“The wind is toward us, Muky,” he announced.  “There’s a fine chance for a shot.  You go!  Rod and I will stay here and watch you.”

Roderick heard—­knew that Mukoki was creeping back to the camp for his rifle, but not for an instant did his spellbound eyes leave the spectacle below him.  Two other animals had joined those in the open.  He could see the sun glistening on their long antlers as they tossed their heads in their amazing antics.  Now three or four of them would dash away with the speed of the wind, as though the deadliest of enemies were close behind them.  Two or three hundred yards away they would stop with equal suddenness, whirl about in a circle, as though flight were interrupted on all sides of them, then tear back with lightning speed to rejoin the herd.  In twos and threes and fours they performed these evolutions again and again.  But there was another antic that held Rod’s eyes, and if it had not been so new and wonderful to him he would have laughed, as Wabi was doing—­silently—­behind him.  From out of the herd would suddenly dash one of the agile creatures, whirl about, jump and kick, and finally bounce up and down on all four feet, as though performing a comedy sketch in pantomime for the amusement of its companions; and when this was done it would start out in another mad flight, with others of the herd at its heels.

“They are the funniest, swiftest, and shrewdest animals in the North,” said Wabi.  “They can smell you over a mountain if the wind is right, and hear you for half a mile.  Look!”

He pointed downward over Rod’s shoulder.  Mukoki had already reached the base of the ridge and was stealing straight out in the direction of the caribou.  Rod gave a surprised gasp.

“Great Scott!  They’ll see him, won’t they?” he cried.

“Not if Mukoki knows himself,” smiled the Indian youth.  “Remember that we are looking down on things.  Everything seems clear and open to us, while in reality it’s quite thick down there.  I’ll bet Muky can’t see one hundred yards ahead of him.  He has got his bearings and will go as straight as though he was on a blazed trail; but he won’t see the caribou until he conies to the edge of the open.”

Each minute now added to Rod’s excitement.  Each of those minutes brought the old warrior nearer his game.  Seldom, thought Rod, had such a scene been unfolded to the eyes of a white boy.  The complete picture—­the playful rompings of the dumb children of the wilderness; the stealthy approach of the old Indian; every rock, every tree that was to play its part—­all were revealed to their eyes.  Not a phase in this drama in wild life escaped them.  Five minutes, ten, fifteen passed.  They could see Mukoki as he stopped and lifted a hand to test the wind.  Then he crouched, advancing foot by foot, yard by yard, so slowly that he seemed to be on his hands and knees.

“He can hear them, but he can’t see them!” breathed Wabigoon.  “See!  He places his ear to the ground!  Now he has got his bearings again—­as straight as a die!  Good old Muky!”