“That’s a man’s cry,” he whispered.  “The wolf has struck a human trail.  It isn’t mine!”

“Nor ours,” replied Rod.

This one long howl of the wolf was the only sound that broke the stillness of approaching night.  Mukoki turned, and the others followed in his trail.  A quarter of a mile farther on the stream became still narrower and plunged between great masses of rock which rose into wild and precipitous hills that were almost mountains a little way back.  No longer could the hunters now follow the channel of the rushing torrent.  Through a break in a gigantic wall of rock and huge boulders led the trail of Rod and Mukoki.  Ten minutes more and the three had clambered to the top of the ridge where, in the lee of a great rock, the remains of a fire were still burning.  Here the old Indian and his companion had struck camp and were waiting for Wabigoon when they heard the shots which they, too, believed were those of an ambush.

A comfortable shelter of balsam had already been erected against the rock, and close beside the fire, where Mukoki had dropped it at the sound of the shots, was a large piece of spitted venison.  The situation was ideal for a camp and after the hard day’s tramp through the snow the young wolf hunters regarded it with expressions of pleasure, in spite of the enemies whom they knew might be lurking near them.  Both Wabi and Rod had accepted the place as their night’s home, and were stirring up the fire, when their attention was drawn to the singular attitude of Mukoki.  The old warrior stood leaning on his rifle, speechless and motionless, his eyes regarding the process of rekindling the fire with mute disapprobation.  Wabi, poised on one knee, looked at him questioningly.

“No make more fire,” said the old Indian, shaking his head.  “No dare stay here.  Go on—­beyond mountain!”

Mukoki straightened himself and stretched a long arm toward the north.

“River go like much devil ’long edge of mountain,” he continued.  “Make heap noise through rock, then make swamp thick for cow moose—­then run through mountain and make wide, smooth river once more.  We go over mountain.  Snow all night.  Morning come—­no trail for Woonga.  We stay here—­make big trail in morning.  Woonga follow like devil, ver’ plain to see!”

Wabi rose to his feet, his face showing the keenness of his disappointment.  Since early morning he had been traveling, even running at times, and he was tired enough to risk willingly a few dangers for the sake of sleep and supper.  Rod was in even worse condition, though his trail had been much shorter.  For a few moments the two boys looked at each other in silence, neither attempting to conceal the lack of favor with which Mukoki’s suggestion was received.  But Wabi was too wise openly to oppose the old pathfinder.  If Mukoki said that it was dangerous for them to remain where they were during the night—­well, it was dangerous, and it would be foolish of him to dispute it.  He knew Mukoki to be the greatest hunter of his tribe, a human bloodhound on the trail, and what he said was law.  So with a cheerful grin at Rod, who needed all the encouragement that could be given to him, Wabi began the readjustment of the pack which he had flung from his shoulders a few minutes before.