“Whole lot sick,” he explained.  “Be sick some more—­mighty sick!  Maybe vomit lots!”

“Waugh!” shrieked Wabi.  “How is that for cheerful news, Rod?” His merriment echoed far out into the night.  Suddenly he caught himself and peered suspiciously into the gloom beyond the circle of firelight.

“Do you suppose they would follow?” he asked.

A more cautious silence followed, and the Indian youth quickly related the adventures of the day to Mukoki—­how, in the heart of the forest several miles beyond the lake, they had come upon the Indian hunters, had accepted of their seemingly honest hospitality, and in the midst of their meal had suffered an attack from them.  So sudden and unexpected had been the assault that one of the Indians got away with Rod’s rifle, ammunition belt and revolver before any effort could be made to stop him.  Wabi was under the other two Indians when Rod came to his assistance, with the result that the latter was struck two heavy blows, either with a club or a gun-stock.  So tenaciously had the Indian boy clung to his own weapon that his assailants, after a brief struggle, darted into the dense underbrush, evidently satisfied with the white boy’s equipment.

“They were of Woonga’s people, without a doubt,” finished Wabi.  “It puzzles me why they didn’t kill us.  They had half a dozen chances to shoot us, but didn’t seem to want to do us any great injury.  Either the measures taken at the Post are making them reform, or—­”

He paused, a troubled look in his eyes.  Immediately Mukoki told of his own experience and of the mysterious haste of the three Indians who had slain the doe.

“It is certainly curious,” rejoined the young Indian.  “They couldn’t have been the ones we met, but I’ll wager they belong to the same gang.  I wouldn’t be surprised if we had hit upon one of Woonga’s retreats.  We’ve always thought he was in the Thunder Bay regions to the west, and that is where father is watching for him now.  We’ve hit the hornets’ nest, Muky, and the only thing for us to do is to get out of this country as fast as we can!”

“We’d make a nice pot-shot just at this moment,” volunteered Rod, looking across to the dense blackness on the opposite side of the river, where the moonlight seemed to make even more impenetrable the wall of gloom.

As he spoke there came a slight sound from behind him, the commotion of a body moving softly beyond the wall of spruce boughs, then a curious, suspicious sniffing, and after that a low whine.

“Listen!”

Wabi’s command came in a tense whisper.  He leaned close against the boughs, stealthily parted them, and slowly thrust his head through the aperture.

“Hello, Wolf!” he whispered.  “What’s up?”