“Oh, it’s Mr. McArthur!” Dora cried in distress.
Smith looked at her in quick jealousy.
“Well, what of it?” In her excitement, the gruffness of his tone passed unobserved.
“Come,” she urged. “The Indians are angry, and he may need us.”
Hatless, breathless, pale, McArthur rolled out of his saddle and thrust a long, bleached bone into Tubbs’s hand.
“Keep it!” he gasped. “Protect it! It may be—I don’t say it is, but it may be—a portion of the paroccipital bone of an Ichthyopterygian!” Then he turned and faced his pursuers.
Infuriated, they rode straight at him, but he did not flinch, and the horses swerved of their own accord.
Susie had run from the house, and her mother had followed, expectancy upon her stolid face, for, like Smith, she had guessed the situation.
The Indians circled, and, returning, pointed accusing fingers at McArthur.
“He kill White Antelope!”