rough the break in the ridge and
hurried toward them. His face, too, became filled with amazement when
he saw the bear.

"Big bear!" he exclaimed.

There was a world of meaning in his words, and Rod flushed with
pleasure.

"He weighs five hundred," said Wabi, "and he stands four feet at the
shoulders if an inch."

"Fine rug!" grinned Mukoki.

"Let's see, Rod; he'll make a rug--" Wabi walked critically around
the bear. "He'll make you a rug over eight feet long by about six in
width. I wonder where he is hit?"

A brief examination showed that while the honors of the actual kill
were with Rod, at least one, and perhaps two, of Wabi's shots had
taken effect. The last shot from the white youth's rifle had struck
the bear just below the right ear, causing almost instantaneous death.
On this same side, which had been exposed to Rod's fire, was a body
wound, undoubtedly made by the shot on the mountain side. When the
animal was rolled over by the combined efforts of the three two more
wounds were discovered on the left side, which had mostly been exposed
to Wabigoon's fire. It was while examining these that the sharp-eyed
Mukoki gave a sudden grunt of surprise.

"Heem shot before--long time ago! Old wound--feel bullet!"

Between his fingers he was working the loose hide back of the foreleg.
The scar of an old wound was plainly visible, and both Rod and Wabi
could feel the ball under the skin. There is something that fascinates
the big game hunter in this discovery of an old wound in his quarry,
and especially in the vast solitudes of the North, where hunters are
few and widely scattered. It brings with it a vivid picture of
what happened long ago, the excitement of some other chase, the
well-directed shot, and at last the escape of the game. And so it was
now. The heads of Rod and Wabigoon hung close over Mukoki's shoulders
while the old Indian dug out the bullet with his knife. Another grunt
of surprise fell from the pathfinder's lips as he dropped the pellet
in the palm of his hand.

It was a strange-looking object, smooth, and curiously flattened.

"Ver' soft bullet," said Mukoki. "Never know lead thin, thin out lak
that!"

With his knife he peeled off a thin slice of the ball.

"Heem--"

He held up the two pieces. In the sun they gleamed a dull, rich
yellow.

"That bullet made of gold!" he breathed, scarcely above a whisper. "No
yellow lead. That gold, pure gold!"

CHAPTER IX

UP THE OMBABIK