The Wolf Hunters. James Oliver Curwood

stumbled about clumsily in his efforts. Within half an hour the cedar shelter was taking form. Two crotched saplings were driven into the ground eight feet apart, and from one to the other, resting in the crotches, was placed another sapling, which formed the ridge-pole; and from this pole there ran slantwise to the earth half a dozen others, making a framework upon which the cedar boughs were piled. By the time the old Indian had finished his bear the home was completed, and with its beds of sweet-smelling boughs, the great camp-fire in front and the dense wilderness about them growing black with the approach of night, Rod thought that nothing in picture-book or story could quite equal the reality of that moment. And when, a few moments later, great bear-steaks were broiling over a mass of coals, and the odor of coffee mingled with that of meal-cakes sizzling on a heated stone, he knew that his dearest dreams had come true.

      That night in the glow of the camp-fire Rod listened to the thrilling stories of Wabi and the old Indian, and lay awake until nearly dawn, listening to the occasional howl of a wolf, mysterious splashings in the river and the shrill notes of the night birds. There were varied experiences in the following three days: one frosty morning before the others were awake he stole out from the camp with Wabi’s rifle and shot twice at a red deer—which he missed both times; there was an exciting but fruitless race with a swimming caribou in Sturgeon Lake, at which Wabi himself took three long-range shots without effect.

      It was on a glorious autumn afternoon that Wabi’s keen eyes first descried the log buildings of the Post snuggled in the edge of the seemingly unending forest. As they approached he joyfully pointed out the different buildings to Rod—the Company store, the little cluster of employees’ homes and the factor’s house, where Rod was to meet his welcome. At least Roderick himself had thought it would be there. But as they came nearer a single canoe shot out suddenly from the shore and the young hunters could see a white handkerchief waving them greeting. Wabi replied with a whoop of pleasure and fired his gun into the air.

      “It’s Minnetaki!” he cried. “She said she would watch for us and come out to meet us!”

      Minnetaki! A little nervous thrill shot through Rod. Wabi had described her to him a thousand times in those winter evenings at home; with a brother’s love and pride he had always brought her into their talks and plans, and somehow, little by little, Rod had grown to like her very much without ever having seen her.

      The two canoes swiftly approached each other, and in a few minutes more were alongside. With a glad laughing cry Minnetaki leaned over and kissed her brother, while at the same time her dark eyes shot a curious glance at the youth of whom she had read and heard so much.

      At this time Minnetaki was fifteen. Like her mother’s race she was slender, of almost woman’s height, and unconsciously as graceful as a fawn in her movements. A slightly waving wealth of raven hair framed what Rod thought to be one of the prettiest faces he had ever seen, and entwined in the heavy silken braid that fell over her shoulder were a number of red autumn leaves. As she straightened herself in her canoe she looked at Rod and smiled, and he in making a polite effort to lift his cap in civilized style, lost that article of apparel in a sudden gust of wind. In an instant there was a general laugh of merriment in which even the old Indian joined. The little incident did more toward making comradeship than anything else that might have happened, and laughing again into Rod’s face Minnetaki urged her canoe toward the floating cap.

      “You shouldn’t wear such things until it gets cold,” she said, after retrieving the cap and handing it to him. “Wabi does—but I don’t!”

      “Then I won’t,” replied Rod gallantly, and at Wabi’s burst of laughter both blushed.

      That first night at the Post Rod found that Wabi had already made all plans for the winter’s hunting, and the white youth’s complete equipment was awaiting him in the room assigned to him in the factor’s house—a deadly looking five-shot Remington, similar to Wabi’s, a long-barreled, heavy-caliber revolver, snow-shoes, and a dozen other articles necessary to one about to set out upon a long expedition in the wilderness. Wabi had also mapped out their hunting-grounds. Wolves in the immediate neighborhood of the Post, where they were being constantly sought by the Indians and the factor’s men, had become exceedingly cautious and were not numerous, but in the almost untraveled wilderness a hundred miles to the north and east they were literally overrunning the country, killing moose, caribou and deer in great numbers.

      In this region Wabi planned to make their winter quarters. And no time was to be lost in taking up the trail, for the log house in which they would pass the bitterly cold months should be built before the heavy snows set in. It was therefore decided that the young hunters should start within a week, accompanied by Mukoki, the old Indian, a cousin of the slain Wabigoon, whom Wabi had given the nickname of Muky and who had been a faithful comrade to him from his earliest childhood.

      Rod made the most of the six days which were allotted to him at the Post, and while Wabi helped to handle the affairs of the Company’s store during a short absence of his father at Port Arthur, the lovely little Minnetaki gave our hero his first lessons in woodcraft. In canoe, with the rifle, and in reading the signs of forest life Wabi’s sister awakened constantly increasing admiration in Rod. To see her bending over some freshly made trail, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with excitement, her rich hair filled with the warmth of the sun, was a picture to arouse enthusiasm even in the heart of a youngster of eighteen, and a hundred times the boy mentally vowed that “she was a brick” from the tips of her pretty moccasined feet to the top of her prettier head. Half a dozen times at least he voiced this sentiment to Wabi, and Wabi agreed with great enthusiasm. In fact, by the time the week was almost gone Minnetaki and Rod had become great chums, and it was not without some feeling of regret that the young wolf hunter greeted the dawn of the day that was to see them begin their journey deeper into the wilds.

      Minnetaki was one of the earliest risers at the Post. Rod was seldom behind her. But on this particular morning he was late and heard the girl whistling outside half an hour before he was dressed—for Minnetaki could whistle in a manner that often filled him with envy. By the time he came down she had disappeared in the edge of the forest, and Wabi, who was also ahead of him, was busy with Mukoki tying up their equipment in packs. It was a glorious morning, clear and frosty, and Rod noticed that a thin shell of ice had formed on the lake during the night. Once or twice Wabi turned toward the forest and gave his signal whoop, but received no reply.

      “I don’t see why Minnetaki doesn’t come back,” he remarked carelessly, as he fastened a shoulder-strap about a bundle. “Breakfast will be ready in a jiffy. Hunt her up, will you, Rod?”

      Nothing loath, Rod started out on a brisk run along the path which he knew to be a favorite with Minnetaki and shortly it brought him down to a pebbly stretch of the beach where she frequently left her canoe. That she had been here a few minutes before he could tell by the fact that the ice about the birch-bark was broken, as though the girl had tested its thickness by shoving the light craft out into it for a few feet. Her footsteps led plainly up the shelving shore and into the forest.

      “O Minnetaki—Minnetaki!”

      Rod called loudly and listened. There was no response. As if impelled by some presentiment which he himself could not explain, the boy hurried deeper into the forest along the narrow path which Minnetaki must have taken. Five minutes—ten minutes—and he called again. Still there was no answer. Possibly the girl had not gone so far, or she might have left the path for the thick woods. A little farther on there was a soft spot in the path where a great tree-trunk had rotted half a century before, leaving a rich black soil. Clearly traced in this were the imprints of Minnetaki’s moccasins. For a full minute Rod stopped and listened, making not a sound. Why he maintained silence he could not have explained. But he knew that he was half a mile from the Post, and that Wabi’s sister should not be here at breakfast time. In this minute’s quiet he unconsciously studied the tracks in the ground. How small the pretty Indian maiden’s feet were! And he noticed, too, that her moccasins, unlike most moccasins, had a slight heel.

      But in a moment more his inspection was cut short. Was that a cry he heard far ahead? His heart seemed to stop beating, his blood thrilled—and in another instant he was running down the path like a deer. Twenty rods beyond this point