But it was another sight that caused Rod’s dismay.

From an opening beside a small lake half a mile beyond the Indians below there rose the smoke of two camp-fires, and Mukoki and he could make out at least a score of figures about these fires.

Within rifle-shot of them, almost within shouting distance, there was not only the small war party that had attacked the camp, but a third of the fighting men of the Woonga tribe!  Rod understood their terrible predicament.  To attack the outlaws in an effort to rescue Wabi meant that an overwhelming force would be upon them within a few minutes; to allow Wabi to remain a captive meant—­he shuddered at the thought of what it might mean, for he knew of the merciless vengeance of the Woongas upon the House of Wabinosh.

And while he was thinking of these things the faithful old warrior beside him had already formed his plan of attack.  He would die with Wabi, gladly—­a fighting, terrible slave to devotion to the last; but he would not see Wabi die alone.  A whispered word, a last look at his rifle, and Mukoki hurried down into the plains.

At the foot of the hill he abandoned the outlaw trail and Rod realized that his plan was to sweep swiftly in a semicircle, surprising the Woongas from the front or side instead of approaching from the rear.  Again he was taxed to his utmost to keep pace with the avenging Mukoki.  Less than ten minutes later the Indian peered cautiously from behind a clump of hazel, and then looked back at Rod, a smile of satisfaction on his face.

“They come,” he breathed, just loud enough to hear.  “They come!”

Rod peered over his shoulder, and his heart smote mightily within him.  Unconscious of their peril the Woongas were approaching two hundred yards away.  Mukoki gazed into his companion’s face and his eyes were almost pleading as he laid a bronzed crinkled hand upon the white boy’s arm.

“You take front man—­ahead of Wabi,” he whispered.  “I take other t’ree.  See that tree—­heem birch, with bark off?  Shoot heem there.  You no tremble?  You no miss?”

“No,” replied Rod.  He gripped the red hand in his own.  “I’ll kill, Mukoki.  I’ll kill him dead—­in one shot!”

They could hear the voices of the outlaws now, and soon they saw that Wabi’s face was disfigured with blood.

Step by step, slowly and carelessly, the Woongas approached.  They were fifty yards from the marked birch now—­forty—­thirty—­now only ten.  Roderick’s rifle was at his shoulder.  Already it held a deadly bead on the breast of the leader.

Five yards more—­

The outlaw passed behind the tree; he came out, and the young hunter pressed the trigger.  The leader stopped in his snow-shoes.  Even before he had crumpled down into a lifeless heap in the snow a furious volley of shots spat forth from Mukoki’s gun, and when Rod swung his own rifle to join again in the fray he found that only one of the four was standing, and he with his hands to his breast as he tottered about to fall.  But from some one of those who had fallen there had gone out a wild, terrible cry, and even as Rod and Makoki rushed out to free Wabigoon there came an answering yell from the direction of the Woonga camp.