for a full minute.
“Unless they are gone from camp,” replied Rod in a whisper.
“Keep eyes open!” warned Mukoki as they advanced cautiously in the direction of the smoke. “No can tell what, I guess so!”
He was first to mount the driftwood, and then he gave vent to a huge grunt. The smoke was rising from beside a charred log which was heaped half-way up its side with ashes and earth. In a flash the meaning of the ash and dirt dawned on Rod and his companions. The fire was banked. Those who had built it were gone, but they expected to return. The naked footprints were thick about the camp-fire, and close to one end of the charred log were scattered a number of bones. One after another Mukoki picked up several of these and closely examined them. While Rod and Wabigoon were still gazing about them in blank astonishment, half expecting attack from a savage horde at any moment, the old warrior had already reached a conclusion, and calling to his companions he brought their attention to the tracks in the sand.
“Same feet!” he exclaimed. “One man mak' all track!”
“Impossible!” cried Wabi. “There are—thousands of them!”
Mukoki grunted and fell upon his knees.
“Heem big toe—right foot—broke sometime. Same in all track. See?”
Disgusted at his own lack of observation, Wabigoon saw at once that the old pathfinder was right. The joint of the big toe on the right foot was twisted fully half an inch outward, a deformity that left a peculiar impression in the sand, and every other track bore this telltale mark. No sooner were the two boys convinced of the correctness of Mukoki's assertion than another and still more startling surprise was sprung on them. Holding out his handful of bones, Mukoki said:
“Meat no cook—eat raw!”
“Great Scott!” gasped Rod.
Wabi's eyes flashed with a new understanding, and as he gazed into Rod's astonished face the latter, too, began to comprehend the significance of it all.
“It must have been the madman!”
“Yes.”
“And he was here yesterday!”
“Probably the day before,” said Wabi. The young Indian turned suddenly to Mukoki. “What did he want of the fire if he didn't cook meat?” he asked.
Mukoki shrugged his shoulders but did not answer.
“Well, it wasn't cooked, anyway,” declared Wabi, again examining the bones. “Here are chunks of raw flesh clinging to the bones. Perhaps he just singed the outside of his meat.”
The old Indian nodded at this suggestion and turned to investigate the fire. On the end of the log were two stones, one flat and the other round and smooth, and after a moment's inspection of these he dropped an exclamation which was unusual for him, and which he used only in those rare intervals when all other language seemed to fail him.
“Bad dog man—mak' bullet—here!” he called, holding out the stones. “See—gold —gold!”
The boys hurried to his side.
“See—gold!” he repeated excitedly.
In the center of the flat stone there was a gleaming yellow film. A single glance told the story. With the round stone for a hammer the mad hunter had pounded his golden bullets into shape upon the flat stone! There was no longer a doubt in their minds; they were in the madman's camp. That morning they had left this strange creature of the wilderness fifty miles away. But how far away was he now? The fire slumbering under its covering of ash and earth proved that he meant to return—and soon. Would he travel by night as well as by day? Was it possible that he was already close behind them?
“He travels with the swiftness of an animal,” said Wabi, speaking in a low voice to Rod. “Perhaps he will return to- night!”
Mukoki overheard him and shook his head.
“Mak' heem through chasm in two day on snow-shoe,” he declared, referring to his trip of exploration to the first waterfall over the snows of the previous winter. “No mak' in t'ree day over rock!”
“If Mukoki is satisfied, I am,” said Rod. “We can pull up behind the driftwood on the farther edge of the lake bed.”
Wabi made no objection, and the camp site was chosen. Strangely enough, with the discovery of the footprints, the fire, the picked bones and the stones with which the mad hunter had manufactured his golden bullets, Mukoki seemed to have lost all fear of the wild creature of the chasm. He was confident now that he had only a man to deal with, a man who had gone “bad dog,” and his curiosity overcame his alarm. His assurance served to dispel the apprehension of his companions, and sleep came early to the tired adventurers. Nor did anything occur during the night to awaken them.
Soon after dawn the trip down the chasm stream was resumed. With the abrupt turning of the channel to the north, however, there was an almost immediate change in the topography of the country. Within an hour the precipitous walls of the mountains gave place to verdure-covered slopes, and now and then the gold seekers found themselves between plains that swept back for a mile or more on either side. Frequent signs of game were observed along the shores of the river and several times during the morning moose and caribou were seen in the distance. A few months before, when they had invaded the wilderness to hunt and trap, this country would have aroused the wildest enthusiasm among Rod and his friends, but now they gave but little thought to their rifles. That morning they had set out with the intention of reaching the second waterfall before dusk, and it was with disappointment rather than gladness that they saw the swift current of the chasm torrent change into the slower, steadier sweep of a stream that had now widened into a fair-sized river. According to the map the second fall was about fifty-five miles from the mad hunter's camp. Darkness found them still fifteen miles from where it should be.
Excitement kept Rod awake most of that night. Try as he would, he could not keep visions of the lost treasure out of his mind. The next day they would be far on their way to the third and last waterfall. And then—the gold! That they might not find it, that the passing of half a century or more might have obliterated all traces left by its ancient discoverers, never for a moment disturbed his belief.
He was the first awake the following morning, the first to take his place in the canoe. Every minute now his ears were keenly attuned for that distant sound of falling water. But hours passed without a sign of it. Noon came. They had traveled six hours and had covered twenty-five miles instead of fifteen! Where was the waterfall?
There was a little more of anxiety in Wabigoon's eyes when they resumed their journey after dinner. Again and again Rod looked at his map, figuring out the distances as drawn by John Ball, the murdered Englishman. Surely the second waterfall could not be far away now! And still hour after hour passed, and mile after mile slipped behind them, until the three knew that they had gone fully thirty miles beyond where the cataract should have been, if the map was right. Twilight was falling when they stopped for supper. For the last hour Mukoki had spoken no word. A feeling of gloom was on them all; without questioning, each knew what the fears of the others were.
Was it possible that, after all, they had not solved the secret of the mysterious map?
The more Rod thought of it the more his fears possessed him. The two men who fought and died in the old cabin were on their way to civilization. They were taking gold with them, gold which they meant to exchange for supplies. Would they, at the same time, dare to have in their possession a map so closely defining their trail as the rude sketch on the bit of birch bark? Was there not some strange key, known only to themselves, necessary to the understanding of that sketch?
Mukoki had taken his rifle and disappeared in the plain along the river, and for a long time after they had eaten their bear steak and drank their hot coffee Rod and Wabigoon sat talking in the glow of the camp-fire. The old warrior had been gone for about an hour when suddenly there came the report of a gun from far down the stream, which was quickly followed by two others—three in rapid succession. After an interval of a few seconds there sounded two other shots.
“The signal!” cried Rod. “Mukoki wants us!”
Wabigoon sprang to his feet and emptied the five shots of his magazine into the air.
“Listen!”
Hardly had the echoes died away when there came again the reports of Mukoki's rifle.
Without another word the two boys hurried to the canoe, which had not been unloaded.
“He's a couple of miles down-stream,” said Wabi, as they shoved off. “I wonder what's the matter?”
“I can make a pretty good guess,” replied Rod, his voice trembling with a new excitement. “He has found the second waterfall!”
The thought gave fresh strength to their aching arms and the canoe sped swiftly down the stream. Fifteen minutes later another shot signaled to them, this time not more than a quarter of a mile away, and Wabi responded to it with a loud shout. Mukoki's voice floated back in an answering halloo, but before the young hunters came within sight of their comrade another sound reached their ears,—the muffled roar of a cataract! Again and again the boys sent their shouts of joy echoing through the night, and above the tumult of their own voices they heard the old warrior calling on them to put into shore. Mukoki was waiting for them when they landed.
“This is big un!” he greeted. “Mak' much noise, much swift water!”
“Hurrah!” yelled Rod for the twentieth time, jumping up and down in his excitement.
“Hurrah!” cried Wabi.
And Mukoki chuckled, and grinned, and rubbed his leathery hands together in high glee.
At last, when they had somewhat cooled down, Wabi said:
“That John Ball was a pretty poor fellow at a
