The old Indian crept on.  In his excitement Rod clenched his hands and he seemed to live without breathing.  Would Mukoki never shoot?  Would he never shoot?  He seemed now to be within a stone’s throw of the herd.

“How far, Wabi?”

“Four hundred yards, perhaps five,” replied the Indian.  “It’s a long shot!  He can’t see them yet.”

Rod gripped his companion’s arm.

Mukoki had stopped.  Down and down he slunk, until he became only a blot in the snow.

“Now!”

There came a moment of startled silence.  In the midst of their play the animals in the open stood for a single instant paralyzed by a knowledge of impending danger, and in that instant there came to the young hunters the report of Mukoki’s rifle.

“No good!” cried Wabi.

In his excitement he leaped to his feet.  The caribou had turned and the whole eight of them were racing across the open.  Another shot, and another—­three in quick succession, and one of the fleeing animals fell, scrambled to its knees—­and plunged on again!  A fifth shot—­the last in Mukoki’s rifle!  Again the wounded animal fell, struggled to its knees—­to its forefeet—­and fell again.

“Good work!  Five hundred yards if it was a foot!” exclaimed Wabigoon with a relieved laugh.  “Fresh steak for supper, Rod!”

Mukoki came out into the open, reloading his rifle.  Quickly he moved across the wilderness playground, now crimson with blood, unsheathed his knife, and dropped upon his knees close to the throat of the slain animal.

“I’ll go down and give him a little help, Rod,” said Wabi.  “Your legs are pretty sore, and it’s a hard climb down there; so if you will keep up the fire, Mukoki and I will bring back the meat.”

During the next hour Rod busied himself with collecting firewood for the night and in practising with his snow-shoes.  He was astonished to find how swiftly and easily he could travel in them, and was satisfied that he could make twenty miles a day even as a tenderfoot.

Left to his own thoughts he found his mind recurring once more to the Woongas and Minnetaki.  Why was Wabi worried?  Inwardly he did not believe that it was a dream alone that was troubling him.  There was still some cause for fear.  Of that he was certain.  And why would not the Woongas penetrate beyond this mountain?  He had asked himself this question a score of times during the last twenty-four hours, in spite of the fact that both Mukoki and Wabigoon were quite satisfied that they were well out of the Woonga territory.

It was growing dusk when Wabi and the old Indian returned with the meat of the caribou.  No time was lost in preparing supper, for the hunters had decided that the next day’s trail would begin with dawn and probably end with darkness, which meant that they would require all the rest they could get before then.  They were all eager to begin the winter’s hunt.  That day Mukoki’s eyes had glistened at each fresh track he encountered.  Wabi and Rod were filled with enthusiasm.  Even Wolf, now and then stretching his gaunt self, would nose the air with eager suspicion, as if longing for the excitement of the tragedies in which he was to play such an important part.