Suddenly the Indian youth imagined that he saw something—­an indistinct shadow that came in the snow gloom, then disappeared, and came again.  He brushed the water and snow from his eyes with one of his mittened hands and stared hard and steadily.  Once more the shadow disappeared, then came again, larger and more distinct than before.  There was no doubt now.  Whatever had startled the moose-bird was coming slowly, noiselessly.

Wabi brought his rifle to his shoulder.  Life and death hovered with his anxious, naked finger over the gun trigger.  But he was too well trained in the ways of the wilderness to fire just yet.  Yard by yard the shadow approached, and divided itself into two shadows.  Wabi could now see that they were men.  They were advancing in a cautious, crouching attitude, as though they expected to meet enemies somewhere ahead of them.  Wabi’s heart thumped with joy.  There could be no surer sign that Mukoki and Rod were still among the living, for why should the Woongas employ this caution if they had already successfully ambushed the hunters?  With the chill of a cold hand at his throat the answer flashed into Wabigoon’s brain.  His friends had been ambushed, and these two Woongas were stealing back over the trail to slay him!

Very slowly, very gently, the young Indian’s finger pressed against the trigger of his rifle.  A dozen feet more, and then—­

The shadows had stopped, and now drew together as if in consultation.  They were not more than twenty yards away, and for a moment Wabi lowered his rifle and listened hard.  He could hear the low unintelligible mutterings of their conversation.  Then there came to him a single incautious reply from one of the shadows.

“All right!”

Surely that was not the English of a Woonga!  It sounded like—­

In a flash Wabi had called softly.

“Ho, Muky—­Muky—­Rod!”

In another moment the three wolf hunters were together, silently wringing one another’s hands, the death-like pallor of Rod’s face and the tense lines in the bronzed countenances of Mukoki and Wabigoon plainly showing the tremendous strain they had been under.

“You shoot?” whispered Mukoki.

“No!” replied Wabi, his eyes widening in surprise.  “Didn’t you shoot?”

“No!”

Only the one word fell from the old Indian, but it was filled with a new warning.  Who had fired the five shots?  The hunters gazed blankly at one another, mute questioning in their eyes.  Without speaking, Mukoki pointed suggestively to the clearer channel of the river beyond the cedars.  Evidently he thought the shots had come from there.  Wabi shook his head.

“There was no trail,” he whispered.  “Nobody has crossed the river.”

“I thought they were there!” breathed Rod.  He pointed into the forest.  “But Mukoki said no.”

For a long time the three stood and listened.  Half a mile back in the forest they heard the howl of a single wolf, and Wabi flashed a curious glance into the eyes of the old Indian.