Rod stood as though he had been nailed to the spot, his mouth half open in astonishment.
"We go see traps," urged Mukoki.

"Find moose dead when we go back." But Roderick Drew, who had hunted nothing larger than house rats in his own city, was not the young man to see the logic of this reasoning, and before Mukoki could open his mouth again he was hurrying up the hill.

On its summit he saw a huge torn-up blotch in the snow, spattered with blood, where the moose had fallen first after the shots; and at the foot of the hill, as the Indian had predicted, the great animal lay dead.
Wabi was hastening across the lake, attracted by the shots, and both reached the slain bull at about the same time.

Rod quickly perceived that three shots had taken effect; one, which was undoubtedly Mukoki's carefully directed ball, in a vital spot behind the fore leg, and two through the body.

The fact that two of his own shots had taken good effect filled the white youth with enthusiasm, and he was still gesticulating excitedly in describing the bull's flight to Wabi when the old Indian came over the hill, grinning broadly, and holding up for their inspection a magnificent mink.
The day could not have begun more auspiciously for the hunters, and by the time Mukoki was ready to leave upon his long trail the adventurers were in buoyant spirits, the distressing fears of the preceding night being somewhat dispelled by their present good fortune and the glorious day which now broke in full splendor upon the wilderness.
Until their early dinner Wabi remained in camp, securing certain parts of the moose and assisting Rod in putting the cabin into a state of defense according to their previous plans.