Neither did he attempt to conceal from Wabi his desire to see Minnetaki; and his Indian friend, thoroughly pleased at Rod’s liking for his sister, took much pleasure in frequent good-natured banter on the subject.  In fact, Rod possessed a secret hope that he might induce the princess mother to allow her daughter to accompany himself and Wabi to Detroit, where he knew that his own mother would immediately fall in love with the beautiful little maiden from the North.

In the third week after the great storm Rod and Mukoki had gone over the mountain trap-line, leaving Wabi in camp.  They had decided that the following week would see them headed for Wabinosh House, where they would arrive about the first of February, and Roderick was in high spirits.

On this day they had started toward camp early in the afternoon, and soon after they had passed through the swamp Rod expressed his intention of ascending the ridge, hoping to get a shot at game somewhere along the mountain trail home.  Mukoki, however, decided not to accompany him, but to take the nearer and easier route.

On the top of the mountain Rod paused to take a survey of the country about him.  He could see Mukoki, now hardly more than a moving speck on the edge of the plain; northward the same fascinating, never-ending wilderness rolled away under his eyes; eastward, two miles away, he saw a moving object which he knew was a moose or a caribou; and westward—­

Instinctively his eyes sought the location of their camp.  Instantly the expectant light went out of his face.  He gave an involuntary cry of horror, and there followed it a single, unheard shriek for Mukoki.

Over the spot where he knew their camp to be now rose a huge volume of smoke.  The sky was black with it, and in the terrible moment that followed his piercing cry for Mukoki he fancied that he heard the sound of rifle-shots.

“Mukoki!  Mukoki!” he shouted.

The old Indian was beyond hearing.  Quickly it occurred to Rod that early in their trip they had arranged rifle signals for calling help—­two quick shots, and then, after a moment’s interval, three others in rapid succession.

He threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired into the air; once, twice—­and then three times as fast as he could press the trigger.

As he watched Mukoki he reloaded.  He saw the Indian pause, turn about and look back toward the mountain.

Again the thrilling signals for help went echoing over the plains.  In a few seconds the sounds had reached Mukoki’s ears and the old warrior came swinging back at running speed.

Rod darted along the ridge to meet him, firing a single shot now and then to let him know where he was, and in fifteen minutes Mukoki came panting up the mountain.

“The Woongas!” shouted Rod.  “They’ve attacked the camp!  See!” He pointed to the cloud of smoke.  “I heard shots—­I heard shots—­”

For an instant the grim pathfinder gazed in the direction of the burning camp, and then without a word he started at terrific speed down the mountain.