“The mad hunter!”

Wabi nodded.  Mukoki grunted and rubbed his hands.

“Gold in bullet come from here!” said the old pathfinder.  “Bad dog man ver’ swift on trail.  We hurry get canoe—­cut down tree!”

“That’s more than you’ve said in the last half-hour, and it’s a good idea!” exclaimed Wabi.  “Let’s get our stuff down here and chop this stub into firewood!  When he comes back and finds his ladder gone he’ll give a screech or two, I’ll wager, and then it will be our chance to do something with him.  Here goes!”

He started to climb the stub, and a minute or two later stood safely on the rock above.

“Slippery as a greased pole!” he called down.  “Bet you can’t make it, Rod!”

But Rod did, after a tremendous effort that left him breathless and gasping by the time Wabi stretched out a helping hand to him.  Mukoki came up more easily.  Taking only their revolvers with them the three hurried to the birch bark, and in a single load brought their possessions to the rock.  By means of ropes the packs and other contents of the canoe, and finally the canoe itself, were lowered into the chasm, and while the others looked on Mukoki seized the ax and chopped down the stub.

“There!” he grunted, as a last blow sent the tree crashing among the rocks.  “Too high for heem jump!”

“But a mighty good place for him to shoot from,” said Wabi, looking up.  “We’d better camp out of range.”

“Not until we know what we’ve struck,” cried Rod, unstrapping a pan from one of the packs.  “Boys, the first thing to do is to wash out a little of that river-bed!”

He started for the creek, with Wabi close behind him bearing a second pan.  Mukoki looked after them and chuckled softly to himself as he began making preparations for dinner.  Choosing a point where the current had swept up a small bar of pebbles and sand Wabi and Rod both set to work.  The white youth had never before panned gold, but he had been told how it was done, and there now shot through him that strange, thrilling excitement which enthralls the treasure hunter when he believes that at last he has struck pay dirt.  Scooping up a quantity of the gravel and sand he filled his pan with water, then moved it, quickly back and forth, every few moments splashing some of the “wash” or muddy water, over the side.  Thus, filling and refilling his pan with fresh water, he excitedly went through the process of “washing” everything but solid substance out of it.

With each fresh dip into the stream the water in the pan became clearer, and within fifteen minutes the three or four double handfuls of sand and gravel with which he began work dwindled down to one.  Scarcely breathing in his eagerness he watched for the yellow gleam of gold.  Once a glitter among the pebbles drew a low cry from him, but when with the point of his knife he found it to be only mica he was glad that Wabi had not heard him.  The young Indian was squatting upon the sand, with his pan turned toward a gleam of the sun that shot faintly down into the chasm.  Without raising his head he called to Rod.