rapid
succession.

He threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired into the air; once,
twice--and then three times as fast as he could press the trigger.

As he watched Mukoki he reloaded. He saw the Indian pause, turn about
and look back toward the mountain.

Again the thrilling signals for help went echoing over the plains. In a
few seconds the sounds had reached Mukoki's ears and the old warrior
came swinging back at running speed.

Rod darted along the ridge to meet him, firing a single shot now and
then to let him know where he was, and in fifteen minutes Mukoki came
panting up the mountain.

"The Woongas!" shouted Rod. "They've attacked the camp! See!" He pointed
to the cloud of smoke. "I heard shots--I heard shots--"

For an instant the grim pathfinder gazed in the direction of the burning
camp, and then without a word he started at terrific speed down the
mountain.

The half-hour race that followed was one of the most exciting
experiences of Rod's life. How he kept up with Mukoki was more than he
ever could explain afterward. But from the time they struck the old
trail he was close at the Indian's heels. When they reached the hill
that sheltered the dip his face was scratched and bleeding from contact
with swinging bushes; his heart seemed ready to burst from its
tremendous exertion; his breath came in an audible hissing, rattling
sound, and he could not speak. But up the hill he plunged behind Mukoki,
his rifle cocked and ready. At the top they paused.

The camp was a smoldering mass of ruins. Not a sign of life was about
it. But--

With a gasping, wordless cry Rod caught Mukoki's arm and pointed to an
object lying in the snow a dozen yards from where the cabin had been.
The warrior had seen it. He turned one look upon the white youth, and it
was a look that Rod had never thought could come into the face of a
human being. If that was Wabi down there--if Wabi had been killed--what
would Mukoki's vengeance be! His companion was no longer Mukoki--as he
had known him; he was the savage. There was no mercy, no human instinct,
no suggestion of the human soul in that one terrible look. If it was
Wabi--

They plunged down the hill, into the dip, across the lake, and Mukoki
was on his knees beside the figure in the snow. He turned it over--and
rose without a sound, his battle-glaring eyes peering into the smoking
ruins.

Rod looked, and shuddered.

The figure in the snow was not Wabi.

It was a strange,