He stopped, and Mukoki drew back a step, breathing deeply.

“Heem—­starve—­no eat—­gone bad dog?” he questioned softly.  In an instant Wabi was at his side.

“That’s it, Muky—­he’s gone bad dog, just like that husky of ours who went bad because he swallowed a fish bone.  White men sometimes go bad dog when they are thirsty and starving!”

“Our Great Spirit tells us that we must never harm them,” added Rod.  “We put them in big houses, larger than all of the houses at the Post together, and feed them and clothe them and care for them all their lives.  Are you afraid of a bad dog, Muky, or of a man who has gone bad dog?”

“Bad dog bite deep—­mebby so we kill heem!”

“But we don’t kill them until we have to,” persisted the quick-witted Wabigoon, who saw the way in which Rod’s efforts were being directed.  “Didn’t we save our husky by taking the fish bone out of his throat?  We must save this bad dog, because he is a white man, like Rod.  He thinks all men are his enemies, just as a bad dog thinks all other dogs are his enemies.  So we must be careful and not give him a chance to shoot us but we mustn’t harm him!”

“It will be best if we don’t let him know we are in the chasm,” said Rod, still speaking for Mukoki’s benefit.  “He’s probably going out on the plain, and must climb up this break in, the mountain.  Let’s move our stuff a little out of his path.”

As the two boys went to the canoe their hands touched.  Wabi was startled by the coldness of his friend’s fingers.

“We’ve fixed Mukoki,” he whispered.  “He won’t shoot.  But—­”

“We may have to,” replied Rod.  “That will be up to you and me, Wabi.  We must use judgment, and unless it’s a case of life or death—­”

“Ugh!” shuddered the young Indian.

“If he doesn’t discover our presence to-night we will get out of his way to-morrow,” continued Rod.  “No fire—­no talking.  We must be as still as death!”

For some time after their outfit was concealed among the rocks Wabigoon sat with his mouth close to the old pathfinder’s ear.  Then he returned to Rod.

“Muky understands.  He has never seen or heard of a madman, and it is hard for him to comprehend.  But he knows—­now, and understands what he must do.”

“Sh-h-h-h-h!”

“What is it?”

“I thought I heard a sound!” breathed Rod.  “Did you hear it?”

“No.”

The two listened.  There was an awesome silence in the chasm now, broken only by the distant murmur of running water, a strange, chilling stillness in which the young hunters could hear the excited beating of their own hearts.  To Roderick the minutes passed like so many hours.  His ears were keyed to the highest tension of expectancy, his eyes stared into the gloom beyond them until they ached with his efforts to see.  At every instant he expected to hear again that terrible scream, this time very near, and he prepared himself to meet it.  But the seconds passed, and then the minutes, and still there came no quick running of mad footsteps, no repetition of the cry.  Had the madman turned the other way?  Was he plunging deeper into the blackness of this mysterious world of his between the mountains?