The Wolf Hunters | Page 9

'im!" shouted Wabi. "Quick-try 'im again!"
Rod's second shot seemed to have no effect In his excitement he
jumped to his feet, forgetting that he was in a frail canoe, and took a
last shot at the big black beast that was just about to disappear over the
edge of the driftwood. Both Wabi and his Indian companion flung

themselves on the shore side of their birch and dug their paddles deep
into the water, but their efforts were unavailing to save their reckless
comrade. Unbalanced by the concussion of his gun, Rod plunged
backward into the river, but before he had time to sink, Wabi reached
over and grabbed him by the arm.
"Don't make a move--and hang on to the gun!" he warned. "If we try to
get you in here we'll all go over!" He made a sign to the Indian, who
swung the canoe slowly inshore. Then he grinned down into Rod's
dripping, unhappy face.
"By George, that last shot was a dandy for a tenderfoot! You got your
bear!"
Despite his uncomfortable position, Rod gave a whoop of joy, and no
sooner did his feet touch solid bottom than he loosened himself from
Wabi's grip and plunged toward the driftwood. On its very top he found
the bear, as dead as a bullet through its side and another through its
head could make it. Standing there beside his first big game, dripping
and shivering, he looked down upon the two who were pulling their
canoe ashore and gave, a series of triumphant whoops that could have
been heard half a mile away.
"It's camp and a fire for you," laughed Wabi, hurrying up to him. "This
is better luck than I thought you'd have, Rod. We'll have a glorious
feast to-night, and a fire of this driftwood that will show you what
makes life worth the living up here in the North. Ho, Muky," he called
to the old Indian, "cut this fellow up, will you? I'll make camp."
"Can we keep the skin?" asked Rod. "It's my first, you know, and--"
"Of course we can. Give us a hand with the fire, Rod; it will keep you
from catching cold."
In the excitement of making their first camp, Rod almost forgot that he
was soaked to the skin, and that night was falling about them. The first
step was the building of a fire, and soon a great, crackling, almost
smokeless blaze was throwing its light and heat for thirty feet around.

Wabi now brought blankets from the canoe, stripped off a part of his
own clothes, made Rod undress, and soon had that youth swathed in
dry togs, while his wet ones were hung close up to the fire. For the first
time Rod saw the making of a wilderness shelter. Whistling cheerily,
Wabi got an ax from the canoe, went into the edge of the cedars and cut
armful after armful of saplings and boughs. Tying his blankets about
himself, Rod helped to carry these, a laughable and grotesque figure as
he stumbled about clumsily in his efforts. Within half an hour the cedar
shelter was taking form. Two crotched saplings were driven into the
ground eight feet apart, and from one to the other, resting in the
crotches, was placed another sapling, which formed the ridge-pole; and
from this pole there ran slantwise to the earth half a dozen others,
making a framework upon which the cedar boughs were piled. By the
time the old Indian had finished his bear the home was completed, and
with its beds of sweet-smelling boughs, the great camp-fire in front and
the dense wilderness about them growing black with the approach of
night, Rod thought that nothing in picture-book or story could quite
equal the reality of that moment. And when, a few moments later, great
bear-steaks were broiling over a mass of coals, and the odor of coffee
mingled with that of meal-cakes sizzling on a heated stone, he knew
that his dearest dreams had come true.
That night in the glow of the camp-fire Rod listened to the thrilling
stories of Wabi and the old Indian, and lay awake until nearly dawn,
listening to the occasional howl of a wolf, mysterious splashings in the
river and the shrill notes of the night birds. There were varied
experiences in the following three days: one frosty morning before the
others were awake he stole out from the camp with Wabi's rifle and
shot twice at a red deer--which he missed both times; there was an
exciting but fruitless race with a swimming caribou in Sturgeon Lake,
at which Wabi himself took three long-range shots without effect.
It was on a glorious autumn afternoon that Wabi's keen eyes first
descried the log buildings of the Post snuggled in