The buck could swing his great neck a little, and drag the
dog, but he could not shake him off. Rolf saw the chance, rose to his
tottering legs, seized his hatchet, stunned the fierce brute with a
blow. Then finding on the snow his missing knife he gave the hunter
stroke that spilled the red life-blood and sank on the ground to know no
more till Quonab stood beside him.

Chapter 33. A Song of Praise

ROLF was lying by a fire when he came to, Quonab bending over him with a
look of grave concern. When he opened his eyes, the Indian smiled; such
a soft, sweet smile, with long, ivory rows in its background.

Then he brought hot tea, and Rolf revived so he could sit up and tell
the story of the morning.

"He is an evil Manito," and he looked toward the dead buck; "we must not
eat him. You surely made medicine to bring Skookum."

"Yes, I made medicine with my mouth," was the answer, "I called, I
yelled, when he came at me."

"It is a long way from here to the cabin," was Quonab's reply. "I could
not hear you; Skookum could not hear you; but Cos Cob, my father, told
me that when you send out a cry for help, you send medicine, too, that
goes farther than the cry. May be so; I do not know: my father was very
wise."

"Did you see Skookum come, Quonab?"

"No; he was with me hours after you left, but he was restless and
whimpered. Then he left me and it was a long time before I heard him
bark. It was the 'something-wrong' bark. I went. He brought me here."

"He must have followed my track all 'round the line."

After an hour they set out for the cabin. The ravens "Ha-ha-ed" and
"Ho-ho-ed" as they went. Quonab took the fateful horn that Rolf had
chopped off, and hung it on a sapling with a piece of tobacco and a red
yam streamer ', to appease the evil spirit that surely was near. There
it hung for years after, until the sapling grew to a tree that swallowed
the horn, all but the tip, which rotted away.

Skookum took a final sniff at his fallen enemy, gave the body the
customary expression of a dog's contempt, then led the procession
homeward.

Not that day, not the next, but on the first day of calm, red, sunset
sky, went Quonab to his hill of worship; and when the little fire that
he lit sent up its thread of smoke, like a plumb-line from the red cloud
over him, he burnt a pinch of tobacco, and, with face and arms upraised
in the red light, he sang a new song:

"The evil one set a trap for my son,
Bu