“Now is our time,” he said.  “Come on—­still—­and on this side of the tree!”

He slipped down, foot by foot, assisting Rod as he did so, and when both had reached the ground he bent over as before, that the other might get upon his back.

“I can make it alone, Wabi,” whispered the wounded boy.  “Give me a lift on the arm, will you?”

With the Indian’s arm about his waist, the two set off into the tamaracks.  Fifteen minutes later they came to the bank of a small frozen river.  On the opposite side of this, a hundred yards down, was a sight which both, as if by a common impulse, welcomed with a glad cry.  Close to the shore, sheltered by a dense growth of spruce, was a bright camp-fire.  In response to Wabi’s far-reaching whoop a shadowy figure appeared in the glow and returned the shout.

“Mukoki!” cried the Indian.

“Mukoki!” laughed Rod, happy that the end was near.

Even as he spoke he swayed dizzily, and Wabi dropped his gun that he might keep his companion from falling into the snow.

CHAPTER II

HOW WABIGOON BECAME A WHITE MAN

Had the young hunters the power of looking into the future, their camp-fire that night on the frozen Ombabika might have been one of their last, and a few days later would have seen them back on the edges of civilization.  Possibly, could they have foreseen the happy culmination of the adventures that lay before them, they would still have gone on, for the love of excitement is strong in the heart of robust youth.  But this power of discernment was denied them, and only in after years, with the loved ones of their own firesides close about them, was the whole picture revealed.  And in those days, when they would gather with their families about the roaring logs of winter and live over again their early youth, they knew that all the gold in the world would not induce them to part with their memories of the life that had gone before.

A little less than thirty years previous to the time of which we write, a young man named John Newsome left the great city of London for the New World.  Fate had played a hard game with young Newsome—­had first robbed him of both parents, and then in a single fitful turn of her wheel deprived him of what little property he had inherited.  A little later he came to Montreal, and being a youth of good education and considerable ambition, he easily secured a position and worked himself into the confidence of his employers, obtaining an appointment as factor at Wabinosh House, a Post deep in the wilderness of Lake Nipigon.