The Collected Works of James Oliver Curwood (Illustrated Edition). James Oliver Curwood
Читать онлайн книгу.
toward camp early in the afternoon, and soon after they had passed through the swamp Rod expressed his intention of ascending the ridge, hoping to get a shot at game somewhere along the mountain trail home. Mukoki, however, decided not to accompany him, but to take the nearer and easier route.
On the top of the mountain Rod paused to take a survey of the country about him. He could see Mukoki, now hardly more than a moving speck on the edge of the plain; northward the same fascinating, never-ending wilderness rolled away under his eyes; eastward, two miles away, he saw a moving object which he knew was a moose or a caribou; and westward—
Instinctively his eyes sought the location of their camp. Instantly the expectant light went out of his face. He gave an involuntary cry of horror, and there followed it a single, unheard shriek for Mukoki.
Over the spot where he knew their camp to be now rose a huge volume of smoke. The sky was black with it, and in the terrible moment that followed his piercing cry for Mukoki he fancied that he heard the sound of rifle-shots.
"Mukoki! Mukoki!" he shouted.
The old Indian was beyond hearing. Quickly it occurred to Rod that early in their trip they had arranged rifle signals for calling help—two quick shots, and then, after a moment's interval, three others in rapid succession.
He threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired into the air; once, twice—and then three times as fast as he could press the trigger.
As he watched Mukoki he reloaded. He saw the Indian pause, turn about and look back toward the mountain.
Again the thrilling signals for help went echoing over the plains. In a few seconds the sounds had reached Mukoki's ears and the old warrior came swinging back at running speed.
Rod darted along the ridge to meet him, firing a single shot now and then to let him know where he was, and in fifteen minutes Mukoki came panting up the mountain.
"The Woongas!" shouted Rod. "They've attacked the camp! See!" He pointed to the cloud of smoke. "I heard shots—I heard shots—"
For an instant the grim pathfinder gazed in the direction of the burning camp, and then without a word he started at terrific speed down the mountain.
The half-hour race that followed was one of the most exciting experiences of Rod's life. How he kept up with Mukoki was more than he ever could explain afterward. But from the time they struck the old trail he was close at the Indian's heels. When they reached the hill that sheltered the dip his face was scratched and bleeding from contact with swinging bushes; his heart seemed ready to burst from its tremendous exertion; his breath came in an audible hissing, rattling sound, and he could not speak. But up the hill he plunged behind Mukoki, his rifle cocked and ready. At the top they paused.
The camp was a smoldering mass of ruins. Not a sign of life was about it. But—
With a gasping, wordless cry Rod caught Mukoki's arm and pointed to an object lying in the snow a dozen yards from where the cabin had been. The warrior had seen it. He turned one look upon the white youth, and it was a look that Rod had never thought could come into the face of a human being. If that was Wabi down there—if Wabi had been killed—what would Mukoki's vengeance be! His companion was no longer Mukoki—as he had known him; he was the savage. There was no mercy, no human instinct, no suggestion of the human soul in that one terrible look. If it was Wabi—
They plunged down the hill, into the dip, across the lake, and Mukoki was on his knees beside the figure in the snow. He turned it over—and rose without a sound, his battle-glaring eyes peering into the smoking ruins.
Rod looked, and shuddered.
The figure in the snow was not Wabi.
It was a strange, terrible-looking object—a giant Indian, distorted in death—and a half of his head was shot away!
When he again looked at Mukoki the old Indian was in the midst of the hot ruins, kicking about with his booted feet and poking with the butt of his rifle.
CHAPTER XIV
THE RESCUE OF WABIGOON
Rod had sunk into the snow close to the dead man. His endurance was gone and he was as weak as a child. He watched every movement Mukoki made; saw every start, every glance, and became almost sick with fear whenever the warrior bent down to examine some object.
Was Wabi dead—and burned in those ruins?
Foot by foot Mukoki searched. His feet became hot; the smell of burning leather filled his nostrils; glowing coals burned through to his feet. But the old Indian was beyond pain. Only two things filled his soul. One of these was love for Minnetaki; the other was love for Wabigoon. And there was only one other thing that could take the place of these, and that was merciless, undying, savage passion—passion at any wrong or injury that might be done to them. The Woongas had sneaked upon Wabi. He knew that. They had caught him unaware, like cowards; and perhaps he was dead—and in those ruins!
He searched until his feet were scorched and burned in a score of places, and then he came out, smoke-blackened, but with some of the terrible look gone out of his face.
"He no there!" he said, speaking for the first time.
Again he crouched beside the dead man, and grimaced at Rod with a triumphant, gloating chuckle.
"Much dead!" he grinned.
In a moment the grimace had gone from his face, and while Rod still rested he continued his examination of the camp. Close around it the snow was beaten down with human tracks. Mukoki saw where the outlaws had stolen up behind the cabin from the forest and he saw where they had gone away after the attack.
Five had come down from the cedars, only four had gone away!
Where was Wabi?
If he had been captured, and taken with the Indians, there would have been five trails. Rod understood this as well as Mukoki, and he also understood why his companion went back to make another investigation of the smoldering ruins. This second search, however, convinced the Indian that Wabi's body had not been thrown into the fire. There was only one conclusion to draw. The youth had made a desperate fight, had killed one of the outlaws, and after being wounded in the conflict had been carried off bodily. Wabi and his captors could not be more than two or three miles away. A quick pursuit would probably overtake them within an hour.
Mukoki came to Rod's side.
"Me follow—kill!" he said. "Me kill so many quick!" He pointed toward the four trails. "You stay—"
Rod clambered to his feet.
"You mean we'll kill 'em, Muky," he broke in. "I can follow you again. Set the pace!"
There came the click of the safety on Mukoki's rifle, and Rod, following suit, cocked his own.
"Much quiet," whispered the Indian when they had come to the farther side of the dip. "No noise—come up still—shoot!"
The snow-shoe trail of the outlaws turned from the dip into the timbered bottoms to the north, and Mukoki, partly crouched, his rifle always to the front, followed swiftly. They had not progressed a hundred yards into the plain when the old hunter stopped, a puzzled look in his face. He pointed to one of the snow-shoe trails which was much deeper than the others.
"Heem carry Wabi," he spoke softly. "But—" His eyes gleamed in sudden excitement. "They go slow! They no hurry! Walk very slow! Take much time!"
Rod now observed for the first time that the individual tracks made by the outlaws were much shorter than their own, showing that instead of being in haste they were traveling quite slowly. This was a mystery which was not easy to explain. Did the Woongas not fear pursuit? Was it possible that they believed the hunters would not hasten to give them battle? Or were they relying upon the strength of their numbers, or, perhaps, planning some kind of ambush?
Mukoki's advance