bodily. Wabi and his captors could not be more than two or three
miles away. A quick pursuit would probably overtake them within an hour.

Mukoki came to Rod's side.

"Me follow--kill!" he said. "Me kill so many quick!" He pointed toward
the four trails. "You stay--"

Rod clambered to his feet.

"You mean we'll kill 'em, Muky," he broke in. "I can follow you again.
Set the pace!"

There came the click of the safety on Mukoki's rifle, and Rod, following
suit, cocked his own.

"Much quiet," whispered the Indian when they had come to the farther
side of the dip. "No noise--come up still--shoot!"

The snow-shoe trail of the outlaws turned from the dip into the timbered
bottoms to the north, and Mukoki, partly crouched, his rifle always to
the front, followed swiftly. They had not progressed a hundred yards
into the plain when the old hunter stopped, a puzzled look in his face.
He pointed to one of the snow-shoe trails which was much deeper than the
others.

"Heem carry Wabi," he spoke softly. "But--" His eyes gleamed in sudden
excitement. "They go slow! They no hurry! Walk very slow! Take much
time!"

Rod now observed for the first time that the individual tracks made by
the outlaws were much shorter than their own, showing that instead of
being in haste they were traveling quite slowly. This was a mystery
which was not easy to explain. Did the Woongas not fear pursuit? Was it
possible that they believed the hunters would not hasten to give them
battle? Or were they relying upon the strength of their numbers, or,
perhaps, planning some kind of ambush?

Mukoki's advance now became slower and more cautious. His keen eyes took
in every tree and clump of bushes ahead. Only when he could see the
trail leading straight away for a considerable distance did he hasten
the pursuit. Never for an instant did he turn his head to Rod. But
suddenly he caught sight of something that brought from him a guttural
sound of astonishment. A fifth track had joined the trail! Without
questioning Rod knew what it meant. Wabi had been lowered from the back
of his captor and was now walking. He was on snow-shoes and his strides
were quite even and of equal length with the others. Evidently he was
not badly wounded.

Half a mile ahead of them was a high hill and between them and this hill
was a dense growth of cedar, filled with tangled windfalls. It was an
ideal place for an ambush, but the old warrior did not hesitate. The
Woongas had