All the time Sergeant Hal had trailed his rifle about camp with him. Now, tiring of reading, he went to his tent, standing his rifle against the front tent pole.
Hearing a swift step the young sergeant reached the tent flap in time to see a roughly-dressed, moccasined white man running away with Hal's Army rifle.
Then, in the same instant, he heard a voice call:
"Throw your hands up there, man!"
"Holding me up with my own gun, are you?" raged Private Dietz.
"Yes; and we've got the other chap's lead-piece, too. Up with your hands, both of you."
Hal dropped back behind the flap of his tent, peering out through a little crack in the canvas.
There were now seven men outside, all strangers, all rough-looking and all moccasined.
Between them they had the three rifles belonging in camp that day.
"Bring out that other fellow, the kid sergeant," commanded the same voice, after Dietz and Johnson, hopelessly surprised, had hoisted their hands skyward.