As he stood on the arena of the mighty battle, Wabi would have given a great deal if Rod could have been with him.  There lay the heroic old moose, now nothing more than a skeleton.  But the magnificent head and horns still remained—­the largest head that the Indian youth, in all his wilderness life, had ever seen—­and it occurred to him that if this head could be preserved and taken back to civilization it would be worth a hundred dollars or more.  That the old bull had put up a magnificent fight was easily discernible.  Fifty feet away were the bones of a wolf, and almost under the skeleton of the moose were those of another.  The heads of both still remained, and Wabi, after taking their scalps, hurried on over the trail.

Half-way across the lake, where he had taken his last two shots, were the skeletons of two more wolves, and in the edge of the spruce forest he found another.  This animal had evidently been wounded farther back and had later been set upon by some of the pack and killed.  Half a mile deeper in the forest he came upon a spot where he had emptied five shells into the pack and here he found the bones of two more wolves.  He had seven scalps in his possession when he turned back over the home trail.

Beside the remains of the old bull Wabi paused again.  He knew that the Indians frequently preserved moose and caribou heads through the winter by keeping them frozen, and the head at his feet was a prize worth some thought.  But how could he keep it preserved until their return, months later?  He could not suspend it from the limb of a tree, as was the custom when in camp, for it would either be stolen by some passing hunter or spoiled by the first warm days of spring.  Suddenly an idea came to him.  Why could it not be preserved in what white hunters called an “Indian ice-box”?  In an instant he was acting upon this inspiration.  It was not a small task to drag the huge head to the shelter of the tamaracks, where, safely hidden from view, he made a closer examination.  The head was gnawed considerably by the wolves, but Wabi had seen worse ones skillfully repaired by the Indians at the Post.

Under a dense growth of spruce, where the rays of the sun seldom penetrated, the Indian boy set to work with his belt-ax.  For an hour and a half he worked steadily, and at the end of that time had dug a hole in the frozen earth three feet deep and four feet square.  This hole he now lined with about two inches of snow, packed as tight as he could jam it with the butt of his gun.  Then placing in the head he packed snow closely about it and afterward filled in the earth, stamping upon the hard chunks with his feet.  When all was done he concealed the signs of his work under a covering of snow, blazed two trees with his ax, and resumed his journey.

“There is thirty dollars for each of us if there’s a cent,” he mused softly, as he hurried toward the Ombabika.  “That ground won’t thaw out until June.  A moose-head and eight scalps at fifteen dollars each isn’t bad for one day’s work, Rod, old boy!”