At this the young hunter aimed and fired.

With one spasmodic bound the animal dropped dead.
Hardly had Rod seen the effect of his shot before Mukoki was traveling swiftly toward the fallen game, unstrapping his pack as he ran.

By the time the youth reached his quarry the old Indian had produced a large whisky flask holding about a quart.

Without explanation he now proceeded to thrust his knife into the quivering animal's throat and fill this flask with blood.

When he had finished his task he held it up with an air of unbounded satisfaction.
"Blood for wolf.