A twenty-third, not so vile-featured but swarthier of skin, sank softly against the logs at the rear of the shack, one ear pressed to a chink.
"You've gone the rounds?" demanded Koppy, probing each face in turn.
One of the men spoke hesitatingly: "Simoff's rifles gone. We find place—all gone."
Koppy turned on him. "Sure?" He knew the craven hearts and beclouding imaginations of these companions of his.
"We saw marks. It was the place."
The frown on their leader's forehead deepened, and for a long time he was wrapped in thought. "Yours, too, Werner!" he muttered, shaking his head.
Werner read censure into the three words. "That dirty redskin caught me a clump on the coco from behind, and then a whole lot of Indians jumped on me. See, there's the lump." He felt tenderly of the crown of his head, but made no advance to enable his friends to verify his claim; it was too sore for that. "I just dropped. When I came round, the rifles were gone."
"You saw the Indian?"
"Sure I saw him." In time he recalled the darkness and added hastily, "with my nose. You can't fool this guy when an Indian's within a mile. I know when they're inside the township. I guess I ought to: I used to steal with 'em, out further west, trapping we was—or stealing from the other fellow's traps. Smell 'em? Well, I guess."
"Do you smell one now?" asked Koppy suddenly.