“Why did you let him have that?” asked the resentful Victor.
“He took it before I had any idea of what he was after. Maybe he only wants to look over it.”
The chief held up the gun, inspected the hammer and trigger, squinted one eye down the barrel (and Victor Shelton never wished more fervently that the rifle would go off), pretended to aim at some target in the distance, and then, instead of returning the weapon to the owner, passed it to one of his warriors.
He next looked at Victor, and took two or three steps toward him. The boy retreated, shaking his head and griping his weapon with both hands.
“There’ll be a fight before you get this, you old scamp!” replied the lad, compressing his lips and showing his anger so plainly that no one could mistake.
The dusky countenance of the chief took on a dangerous glint and his black eyes twinkled threateningly.
“Better let him have it,” said his brother. “There’s no help for it.”
“He doesn’t get it without a fight. I won’t stand like a lamb and let him rob me.”
The consequences must have been serious had not Mul-tal-la, the Blackfoot, put in an appearance at this critical moment. He came over the ridge from behind the boys, proving that he had crossed the devastated valley some time before.
All the strangers turned their faces toward the new arrival, and it was apparent from the expression on the face of the chief that he recognized Mul-tal-la. They had met when the Blackfoot passed through this region the year before, though none of the other four knew him.