The Indian disappeared in the tepee and presently returned with Imbrie’s “bed,” that is to say, a pair of heavy blankets and a small, grimy pillow, and Imbrie’s hatchet.
“That’s all I brought,” said Imbrie, “except a little dried moose-meat, and that’s eaten up.”
“I want your gun,” said Stonor.
“Didn’t bring any.”
“Then what are you wearing a cartridge-belt for?” Imbrie shrugged airily.
“Produce your gun, or I’ll tie you up, and search for it myself.”
Imbrie spoke, and the Kakisa disappeared again, returning with a revolver, which he handed to Stonor. Stonor was careful not to betray the grim satisfaction he experienced at the sight of it. It was of thirty-eight calibre, the same as the bullet that reposed in his pocket. While not conclusive, perhaps, this was strong evidence. Since he had seen this man he had lost his dread of bringing the crime home to him. He wished to convict him now. He dropped the revolver in his side pocket, and held out his hand for the ammunition-belt, which was handed over.
“Now get a horse,” he said.
Myengeen objected with violent shakes of the head.
“He says he’s got no horses to hand over,” said Imbrie, grinning.