The breed was slowly picking himself up a look of blank amazement on his face. First he looked toward the boys and then turned to Lucky who stood with a look of calm stoicism on his face.
"Better not," he said calmly as the breed took a step toward him.
There was something in the Indian's voice that gave the other pause for he stopped and, for a moment stood as though undecided what to do. Then he turned and started toward where the revolver had fallen.
"Stop."
At the order the breed turned his head but kept on.
"Stop."
This time he halted and growled:
"I'm goin' ter geet my gun."
"Injun geet eet," and he sprang from the trail and a moment later picked the revolver from where it had fallen in the snow.
Removing the cartridges he threw them away and then, stepping close to the breed, handed him the gun. For a second it seemed that the breed was about to jump at the Indian's throat in spite of the lesson he had already received, but he evidently thought better of it for he snatched the gun from his hand and, thrusting it into his belt, turned and went quickly back to where his dogs were lying in the snow. Lucky followed and at his command his dogs rose and soon, with the help of the boys, the team was out of the trail enough to permit the other team to pass. Low rumbling growls came from the throats of the dogs of both teams as they passed, but there was no move toward another attack.