They followed now in the wolf trail.  A little way on Rod found part of the carcass of a rabbit with fox tracks about it.  Here Mukoki set another trap.  A little farther still they came across a fisher trail and another trap was laid.  Caribou and deer tracks crossed and recrossed the creek, but the Indian paid little attention to them.  A fourth wolf joined the pack, and a fifth, and half an hour later the trail of three other wolves cut at right angles across the one they were following and disappeared in the direction of the thickly timbered plains.  Mukoki’s face was crinkled with joy.

“Many wolf near,” he exclaimed.  “Many wolf off there ‘n’ off there ‘n’ off there.  Good place for night hunt.”

Soon the creek swung out from the ridge and cut a circuitous channel through a small swamp.  Here there were signs of wild life which set Rod’s heart thumping and his blood tingling with excitement.  In places the snow was literally packed with deer tracks.  Trails ran in every direction, the bark had been rubbed from scores of saplings, and every step gave fresh evidence of the near presence of game.  The stealth with which Mukoki now advanced was almost painful.  Every twig was pressed behind him noiselessly, and once when Rod struck his snow-shoe against the butt of a small tree the old Indian held up his hands in mock horror.  Ten minutes, fifteen—­twenty of them passed in this cautious, breathless trailing of the swamp.

Suddenly Mukoki stopped, and a hand was held out behind him warningly.  He turned his face back, and Rod knew that he saw game.  Inch by inch he crouched upon his snow-shoes, and beckoned for Rod to approach, slowly, quietly.  When the boy had come near enough he passed back his rifle, and his lips formed the almost noiseless word, “Shoot!”

Tremblingly Rod seized the gun and looked into the swamp ahead, Mukoki doubling down in front of him.  What he saw sent him for a moment into the first nervous tremor of buck fever.  Not more than a hundred yards away stood a magnificent buck browsing the tips of a clump of hazel, and just beyond him were two does.  With a powerful effort Rod steadied himself.  The buck was standing broadside, his head and neck stretched up, offering a beautiful shot at the vital spot behind his fore leg.  At this the young hunter aimed and fired.  With one spasmodic bound the animal dropped dead.

Hardly had Rod seen the effect of his shot before Mukoki was traveling swiftly toward the fallen game, unstrapping his pack as he ran.  By the time the youth reached his quarry the old Indian had produced a large whisky flask holding about a quart.  Without explanation he now proceeded to thrust his knife into the quivering animal’s throat and fill this flask with blood.  When he had finished his task he held it up with an air of unbounded satisfaction.

“Blood for wolf.  Heem like blood.  Smell um—­come make big shoot to-night.  No blood, no bait—­no wolf shoot!”