There was an unpleasant ring in his voice as he spoke the last word, and though Rod did not fully understand what significance the discovery held for them he could not but observe that it occasioned both of his comrades considerable anxiety. The cause was not long in doubt. Another half hour of brisk paddling brought them to the edge of a frozen field of ice that extended for a quarter of a mile from the shore. In both directions it stretched beyond their vision. Wabi's face was filled with dismay. Mukoki sat with his paddle across his knees, uttering not a sound.
“What's the matter?” asked Rod. “Can't we make it?”
“Make it!” exclaimed Wabigoon. “Yes—perhaps to-morrow, or the next day!”
“Do you mean to say we can't get over that ice?”
“That's just exactly the predicament we are in. The edge of that ice is rotten.”
The canoe had drifted alongside the ice, and Rod began pounding it with his paddle. For a distance of two feet it broke off in chunks, then became more firm.
“I believe that if we cut our way in for a canoe length or so it would hold us,” he declared.
Wabi reached for an ax.
“We'll try it!”
Mukoki shook his head.
But for a second time that day Wabigoon persisted in acting against the old pathfinder's judgment, something that Rod had never known him to be guilty of before. Foot by foot he broke the ice ahead of the canoe, until the frail craft had thrust its length into the rotten field. Then, steadying himself on the bow, he stepped out cautiously upon the ice.
“There!” he cried triumphantly. “You next, Rod! Steady!”
In a moment Rod had joined him. What happened after that seemed to pass like a terrible nightmare. First there came a light cracking in the ice under their feet, but it was over in an instant. Wabi was laughing at him for the fear that had come into his face, and calling his name, when with a thunderous, crash the whole mass gave way under them, and they plunged down into the black depths of the lake. The last that Rod saw was his friend's horror-stricken face sinking in the crumbling ice; he heard a sharp, terrible cry from Mukoki, and then he knew that the cold waters had engulfed him, and that he was battling for his life under the surface.
Fiercely he struck out with arms and legs in an effort to rise, and in that moment of terror he thought of the great sheet of ice. What if he should come up under it? In which direction should he strike out? He opened his eyes but all was a black chaos about him. The seconds seemed like ages. There came a splitting, rending sensation in his head, an almost overpowering desire to open his mouth, to gasp, gasp for air where there was nothing but death! Then his head struck something. It was the ice! He had come up under the ice, and there was but one end to that!
He began to sink again, slowly, as if an invisible hand were pulling him down, and in his despair he made a last frantic effort, striking out blindly, knowing that in another second he must open his mouth. Even under the water he still had consciousness enough left to know that he tried to cry out, and he felt the first gurgling rush of water into his lungs. But he did not see the long arm that reached down where the bubbles were coming up, he did not feel the grip that dragged him out upon the ice. His first sense of life was that something very heavy was upon his stomach, and that he was being rubbed, and pummeled, and rolled about as if he had become the plaything of a great bear. Then he saw Mukoki, and then Wabigoon.
“You go build fire,” he heard Mukoki say, and he could hear Wabi running swiftly shoreward. For he knew that they were still upon the ice. The canoe was drawn safely up a dozen feet away, and the old Indian was dragging blankets from it. When Mukoki turned he found Rod resting upon his elbow, looking at him.
“That—w'at you call heem—close shave!” he grinned, placing a supporting arm under Rod's shoulder.
With Mukoki's assistance the youth rose to his feet, and a thick blanket was wrapped about him. Slowly they made their way shoreward, and soon Wabi came running out to meet them, dripping wet.
“Rod, when we get thawed out, I want you to kick me,” he pleaded. “I want you to kick me good and hard, and then I'll take great pleasure in kicking you. And ever after this, when we do a thing that Mukoki tells us not to do, we'll kick some more!”
“Who pulled us out?” asked Rod.
“Mukoki, of course. Will you kick me?”
“Shake!”
And the two dripping, half-frozen young adventurers shook hands, while Mukoki chuckled and grunted and gurgled until he set the others bursting into laughter.
CHAPTER VIII. THE YELLOW BULLET
Before a rousing fire of logs Rod and Wabigoon began to see the cheerful side of life again, and as soon as Mukoki had built them a balsam shelter they stripped off their clothes and wrapped themselves in blankets, while the old Indian dried their outfits. It was two hours before they were dressed. No sooner were they out than Wabi went into the bush and returned a few minutes later brandishing a good-sized birch in his hand. There was no sign of humor in his face as he eyed Rod.
“Do you see that log?” he said, pointing to the big trunk of a fallen tree near the fire “That will just fit your stomach, Rod. It will be better than kicking. Double yourself over that, face down, pantaloons up. I'm going to lick you first because I want you to know just how much to give me. I want it twice as hard, for I was more to blame than you.”
In some astonishment Rod doubled himself over the log.
“Great Scott!” he ejaculated, peering up in dismay. “Not too hard, Wabi!”
Swish! fell the birch, and a yell of pain burst from the white youth's lips.
Swish!—Swish!—Swish!
“Ouch! Great Caesar—Let up!”
“Don't move!” shouted Wabi. “Take it like a man—you deserve it!”
Again and again the birch fell. Rod groaned as he rose to his feet after Wabi had stopped. “Oh, please—please give me that whip!”
“Not too hard, you know,” warned Wabi, as he fitted himself over the log.
“You chose your own poison,” reminded Rod, rolling up his sleeve. “Just twice as hard, no more!”
And the birch began to fall.
When it was over Rod's arm ached, and Wabi, despite his Indian stoicism, let out a long howl at the last blow.
During the entire scene of chastisement Mukoki stood like one struck dumb.
“We'll never be bad any more, Muky,” promised Wabigoon, rubbing himself gently. “That is, if we are, we'll whip ourselves again, eh, Rod?”
“Not so long as I can run!” assured Rod with emphasis. “I'm willing to lend a helping hand at any time you think you deserve another, but beyond that please count me out!”
For an hour after the self-punishment of the young gold hunters the three gathered fuel for the night and balsam boughs for their beds. It was dark by the time they sat down to their supper, which they ate in the light of a huge fire of dry poplar.
“This is better than paddling all night, even if we did have a close shave,” said Rod, after they had finished and settled themselves comfortably.
Wabi gave a grimace and shrugged his shoulders.