“I wish they did!” snapped Mr. Brill. “But it’s all nonsense for you to say that you killed the bear. It’s ours and we mean to have it—not that we actually need it, for I guess Bob has enough grub in his kitchen to last a month. But we want our rights, and we’re going to have ’em!”
Mr. Brill spoke sharply, and it was evident that his words produced an effect on the Indians, for they murmured angrily, and seemed to be urging their chief to take some action.
“That Indian bear!” sullenly repeated Standing Horse.
“Well, if that’s the way you feel about it, there’s only one way to settle this dispute!” declared the miner. “Here, Ned, hold my gun!”
“What are you going to do?” asked the lad.
“I’m going to prove to this cheating Indian whose bullet it was that finished the bear. That’s the only way. He’s got an old-fashioned rifle, and it doesn’t make half the size wound your soft-nosed mushroom bullet does. I’ll show him!”
Passing his rifle to Ned, Mr. Brill stalked forward toward the body of the bear. At the first sign of his advance the angry murmur among the Indians increased, and the chief quickly shoved another cartridge into the chamber of his weapon.
“Look out!” cried Ned, in apprehension.
“It’s all right,” answered the miner, reassuringly. “I know these fellows. They won’t fire until they’re more angry than they are now, and especially when they see I haven’t got a gun. Don’t worry. I’ll settle this thing!”