He reached the sledge, and his fingers gripped convulsively at the cold steel of his rifle.

One more chance! One more chance! The words--the thought--filled his brain, and he raised the rifle to his shoulder, pointing its muzzle up to the sky so that he would not harm the dogs.
And then, once, twice, five times he fired into the air, and at the end of the fifth shot he drew fresh cartridges from his belt, and fired again and again, until the black streak far out in the wilderness of ice and snow stopped in its progress--and turned back.
And still the sharp signals rang out again and again, until the barrel of Wabi's rifle grew hot, and his cartridge belt was empty.
Slowly the gloom cleared away before his eyes.

He heard a shout, and staggered to his feet, stretching 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.