From the shaded side of the hut he put his fingers to his nose and waggled them in the direction of the grade, then he climbed back through the window. Inside, every vestige of impudence deserted him. A grave frown puckered his forehead as he seated himself thoughtfully on the solitary chair to sit like a statue staring at the floor. Certain sudden twistings of his clumsy frame revealed the vagrant meanderings of his mind, now satisfied and determined, now uncertain and reflective. Plainly it was a mind that refused to settle.

 

Thus he missed the first three low taps on the wall of his hut. When it was repeated he jerked his head nervously, stared for an appreciable moment at an upper corner of the room, gripped his fists and teeth, and whispered a soft response.

 

Werner's head appeared in the window space, smiled, pushed through, followed by a scrambling body. After him came Morani, Heppel, and eighteen villainous-looking companions. Werner, first to enter, as usual, selected the bunk, throwing himself on it with a cunning smile. He always thought too quickly for the others. His companions littered the floor, Koppy retaining the seat of state. Twenty-two vile-featured conspirators gathered in solemn conclave.

 

A twenty-third, not so vile-featured but swarthier of skin, sank softly against the logs at the rear of the shack, one ear pressed to a chink.

 

"You've gone the rounds?" demanded Koppy, probing each face in turn.

 

One of the men spoke hesitatingly: "Simoff's rifles gone. We find place--all gone."

 

Koppy turned on him. "Sure?" He knew the craven hearts and beclouding imaginations of these companions of his.

 

"We saw marks. It was the place."

 

The frown on their leader's forehead deepened, and for a long time he was wrapped in thought. "Yours, too, Werner!" he muttered, shaking his head.

 

Werner read censure into the three words. "That dirty redskin caught me a clump on the coco from behind, and then a whole lot of Indians jumped on me. See, there's the lump." He felt tenderly of the crown of his head, but made no advance to enable his friends to verify his claim; it was too sore for that. "I just dropped. When I came round, the rifles were gone."

 

"You saw the Indian?"

 

"Sure I saw him." In time he recalled the darkness and added hastily, "with my nose. You can't fool this guy when an Indian's within a mile. I know when they're inside the township. I guess I ought to: I used to steal with 'em, out further west, trapping we was--or stealing from the other fellow's traps. Smell 'em? Well, I guess."

 

"Do you smell one now?" asked Koppy suddenly.

 

Twenty-one pair of eyes went swiftly to the window. Blue Pete, at his chink behind the shack, held his ground, but his muscles were tense.

 

Werner grinned at the little joke.

 

"There ain't much chance to smell anything else with this bunk of yours under my nose. When they burn this shack down--and they got to if they're going to live in the country--somebody's going to be asphyxiated. I hope I'm five hundred miles away about then."

 

Koppy, struggling with anger and scorn, frowned on the would-be humourist, who hastily grinned.

 

"Course you know it's only a joke of mine, Koppy."

 

"Better so," returned the leader coldly. "Many Indians about?" He was searching Werner's eyes. "You saw--or smelt them."

 

Werner wilted under that stare. Volubly he struggled to support his story with convincing details, but his face was flushed and his eyes were anywhere but on his leader's. And Koppy smiled inscrutably.

 

"Anyway, we still got ninety-two rifles," stammered Werner. "That surely ought--"

 

Koppy struck him to sudden silence by a peremptory hand. "You talk too much," he said acidly.

 

"Just let me fire the first shot, that's all I want," babbled Werner, reading the disfavour under which he rested. "I'll blow the whole bunch to hell."

 

Morani's long knife passed slickly back and forth on the side of his boot; and they watched with staring eyes. A dirty, moistened finger tested the keen edge, the dark, cruel face lit up with satisfaction, and the weapon slid unobtrusively out of sight somewhere in the Italian's clothing.

 

Werner shuddered. "It's a wonder your vittles don't sour on your stomach, Chico. Every time I dream I can feel that stiletto spiding down my spine."

 

And then, by a stealthy, apparently innocent movement, the knife was out again, sliding along the leather of the boot.

 

"If you don't put that sticker where it belongs," protested Werner, "I'm going to carry a gun. I suppose you got to be carving something. Well, go out and tackle a log. You was brought up on a knife instead of a ............