One bated breath—a thunderous report—a snarling scream of pain, and the camp was awake!
"We're attacked!" cried Rod. "Quick—Wabi—Mukoki!"
The white boy was on his knees now, the smoking rifle still leveled toward the rocks. Out there, in the thick shadows beyond the fire, a body was groveling and kicking in death agonies. In another instant the gaunt form of the old warrior was beside Rod, his rifle at his shoulder, and over their heads reached Wabigoon's arm, the barrel of his heavy revolver glinting in the firelight.
For a full minute they crouched there, breathless, waiting.
"They've gone!" broke Wabi in a tense whisper.
"I got one of them!" replied Rod, his voice trembling with excitement.
Mukoki slipped back and burrowed a hole through the side of the shelter. He could see nothing. Slowly he slipped out, his rifle ready. The others could hear him as he went. Foot by foot the old warrior slunk along in the deep gloom toward the end of the rock. Now he was almost there, now—
The young hunters saw him suddenly straighten. There came to them a low chuckling grunt. He bent over, seized an object, and flung it in the light of the fire.
"Heap big Woonga! Kill nice fat lynx!"
With a wail, half feigned, half real, Rod flung himself back upon the balsam while Wabi set up a roar that made the night echo. Mukoki's face was creased in a broad grin.