The Gold Hunters | Page 4

out his arms and calling a name as the
dog mail stopped half a hundred yards from his own team.
With something between a yell of joy and a cry of astonishment a
youth of about Wabi's age sprang from the second sleigh and ran to the
Indian boy, catching him in his arms as for a second time, he sank
fainting upon the snow.
"Wabi--what's the matter?" he cried. "Are you hurt? Are you--"
For a moment Wabigoon struggled to overcome his weakness.
"Rod--" he whispered, "Rod--Minnetaki--"
His lips ceased to move and he sank heavily in his companion's arms.
"What is it, Wabi? Quick! Speak!" urged the other. His face had grown
strangely white, his voice trembled. "What about--Minnetaki?"
Again the Indian youth fought to bring himself back to life. His words
came faintly,
"Minnetaki--has been captured--by--the--Woongas!"
Then even his breath seemed to stop, and he lay like one dead.
CHAPTER II
MINNETAKI IN THE HANDS OF THE OUTLAWS
For a brief time Roderick believed that life had indeed passed from the
body of his young friend. So still did Wabi lie and so terrifying was the
strange pallor in his face that the white boy found himself calling on his
comrade in a voice filled with choking sobs. The driver of the dog mail
dropped on his knees beside the two young hunters. Running his hand
under Wabi's thick shirt he held it there for an instant, and said, "He's
alive!"

Quickly drawing a small metal flask from one of his pockets he
unscrewed the top, and placing the mouthpiece to the Indian youth's
lips forced a bit of its contents down his throat. The liquor had almost
immediate effect, and Wabigoon opened his eyes, gazed into the rough
visage of the courier, then closed them again. There was relief in the
courier's face as he pointed to the dogs from Wabinosh House. The
exhausted animals were lying stretched upon the snow, their heads
drooping between their forefeet. Even the presence of a rival team
failed to arouse them from their lethargy. One might have thought that
death had overtaken them upon the trail were it not for their panting
sides and lolling tongues.
"He's not hurt!" exclaimed the driver, "see the dogs! He's been
running--running until he dropped in his tracks!"
The assurance brought but little comfort to Rod. He could feel the
tremble of returning life in Wabi's body now, but the sight of the
exhausted and bleeding dogs and the memory of his comrade's last
words had filled him with a new and terrible fear. What had happened
to Minnetaki? Why had the factor's son come all this distance for him?
Why had he pursued the mail until his dogs were nearly dead, and he
himself had fallen unconscious in his tracks? Was Minnetaki dead?
Had the Woongas killed Wabi's beautiful little sister?
Again and again he implored his friend to speak to him, until the
courier pushed him back and carried Wabi to the mail sled.
"Hustle up there to that bunch of spruce and build a fire," he
commanded. "We've got to get something hot into him, and rub him
down, and roll him in furs. This is bad enough, bad enough!"
Rod waited to hear no more, but ran to the clump of spruce to which
the courier had directed him. Among them he found a number of birch
trees, and stripping off an armful of bark he had a fire blazing upon the
snow by the time the dog mail drew up with its unconscious burden.
While the driver was loosening Wabi's clothes and bundling him in
heavy bearskins Rod added dry limbs to the fire until it threw a warm
glow for a dozen paces around. Within a few minutes a pot of ice and

snow was melting over the flames and the courier was opening a can of
condensed soup.
The deathly pallor had gone from Wabi's face, and Rod, kneeling close
beside him, was rejoiced to see the breath coming more and more
regularly from between his lips. But even as he rejoiced the other fear
grew heavier at his heart. What had happened to Minnetaki? He found
himself repeating the question again and again as he watched Wabi
slowly returning to life, and, so quickly that it had passed in a minute or
two, there flashed through his mind a vision of all that had happened
the last few months. For a few moments, as his mind traveled back, he
was again in Detroit with his widowed mother; he thought of the day he
had first met Wabigoon, the son of an English factor and a beautiful
Indian princess, who had come far down into civilization to be
educated; of the friendship that had followed, of their weeks