Pritchen was in a trap, he fully realized that, and a wild rage mingled with his fear. He reached for his revolver, but it was not there. Anyway it would have been of little use, for instantly a score of revolvers leaped from as many hip pockets, and covered him in the twinkling of an eye.
"Come out here!" roared Pete, "an' stand up like a man. Thar's no use kickin'."
There was nothing else to be done, and sulkily Pritchen stepped forward and faced the Indian girl.
"Thar, that's better. Now go ahead," continued Pete, turning to Jennie.
The latter, however, did not speak, but stood staring at Pritchen, as a bird fascinated by a serpent.
"De' ye know that man?" demanded the prospector, seeing her embarrassment.
"Yes. Me know 'um," came the low reply.
"Whar did ye fust see 'im?"
"Heem bad man; bad heart. Heem keel my modder long tam ago."
"It's a lie!" shouted Pritchen.