“There is just one thing for us to do, Muky.  We must stop the Woongas at the dip.  We’ll fire down upon them from the top of the hill beyond the lake.  We can drop three or four of them and they won’t dare to come straight after us then.  They will think we are going to fight them from there and will take time to sneak around us.  Meanwhile we’ll get a good lead in the direction of the chasm.”

He led off again, this time a little slower.  Three minutes later they entered into the dip, crossed it safely, and were already at the foot of the hill, when from the opposite side of the hollow there came a triumphant blood-curdling yell.

“Hurry!” shouted Wabi.  “They see us!” Even as he spoke there came the crack of a rifle.

Bzzzzzzz-inggggg!

For the first time in his life Rod heard that terrible death-song of a bullet close to his head and saw the snow fly up a dozen feet beyond the young Indian.

For an interval of twenty seconds there was silence; then there came another shot, and after that three others in quick succession.  Wabi stumbled.

“Not hit!” he called, scrambling to his feet.  “Confound—­that rock!”

He rose to the hilltop with Rod close behind him, and from the opposite side of the lake there came a fusillade of half a dozen shots.  Instinctively Rod dropped upon his face.  And in that instant, as he lay in the snow, he heard the sickening thud of a bullet and a sharp sudden cry of pain from Mukoki.  But the old warrior came up beside him and they passed into the shelter of the hilltop together.

“Is it bad?  Is it bad, Mukoki?  Is it bad—­” Wabi was almost sobbing as he turned and threw an arm around the old Indian.  “Are you hit—­bad?”

Mukoki staggered, but caught himself.

“In here,” he said, putting a hand to his left shoulder.  “She—­no—­bad.”  He smiled, courage gleaming with pain in his eyes, and swung off the light pack of furs.  “We give ’em—­devil—­here!”

Crouching, they peered over the edge of the hill.  Half a dozen Woongas had already left the cedars and were following swiftly across the open.  Others broke from the cover, and Wabi saw that a number of them were without snow-shoes.  He exultantly drew Mukoki’s attention to this fact, but the latter did not lift his eyes.  In a few moments he spoke.

“Now we give ’em—­devil!”

Eight pursuers on snow-shoes were in the open of the dip.  Six of them had reached the lake.  Rod held his fire.  He knew that it was now more important for him to recover his wind than to fight, and he drew great drafts of air into his lungs while his two comrades leveled their rifles.  He could fire after they were done if it was necessary.

There was slow deadly deliberation in the way Mukoki and Wabigoon sighted along their rifle-barrels.  Mukoki fired first; one shot, two—­with a second’s interval between—­and an outlaw half-way across the lake pitched forward into the snow.  As he fell, Wabi fired once, and there came to their ears shriek after shriek of agony as a second pursuer fell with a shattered leg.  At the cries and shots of battle the hot blood rushed through Rod’s veins, and with an excited shout of defiance he brought his rifle to his shoulder and in unison the three guns sent fire and death into the dip below.