Foot by foot he drew himself out from among the tangle of dogs.  He reached the sledge, and his fingers gripped convulsively at the cold steel of his rifle.  One more chance!  One more chance!  The words—­the thought—­filled his brain, and he raised the rifle to his shoulder, pointing its muzzle up to the sky so that he would not harm the dogs.  And then, once, twice, five times he fired into the air, and at the end of the fifth shot he drew fresh cartridges from his belt, and fired again and again, until the black streak far out in the wilderness of ice and snow stopped in its progress—­and turned back.  And still the sharp signals rang out again and again, until the barrel of Wabi’s rifle grew hot, and his cartridge belt was empty.

Slowly the gloom cleared away before his eyes.  He heard a shout, and staggered to his feet, stretching out his arms and calling a name as the dog mail stopped half a hundred yards from his own team.

With something between a yell of joy and a cry of astonishment a youth of about Wabi’s age sprang from the second sleigh and ran to the Indian boy, catching him in his arms as for a second time, he sank fainting upon the snow.

“Wabi—­what’s the matter?” he cried.  “Are you hurt?  Are you—­”

For a moment Wabigoon struggled to overcome his weakness.

“Rod—­” he whispered, “Rod—­Minnetaki—­”

His lips ceased to move and he sank heavily in his companion’s arms.

“What is it, Wabi?  Quick!  Speak!” urged the other.  His face had grown strangely white, his voice trembled.  “What about—­Minnetaki?”

Again the Indian youth fought to bring himself back to life.  His words came faintly,

“Minnetaki—­has been captured—­by—­the—­Woongas!”

Then even his breath seemed to stop, and he lay like one dead.

CHAPTER II

MINNETAKI IN THE HANDS OF THE OUTLAWS

For a brief time Roderick believed that life had indeed passed from the body of his young friend.  So still did Wabi lie and so terrifying was the strange pallor in his face that the white boy found himself calling on his comrade in a voice filled with choking sobs.  The driver of the dog mail dropped on his knees beside the two young hunters.  Running his hand under Wabi’s thick shirt he held it there for an instant, and said, “He’s alive!”

Quickly drawing a small metal flask from one of his pockets he unscrewed the top, and placing the mouthpiece to the Indian youth’s lips forced a bit of its contents down his throat.  The liquor had almost immediate effect, and Wabigoon opened his eyes, gazed into the rough visage of the courier, then closed them again.  There was relief in the courier’s face as he pointed to the dogs from Wabinosh House.  The exhausted animals were lying stretched upon the snow, their heads drooping between their forefeet.  Even the presence of a rival team failed to arouse them from their lethargy.  One might have thought that death had overtaken them upon the trail were it not for their panting sides and lolling tongues.