A dozen blows and one of the bars fell. The old Indian sniffed suspiciously, his ear close to the opening. Damp, stifling air greeted his nostrils, but still there was no sound. One after another he knocked off the remaining bars and thrust his head and shoulders inside. Gradually his eyes became accustomed to the darkness and he pulled himself in.
Half-way—and he stopped.
"Go on, Muky," urged Wabi, who was pressing close behind.
There came no answer from the old Indian. For a full minute he remained poised there, as motionless as a stone, as silent as death.
Then, very slowly—inch by inch, as though afraid of awakening a sleeping person, he lowered himself to the ground. When he turned toward the young hunters it was with an expression that Rod had never seen upon Mukoki's face before.
"What is it, Mukoki?"
The old Indian gasped, as if for fresh air.
"Cabin—she filled with twent' t'ousand dead men!" he replied.
