WESTERN CLASSICS: James Oliver Curwood Edition. James Oliver Curwood
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Wabi's face was disfigured with blood.
Step by step, slowly and carelessly, the Woongas approached. They were fifty yards from the marked birch now—forty—thirty—now only ten. Roderick's rifle was at his shoulder. Already it held a deadly bead on the breast of the leader.
Five yards more—
The outlaw passed behind the tree; he came out, and the young hunter pressed the trigger. The leader stopped in his snow-shoes. Even before he had crumpled down into a lifeless heap in the snow a furious volley of shots spat forth from Mukoki's gun, and when Rod swung his own rifle to join again in the fray he found that only one of the four was standing, and he with his hands to his breast as he tottered about to fall. 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. "I knew you'd come, boys—dear old friends!"
As he spoke he turned to the fallen leader and Rod saw him take possession of the rifle and revolver which he had lost in their fight with the Woongas weeks before. Mukoki had already spied their precious pack of furs on one of the outlaw's backs, and he flung it over his own.
"You saw the camp?" queried Wabi excitedly.
"Yes."
"They will be upon us in a minute! Which way, Mukoki?"
"The chasm!" half shouted Rod. "The chasm! If we can reach the chasm—"
"The chasm!" reiterated Wabigoon.
Mukoki had fallen behind and motioned for Wabi and Rod to take the lead. Even now he was determined to take the brunt of danger by bringing up the rear.
There was no time for argument and Wabigoon set off at a rapid pace. From behind there came the click of shells as the Indian loaded his rifle on the run. While the other two had been busy at the scene of the ambush Rod had replaced his empty shell, and now, as he led, Wabi examined the armament that had been stolen from them by the outlaws.
"How many shells have you got, Rod?" he asked over his shoulder.
"Forty-nine."
"There's only four left in this belt besides five in the gun," called back the Indian youth. "Give me—some."
Without halting Rod plucked a dozen cartridges from his belt and passed them on.
Now they had reached the hill. At its summit they paused to recover their breath and take a look at the camp.
The fires were deserted. A quarter of a mile out on the plain they saw half a dozen of their pursuers speeding toward the hill. The rest were already concealed in the nearer thickets of the bottom.
"We must beat them to the chasm!" said the young Indian.
As he spoke Wabi turned and led the way again.
Rod's heart fell like a lump within him. We must beat them to the chasm! Those words of Wabi's brought him to the terrible realization that his own powers of endurance were rapidly ebbing. His race behind Mukoki to the burning cabin had seemed to rob the life from the muscles of his limbs, and each step now added to his weakness. And the chasm was a mile beyond the dip, and the entrance into that chasm still two miles farther. Three miles! Could he hold out?
He heard Mukoki thumping along behind him; ahead of him Wabi was unconsciously widening the distance between them. He made a powerful effort to close the breach, but it was futile. Then from close in his rear there came a warning halloo from the old Indian, and Wabi turned.
"He run t'ree mile to burning cabin," said Mukoki. "He no make chasm!"
Rod was deathly white and breathing so hard that he could not speak. The quick-witted Wabi at once realized their situation.
"There is just one thing for us to do, Muky. We must stop the Woongas at the dip. We'll fire down upon them from the top of the hill beyond the lake. We can drop three or four of them and they won't dare to come straight after us then. They will think we are going to fight them from there and will take time to sneak around us. Meanwhile we'll get a good lead in the direction of the chasm."
He led off again, this time a little slower. Three minutes later they entered into the dip, crossed it safely, and were already at the foot of the hill, when from the opposite side of the hollow there came a triumphant blood-curdling yell.
"Hurry!" shouted Wabi. "They see us!" Even as he spoke there came the crack of a rifle.
Bzzzzzzz-inggggg!
For the first time in his life Rod heard that terrible death-song of a bullet close to his head and saw the snow fly up a dozen feet beyond the young Indian.
For an interval of twenty seconds there was silence; then there came another shot, and after that three others in quick succession. Wabi stumbled.
"Not hit!" he called, scrambling to his feet. "Confound—that rock!"
He rose to the hilltop with Rod close behind him, and from the opposite side of the lake there came a fusillade of half a dozen shots. Instinctively Rod dropped upon his face. And in that instant, as he lay in the snow, he heard the sickening thud of a bullet and a sharp sudden cry of pain from Mukoki. But the old warrior came up beside him and they passed into the shelter of the hilltop together.
"Is it bad? Is it bad, Mukoki? Is it bad—" Wabi was almost sobbing as he turned and threw an arm around the old Indian. "Are you hit—bad?"
Mukoki staggered, but caught himself.
"In here," he said, putting a hand to his left shoulder. "She—no—bad." He smiled, courage gleaming with pain in his eyes, and swung off the light pack of furs. "We give 'em—devil—here!"
Crouching, they peered over the edge of the hill. Half a dozen Woongas had already left the cedars and were following swiftly across the open. Others broke from the cover, and Wabi saw that a number of them were without snow-shoes. He exultantly drew Mukoki's attention to this fact, but the latter did not lift his eyes. In a few moments he spoke.
"Now we give 'em—devil!"
Eight pursuers on snow-shoes were in the open of the dip. Six of them had reached the lake. Rod held his fire. He knew that it was now more important for him to recover his wind than to fight, and he drew great drafts of air into his lungs while his two comrades leveled their rifles. He could fire after they were done if it was necessary.
There was slow deadly deliberation in the way Mukoki and Wabigoon sighted along their rifle-barrels. Mukoki fired first; one shot, two—with a second's interval between—and an outlaw half-way across the lake pitched forward into the snow. As he fell, Wabi fired once, and there came to their ears shriek after shriek of agony as a second pursuer fell with a shattered leg. At the cries and shots of battle the hot blood rushed through Rod's veins, and with an excited shout of defiance he brought his rifle to his shoulder and in unison the three guns sent fire and death into the dip below.
Only three of the eight Woongas remained and they had turned and were running toward the shelter of the cedars.
"Hurrah!" shouted Rod.
In his excitement he got upon his feet and sent his fifth and last shot after the fleeing outlaws. "Hurrah! Wow! Let's go after 'em!"
"Get down!" commanded Wabi. "Load in a hurry!"
Clink—clink—clink sounded the new shells as Mukoki and Wabigoon thrust them into their magazines. Five seconds more and they were sending a terrific fusillade of shots into the edge of the cedars—ten in all—and by the time he had reloaded his own gun Rod could see nothing to shoot at.
"That will hold them for a while," spoke Wabi. "Most of them came in too big a hurry, and without their snow-shoes, Muky. We'll beat them to the chasm—easy!" He put an arm around the