WESTERN CLASSICS: James Oliver Curwood Edition. James Oliver Curwood
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warningly. He turned his face back, and Rod knew that he saw game. Inch by inch he crouched upon his snow-shoes, and beckoned for Rod to approach, slowly, quietly. When the boy had come near enough he passed back his rifle, and his lips formed the almost noiseless word, "Shoot!"
Tremblingly Rod seized the gun and looked into the swamp ahead, Mukoki doubling down in front of him. What he saw sent him for a moment into the first nervous tremor of buck fever. Not more than a hundred yards away stood a magnificent buck browsing the tips of a clump of hazel, and just beyond him were two does. With a powerful effort Rod steadied himself. The buck was standing broadside, his head and neck stretched up, offering a beautiful shot at the vital spot behind his fore leg. At this the young hunter aimed and fired. With one spasmodic bound the animal dropped dead.
Hardly had Rod seen the effect of his shot before Mukoki was traveling swiftly toward the fallen game, unstrapping his pack as he ran. By the time the youth reached his quarry the old Indian had produced a large whisky flask holding about a quart. Without explanation he now proceeded to thrust his knife into the quivering animal's throat and fill this flask with blood. When he had finished his task he held it up with an air of unbounded satisfaction.
"Blood for wolf. Heem like blood. Smell um—come make big shoot to-night. No blood, no bait—no wolf shoot!"
Mukoki no longer maintained his usual quiet, and it was evident to Rod that the Indian considered his mission for that day practically accomplished. After taking the heart, liver and one of the hind quarters of the buck Mukoki drew a long rope of babeesh from his pack, tied one end of it around the animal's neck, flung the other end over a near limb, and with his companion's assistance hoisted the carcass until it was clear of the ground.
"If somethin' happen we no come back to-night heem safe from wolf," he explained.
The two now continued through the swamp. At its farther edge the ground rose gently from the creek toward the hills, and this sloping plain was covered with huge boulders and a thin growth of large spruce and birch. Just beyond the creek was a gigantic rock which immediately caught Mukoki's attention. All sides except one were too precipitous for ascent, and even this one could not be climbed without the assistance of a sapling or two. They could see, however, that the top of the, rock was flat, and Mukoki called attention to this fact with an exultant chuckle.
"Fine place for wolf hunt!" he exclaimed. "Many wolf off there in swamp an' in hill. We call heem here. Shoot from there!" He pointed to a clump of spruce a dozen rods away.
By Rod's watch it was now nearly noon and the two sat down to eat the sandwiches they had brought with them. Only a few minutes were lost in taking up the home trail. Beyond the swamp Mukoki cut at right angles to their trap-line until he had ascended to the top of the ridge that had been on their right and which would take them very near their camp. From this ridge Rod could look about him upon a wild and rugged scene. On one side it sloped down to the plains, but on the other it fell in almost sheer walls, forming at its base five hundred feet below a narrow and gloomy chasm, through which a small stream found its way. Several times Mukoki stopped and leaned perilously close to the dizzy edge of the mountain, peering down with critical eyes, and once when he pulled himself back cautiously by means of a small sapling he explained his interest by saying:
"Plenty bear there in spring!"
But Rod was not thinking of bears. Once more his head was filled with the thought of gold. Perhaps that very chasm held the priceless secret that had died with its owners half a century ago. The dark and gloomy silence that hung between those two walls of rock, the death-like desolation, the stealthy windings of the creek—everything in that dim and mysterious world between the two mountains, unshattered by sound and impenetrable to the winter sun, seemed in his mind to link itself with the tragedy of long ago.
Did that chasm hold the secret of the dead men?
Again and again Rod found himself asking this question as he followed Mukoki, and the oftener he asked it the nearer he seemed to an answer, until at last, with a curious, thrilling certainty that set his blood tingling he caught Mukoki by the arm and pointing back, said:
"Mukoki—the gold was found between those mountains!"
CHAPTER IX
WOLF TAKES VENGEANCE UPON HIS PEOPLE
From that hour was born in Roderick Drew's breast a strange, imperishable desire. Willingly at this moment would he have given up the winter trapping to have pursued that golden ignis fatuus of all ages—the lure of gold. To him the story of the old cabin, the skeletons and the treasure of the buckskin bag was complete. Those skeletons had once been men. They had found a mine—a place where they had picked up nuggets with their fingers. And that treasure ground was somewhere near. No longer was he puzzled by the fact that they had discovered no more gold in the old log cabin. In a flash he had solved that mystery. The men had just begun to gather their treasure when they had fought. What was more logical than that? One day, two, three—and they had quarreled over division, over rights. That was the time when they were most likely to quarrel. Perhaps one had discovered the gold and had therefore claimed a larger share. Anyway, the contents of the buckskin bag represented but a few days' labor. Rod was sure of that.
Mukoki had grinned and shrugged his shoulders with an air of stupendous doubt when Rod had told him that the gold lay between the mountains, so now the youth kept his thoughts to himself. It was a silent trail home. Rod's mind was too active in its new channel, and he was too deeply absorbed in impressing upon his memory certain landmarks which they passed to ask questions; and Mukoki, with the natural taciturnity of his race, seldom found occasion to break into conversation unless spoken to first. Although his eyes were constantly on the alert, Rod could see no way in which a descent could be made into the chasm from the ridge they were on. This was a little disappointing, for he had made up his mind to explore the gloomy, sunless gulch at his first opportunity. He had no doubt that Wabi would join in the adventure. Or he might take his own time, and explore it alone. He was reasonably sure that from somewhere on the opposite ridge a descent could be made into it.
Wabi was in camp when they arrived. He had set eighteen traps and had shot two spruce partridges. The birds were already cleaned for their early supper, and a thick slice of venison steak was added to the menu. During the preparation of the meal Rod described their discovery of the chasm and revealed some of his thoughts concerning it, but Wabi betrayed only passing flashes of interest. At times he seemed strangely preoccupied and would stand in an idle, contemplative mood, his hands buried deep in his pockets, while Rod or Mukoki proceeded with the little duties about the table or the stove. Finally, after arousing himself from one of these momentary spells, he pulled a brass shell from his pocket and held it out to the old Indian.
"See here," he said. "I don't want to stir up any false fears, or anything of that sort—but I found that on the trail to-day!"
Mukoki clutched at the shell as though it had been another newly found nugget of gold. The shell was empty. The lettering on the rim was still very distinct. He read ".35 Rem."
"Why, that's—"
"A shell from Rod's gun!"
For a few moments Rod and Mukoki stared at the young Indian in blank amazement.
"It's a .35 caliber Remington," continued Wabi, "and it's an auto-loading shell. There are only three guns like that in this country. I've got one, Mukoki has another—and you lost the third in your fight with the Woongas!"
The venison had begun to burn, and Mukoki quickly transferred it to the table. Without a word the three sat down to their meal.
"That means the Woongas are on our trail," declared Rod presently.
"That is what I have been trying to reason out all the afternoon," replied Wabi. "It certainly is proof that they are, or have been quite recently, on this side of the mountain. But I don't believe they know we are here. The trail I struck was about five miles from camp. It was at least two days old. Three Indians on snow-shoes were traveling north.