crash the whole mass gave way under them, and they plunged down into the black depths of the lake. The last that Rod saw was his friend's horror-stricken face sinking in the crumbling ice; he heard a sharp, terrible cry from Mukoki, and then he knew that the cold waters had engulfed him, and that he was battling for his life under the surface.
Fiercely he struck out with arms and legs in an effort to rise, and in that moment of terror he thought of the great sheet of ice. What if he should come up under it? In which direction should he strike out? He opened his eyes but all was a black chaos about him. The seconds seemed like ages. There came a splitting, rending sensation in his head, an almost overpowering desire to open his mouth, to gasp, gasp for air where there was nothing but death! Then his head struck something. It was the ice! He had come up under the ice, and there was but one end to that!
He began to sink again, slowly, as if an invisible hand were pulling him down, and in his despair he made a last frantic effort, striking out blindly, knowing that in another second he must open his mouth. Even under the water he still had consciousness enough left to know that he tried to cry out, and he felt the first gurgling rush of water into his lungs. But he did not see the long arm that reached down where the bubbles were coming up, he did not feel the grip that dragged him out upon the ice. His first sense of life was that something very heavy was upon his stomach, and that he was being rubbed, and pummeled, and rolled about as if he had become the plaything of a great bear. Then he saw Mukoki, and then Wabigoon.
“You go build fire,” he heard Mukoki say, and he could hear Wabi running swiftly shoreward. For he knew that they were still upon the ice. The canoe was drawn safely up a dozen feet away, and the old Indian was dragging blankets from it. When Mukoki turned he found Rod resting upon his elbow, looking at him.
“That—w'at you call heem—close shave!” he grinned, placing a supporting arm under Rod's shoulder.
With Mukoki's assistance the youth rose to his feet, and a thick blanket was wrapped about him. Slowly they made their way shoreward, and soon Wabi came running out to meet them, dripping wet.
“Rod, when we get thawed out, I want you to kick me,” he pleaded. “I want you to kick me good and hard, and then I'll take great pleasure in kicking you. And ever after this, when we do a thing that Mukoki tells us not to do, we'll kick some more!”
“Who pulled us out?” asked Rod.
“Mukoki, of course. Will you kick me?”
“Shake!”
And the two dripping, half-frozen young adventurers shook hands, while Mukoki chuckled and grunted and gurgled until he set the others bursting into laughter.
CHAPTER VIII. THE YELLOW BULLET
Before a rousing fire of logs Rod and Wabigoon began to see the cheerful side of life again, and as soon as Mukoki had built them a balsam shelter they stripped off their clothes and wrapped themselves in blankets, while the old Indian dried their outfits. It was two hours before they were dressed. No sooner were they out than Wabi went into the bush and returned a few minutes later brandishing a good-sized birch in his hand. There was no sign of humor in his face as he eyed Rod.
“Do you see that log?” he said, pointing to the big trunk of a fallen tree near the fire “That will just fit your stomach, Rod. It will be better than kicking. Double yourself over that, face down, pantaloons up. I'm going to lick you first because I want you to know just how much to give me. I want it twice as hard, for I was more to blame than you.”
In some astonishment Rod doubled himself over the log.
“Great Scott!” he ejaculated, peering up in dismay. “Not too hard, Wabi!”
Swish! fell the birch, and a yell of pain burst from the white youth's lips.
Swish!—Swish!—Swish!
“Ouch! Great Caesar—Let up!”
“Don't move!” shouted Wabi. “Take it like a man—you deserve it!”
Again and again the birch fell. Rod groaned as he rose to his feet after Wabi had stopped. “Oh, please—please give me that whip!”
“Not too hard, you know,” warned Wabi, as he fitted himself over the log.
“You chose your own poison,” reminded Rod, rolling up his sleeve. “Just twice as hard, no more!”
And the birch began to fall.
When it was over Rod's arm ached, and Wabi, despite his Indian stoicism, let out a long howl at the last blow.
During the entire scene of chastisement Mukoki stood like one struck dumb.
“We'll never be bad any more, Muky,” promised Wabigoon, rubbing himself gently. “That is, if we are, we'll whip ourselves again, eh, Rod?”
“Not so long as I can run!” assured Rod with emphasis. “I'm willing to lend a helping hand at any time you think you deserve another, but beyond that please count me out!”
For an hour after the self-punishment of the young gold hunters the three gathered fuel for the night and balsam boughs for their beds. It was dark by the time they sat down to their supper, which they ate in the light of a huge fire of dry poplar.
“This is better than paddling all night, even if we did have a close shave,” said Rod, after they had finished and settled themselves comfortably.
Wabi gave a grimace and shrugged his shoulders.
“Do you know how close your call was?” he asked. “It was so close that just by one chance in ten thousand you were saved. I had pulled myself upon the ice by catching hold of the bow of the canoe and when Muky saw that I was safe he watched for you. But you didn't show up. We had given you up for dead when a few bubbles came to the surface, and quicker than a wink Mukoki thrust down his arm. He got you by the hair as you were sinking for the last time. Think of that, Rod, and dream of it to-night. It'll do you good.”
“Ugh!” shuddered the white youth. “Let's talk of something more cheerful. What a glorious fire that poplar makes!”
“Mak' light more as twent' t'ous'nd candles!” agreed Mukoki. “Heem bright!”
“Once upon a time, many ages ago, there was a great chief in this country,” began Wabigoon, “and he had seven beautiful daughters. So beautiful were they that the Great Spirit himself fell in love with them, and for the first time in countless moons he appeared upon earth, and told the chief that if he would give him his seven daughters he, in turn, would grant the father seven great desires. And the chief, surrendering his daughters, asked that he might be given a day without night, and a night without day, and his wish was granted; and his third and fourth and fifth desires were that the land might always be filled with fish and game, the forests remain for ever green, and fire be given to his people. His sixth desire was that a fuel be given to him which would burn even in water, and the Great Spirit gave him birch; and his seventh desire was that he might possess another fuel, which would throw off no smoke, and might bring comfort and joy to his wigwams—and the poplar sprang up in the forests. And because of that chief, and his seven beautiful daughters, all of these things are true even to this day. Isn't it so, Mukoki?”
The old warrior nodded.
“And what became of the Great Spirit and the seven beautiful daughters?” questioned Rod.
Mukoki rose and left the fire.
“He believes in that as he believes in the sun and the moon,” spoke Wabi softly. “But he knows that you do not, and that all white people laugh at it. He could tell you many wonderful stories of the creation of these forests and mountains and the things in them if he would. But he knows that you would not believe, and would laugh at him afterward.”
In an instant Rod was upon his feet.
“Mukoki!” he called. “Mukoki!”
The old Indian turned and came back slowly. The white youth met him half- way, his face flushed, his eyes shining.
“Mukoki,” he said gently, gripping the warrior's hand, “Mukoki—I love your Great Spirit! I love the one who made these glorious forests, and that glorious moon up there, and the mountains and lakes and rivers! I Want to know more about him. You must tell me, so that I will know when he talks about me, in the winds, in the stars, in the forests! Will you?”
Mukoki was looking at him, his thin lips parted, his grim visage relaxed, as if he were weighing the truthfulness of the white youth's words.
“And I will tell you about our Great Spirit, the white man's Great Spirit,” urged Rod. “For we have a Great Spirit, too, Mukoki, and He did for the white man's world what yours did for you. He created the earth, the sky and the sea and all the things in them in six days, and on the seventh He rested. And that seventh day we call Sunday, Mukoki. And He made our forests for us, as your Great Spirit made them for you, only instead of giving them for the love of seven beautiful women He gave them for the love of man. I'll tell you wonderful things about Him, Mukoki, if you will tell me about yours. Is it a bargain?”
“Mebby—yes,” replied the old pathfinder slowly. His face had softened, and for the second time Rod knew that he had touched the heartstrings of his red comrade. They returned to the fire, and Wabi made room for them upon the log beside him. In his hand he held a copy of the old birch-bark map.
“I've been thinking about this all day,” he said, spreading it out so that the others could see. “Somehow I haven't
