By this time, the grub-liners had reached the corral, among them four Indians, all friends of the dead man. Their faces darkened.
“White Antelope is dead in a gulch!” cried his accusers. “He is shot to pieces—here, there, everywhere!”
A murmur of angry amazement arose. White Antelope, the kindly, peaceable Cree, who had not an enemy on the reservation!
“This is dreadful!” declared McArthur. “Believe me”—he turned to them all—“I had but found the corpse myself when these men rode up. The Indian was cold; he certainly had been dead for hours. Besides,” he demanded, “what possible motive could I have?”
“Them as likes lettin’ blood don’t need a motive.” The sneering voice was Smith’s.
“But you, sir, met us on the hill. You know the direction from which we came.”
“It’s easy enough to circle.”
“But why should I go back?” cried McArthur.
“They say there’s that that draws folks back for another look.”
Smith’s insinuations, the stand he took, had its effect upon the Indians, who, hot for revenge, needed only this to confirm their suspicions. One of the Indians on horseback began to uncoil his rawhide saddle-rope. All save McArthur understood the significance of the action. They meant to tie him hand and foot and take him to the Agency, with blows and insults plentiful en route.