The Indian had stepped forward at their entrance.
“Yas, I know him,” he reiterated.
McArthur looked from one to the other.
“Bear Chief accuses you of stealing his horses, Mr. McArthur,” explained Ralston bluntly.
“What!”
“You slick little horse-thief, but I see you good. Where you cache my race-pony?” The Indian’s demand was a threat.
For reply, McArthur walked over and sat down on the edge of a bunk, as if his legs of a sudden were too weak to support him.
“Bear Chief swears he saw you, McArthur.” Ralston’s tone was not unfriendly now, for something within him pleaded the bug-hunter’s cause with irritating persistence.
“Me a horse-thief? Running off race-ponies?” McArthur found himself able to exclaim at last: “But I had no horse of my own!”
“Have you any credentials—anything at all by which we can identify you?”