there was a mysterious quiet, except for the occasional sounds of wild life. Partridges drummed back in the woods, flocks of ducks got up with a great rush of wings at almost every turn, and once, late in the morning of the first day out, Rod was thrilled by a crashing in the undergrowth scarcely a stone's throw from the canoe. He could see saplings twisting and bending, and heard Wabi whisper behind him:
"A moose!"
They were words to set his hands trembling and his whole body quivering with anticipation. There was in him now none of the old hunter's coolness, none of the almost stoical indifference with which the men of the big North hear these sounds of the wild things about them. Rod had yet to see his first big game.
That moment came in the afternoon. The canoe had skimmed lightly around a bend in the river. Beyond this bend a mass of dead driftwood had wedged against the shore, and this driftwood, as the late sun sank behind the forests, was bathed in a warm yellow glow. And basking in this glow, as he loves to do at the approach of winter nights, was an animal, the sight of which drew a sharp, excited cry from between Rod's lips. In an instant he had recognized it as a bear. The animal was taken completely by surprise and was less than half a dozen rods away. Quick as a flash, and hardly realizing what he was doing, the boy drew his rifle to his shoulder, took quick aim and fired. The bear was already clambering up the driftwood, but stopped suddenly at the report, slipped as if about to fall back—then continued his retreat.
"You hit '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 the edge of the seemingly unending forest. As they approached he joyfully pointed out the different buildings to Rod—the Company store, the little cluster of employees' homes and the factor's house, where Rod was to meet his welcome. At least Roderick himself had thought it would be there. But as they came nearer a single canoe shot out suddenly from the shore and the young hunters could see a white handkerchief waving them greeting. Wabi replied with a whoop of pleasure and fired his gun into the air.
"It's Minnetaki!" he cried. "She said she would watch for us and come out to meet us!"
Minnetaki! A little nervous thrill shot through Rod. Wabi had described her to him a thousand times in those winter evenings at home; with a brother's love and pride he had always brought her into their talks and plans, and somehow, little by little, Rod had grown to like her very much without ever having seen her.
The two canoes swiftly approached each other, and in a few minutes more were alongside. With a glad laughing cry Minnetaki leaned over and kissed her brother, while at the same time her dark eyes shot a curious glance at the youth of whom she had read and heard so much.
At this time Minnetaki was fifteen. Like her mother's race she was slender, of almost woman's height, and unconsciously as graceful as a fawn in her movements. A slightly waving wealth of raven hair framed what Rod thought to be one of the prettiest faces he had ever seen, and entwined in the heavy silken braid that fell over her shoulder were a number of red autumn leaves. As she straightened herself in her canoe she looked at Rod and smiled, and he in making a polite effort to lift his cap in civilized style, lost that article of apparel in a sudden gust of wind. In an instant there was a general laugh of merriment in which even the old Indian joined. The little incident did more toward making comradeship than anything else that might have happened, and laughing again into Rod's face Minnetaki urged her canoe toward the floating cap.
"You shouldn't wear such things until it gets cold," she said, after retrieving the cap and handing it to him. "Wabi does—but I don't!"
"Then I won't," replied Rod gallantly, and at Wabi's burst of laughter both blushed.
That first night at the Post Rod found that Wabi had already made all plans for the winter's hunting, and the white youth's complete equipment was awaiting him in the room assigned to him in the factor's house—a deadly looking five-shot Remington, similar to Wabi's, a long-barreled, heavy-caliber revolver, snow-shoes, and a dozen other articles necessary to one about to set out upon a long expedition in the wilderness. Wabi had also mapped out their hunting-grounds. Wolves in the immediate neighborhood of the Post, where they were being constantly sought by the Indians and the factor's men, had become exceedingly cautious and were not numerous, but in the almost untraveled wilderness a hundred miles to the north and east they were literally