A whispered word, a last look at his rifle, and Mukoki hurried down into the plains.
At the foot of the hill he abandoned the outlaw trail and Rod realized that his plan was to sweep swiftly in a semicircle, surprising the Woongas from the front or side instead of approaching from the rear.
Again he was taxed to his utmost to keep pace with the avenging Mukoki.
Less than ten minutes later the Indian peered cautiously from behind a clump of hazel, and then looked back at Rod, a smile of satisfaction on his face.
"They come," he breathed, just loud enough to hear.

"They come!" Rod peered over his shoulder, and his heart smote mightily within him.
Unconscious of their peril the Woongas were approaching two hundred yards away.

Mukoki gazed into his companion's face and his eyes were almost pleading as he laid a bronzed crinkled hand upon the white boy's arm.
"You take front man--ahead of Wabi," he whispered.

"I take other t'ree.
See that tree--heem birch, with bark off?
Shoot heem there.

You no tremble?
You no miss ?" "No," replied Rod.