The half-hour race that followed was one of the most exciting experiences of Rod’s life.  How he kept up with Mukoki was more than he ever could explain afterward.  But from the time they struck the old trail he was close at the Indian’s heels.  When they reached the hill that sheltered the dip his face was scratched and bleeding from contact with swinging bushes; his heart seemed ready to burst from its tremendous exertion; his breath came in an audible hissing, rattling sound, and he could not speak.  But up the hill he plunged behind Mukoki, his rifle cocked and ready.  At the top they paused.

The camp was a smoldering mass of ruins.  Not a sign of life was about it.  But—­

With a gasping, wordless cry Rod caught Mukoki’s arm and pointed to an object lying in the snow a dozen yards from where the cabin had been.  The warrior had seen it.  He turned one look upon the white youth, and it was a look that Rod had never thought could come into the face of a human being.  If that was Wabi down there—­if Wabi had been killed—­what would Mukoki’s vengeance be!  His companion was no longer Mukoki—­as he had known him; he was the savage.  There was no mercy, no human instinct, no suggestion of the human soul in that one terrible look.  If it was Wabi—­

They plunged down the hill, into the dip, across the lake, and Mukoki was on his knees beside the figure in the snow.  He turned it over—­and rose without a sound, his battle-glaring eyes peering into the smoking ruins.

Rod looked, and shuddered.

The figure in the snow was not Wabi.

It was a strange, terrible-looking object—­a giant Indian, distorted in death—­and a half of his head was shot away!

When he again looked at Mukoki the old Indian was in the midst of the hot ruins, kicking about with his booted feet and poking with the butt of his rifle.

CHAPTER XIV

THE RESCUE OF WABIGOON

Rod had sunk into the snow close to the dead man.  His endurance was gone and he was as weak as a child.  He watched every movement Mukoki made; saw every start, every glance, and became almost sick with fear whenever the warrior bent down to examine some object.

Was Wabi dead—­and burned in those ruins?

Foot by foot Mukoki searched.  His feet became hot; the smell of burning leather filled his nostrils; glowing coals burned through to his feet.  But the old Indian was beyond pain.  Only two things filled his soul.  One of these was love for Minnetaki; the other was love for Wabigoon.  And there was only one other thing that could take the place of these, and that was merciless, undying, savage passion—­passion at any wrong or injury that might be done to them.  The Woongas had sneaked upon Wabi.  He knew that.  They had caught him unaware, like cowards; and perhaps he was dead—­and in those ruins!

He searched until his feet were scorched and burned in a score of places, and then he came out, smoke-blackened, but with some of the terrible look gone out of his face.