WESTERN CLASSICS: James Oliver Curwood Edition. James Oliver CurwoodЧитать онлайн книгу.
shrugged his shoulders and his face was crinkled in a suggestive grimace.
"Hudson Bay," he grunted.
Wabi turned from his steak in sudden astonishment.
"Doesn't the chasm continue east?" he almost shouted.
"No. She turn—straight north."
Rod could not understand the change that came over Wabi's face.
"Boys," he said finally, "if that is the case I can tell you where the gold is. If the stream in the chasm turns northward it is bound for just one place—the Albany River, and the Albany River empties into James Bay! The third waterfall, where our treasure in gold is waiting for us, is in the very heart of the wildest and most savage wilderness in North America. It is safe. No other man has ever found it. But to get it means one of the longest and most adventurous expeditions we ever planned in all our lives!"
"Hurrah!" shouted Rod. "Hurrah—"
He had leaped to his feet, forgetful of everything but that their gold was safe, and that their search for it would lead them even to the last fastnesses of the snow-bound and romantic North.
"Next spring, Wabi!" He held out his hand and the two boys joined their pledge in a hearty grip.
"Next spring!" reiterated Wabi.
"And we go in canoe," joined Mukoki. "Creek grow bigger. We make birch-bark canoe at first fall."
"That is better still," added Wabi. "It will be a glorious trip! We'll take a little vacation at the third fall and run up to James Bay."
"James Bay is practically the same as Hudson Bay, isn't it?" asked Rod.
"Yes. I could never see a good reason for calling it James Bay. It is in reality the lower end, or tail, of Hudson Bay."
There was no thought of visiting any of the traps that day, and the next morning Mukoki insisted upon going with Rod, in spite of his four days of hard travel. If he remained in camp his joints would get stiff, he said, and Wabigoon thought he was right. This left the young Indian to care for the trap-line leading into the north.
Two weeks of ideal trapping weather now followed. It had been more than two months since the hunters had left Wabinosh House, and Rod now began to count the days before they would turn back over the homeward trail. Wabi had estimated that they had sixteen hundred dollars' worth of furs and scalps and two hundred dollars in gold, and the white youth was satisfied to return to his mother with his share of six hundred dollars, which was as much as he would have earned in a year at his old position in the city. 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.
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.