"Hurry!" shouted Wabi. "They see us!" Even as he spoke there came the crack of a rifle.
Bzzzzzzz-inggggg!
For the first time in his life Rod heard that terrible death-song of a bullet close to his head and saw the snow fly up a dozen feet beyond the young Indian.
For an interval of twenty seconds there was silence; then there came another shot, and after that three others in quick succession. Wabi stumbled.
"Not hit!" he called, scrambling to his feet. "Confound—that rock!"
He rose to the hilltop with Rod close behind him, and from the opposite side of the lake there came a fusillade of half a dozen shots. Instinctively Rod dropped upon his face. And in that instant, as he lay in the snow, he heard the sickening thud of a bullet and a sharp sudden cry of pain from Mukoki. But the old warrior came up beside him and they passed into the shelter of the hilltop together.
"Is it bad? Is it bad, Mukoki? Is it bad—" Wabi was almost sobbing as he turned and threw an arm around the old Indian. "Are you hit—bad?"
Mukoki staggered, but caught himself.
"In here," he said, putting a hand to his left shoulder. "She—no—bad." He smiled, courage gleaming with pain in his eyes, and swung off the light pack of furs. "We give 'em—devil—here!"
Crouching, they peered over the edge of the hill. Half a dozen Woongas had already left the cedars and were following swiftly across the open. Others broke from the cover, and Wabi saw that a number of them were without snow-shoes. He exultantly drew Mukoki's attention to this fact, but the latter did not lift his eyes. In a few moments he spoke.