In a moment the grimace had gone from his face, and while Rod still rested he continued his examination of the camp. Close around it the snow was beaten down with human tracks. Mukoki saw where the outlaws had stolen up behind the cabin from the forest and he saw where they had gone away after the attack.
Five had come down from the cedars, only four had gone away!
Where was Wabi?
If he had been captured, and taken with the Indians, there would have been five trails. Rod understood this as well as Mukoki, and he also understood why his companion went back to make another investigation of the smoldering ruins. This second search, however, convinced the Indian that Wabi's body had not been thrown into the fire. There was only one conclusion to draw. The youth had made a desperate fight, had killed one of the outlaws, and after being wounded in the conflict had been carried off bodily. Wabi and his captors could not be more than two or three miles away. A quick pursuit would probably overtake them within an hour.
Mukoki came to Rod's side.
"Me follow—kill!" he said. "Me kill so many quick!" He pointed toward the four trails. "You stay—"
Rod clambered to his feet.
"You mean we'll kill 'em, Muky," he broke in. "I can follow you again. Set the pace!"
There came the click of the safety on Mukoki's rifle, and Rod, following suit, cocked his own.
"Much quiet," whispered the Indian when they had come to the farther side of the dip. "No noise—come up still—shoot!"