefly. "Camp here!"
Rod could not repress an exclamation of joy, and Wabigoon, as he threw off his harness, gave a suppressed whoop. Mukoki, who seemed tireless, began an immediate search for a site for their camp and after a short breathing-spell Rod and Wabi joined him. The spot chosen was in the shelter of a huge rock, and while Mukoki cleaned away the snow the young hunters set to work with their axes in a near growth of balsam, cutting armful after armful of the soft odorous boughs. Inside of an hour a comfortable camp was completed, with an exhilarating fire throwing its crackling flames high up into the night before it.
For the first time since leaving the abandoned camp at the other end of the ridge the hunters fully realized how famished they were, and Mukoki was at once delegated to prepare supper while Wabi and Rod searched in the darkness for their night's supply of wood. Fortunately quite near at hand they discovered several dead poplars, the best fuel in the world for a camp-fire, and by the time the venison and coffee were ready they had collected a huge pile of this, together with several good-sized backlogs.
Mukoki had spread the feast in the opening of the shelter where the heat of the fire, reflected from the face of the rock, fell upon them in genial warmth, suffusing their faces with a most comfortable glow. The heat, together with the feast, were almost overpowering in their effects, and hardly was his supper completed when Rod felt creeping over him a drowsiness which he attempted in vain to fight off a little longer. Dragging himself back in the shelter he wrapped himself in his blanket, burrowed into the mass of balsam boughs, and passed quickly into oblivion. His last intelligible vision was Mukoki piling logs upon the fire, while the flames shot up a dozen feet into the air, illumining to his drowsy eyes for an instant a wild chaos of rock, beyond which lay the mysterious and impenetrable blackness of the wilderness.
CHAPTER VI
MUKOKI DISTURBS THE ANCIENT SKELETONS
Completely exhausted, every muscle in his aching body still seeming to strain with exertion, the night was one of restless and uncomfortable dreams for Roderick Drew. While Wabi and the old Indian, veterans in wilderness hardship, slept in peace and tranquillity, the city boy found himself in the most unusual and thrilling situations from which he would extricate himself with a grunt or sharp cry, several times sitting bolt upright in his bed of balsam until he realized where he was, and that his adventures were only those of dreamland.
From one of these dreams Rod had aroused himself into drowsy wakefulness. He fancied that he had heard steps. For the tenth time he raised himself upon an elbow, stretched, rubbed his eyes, glanced at the dark, inanimate forms of his sleeping companions, and snuggled down into his balsam boughs again. A few moments later he sat bolt upright. He could have sworn that he heard real steps this time—a soft cautious crunching in the snow very near his head. Breathlessly he listened. Not a sound broke the silence except the snapping of a dying ember in the fire. Another dream! Once more he settled back, drawing his blanket closely about him. Then, for a full breath, the very beating of his heart seemed to cease.
What was that!
He