Twenty-one pair of eyes went swiftly to the window. Blue Pete, at his chink behind the shack, held his ground, but his muscles were tense.
Werner grinned at the little joke.
"There ain't much chance to smell anything else with this bunk of yours under my nose. When they burn this shack down—and they got to if they're going to live in the country—somebody's going to be asphyxiated. I hope I'm five hundred miles away about then."
Koppy, struggling with anger and scorn, frowned on the would-be humourist, who hastily grinned.
"Course you know it's only a joke of mine, Koppy."
"Better so," returned the leader coldly. "Many Indians about?" He was searching Werner's eyes. "You saw—or smelt them."
Werner wilted under that stare. Volubly he struggled to support his story with convincing details, but his face was flushed and his eyes were anywhere but on his leader's. And Koppy smiled inscrutably.
"Anyway, we still got ninety-two rifles," stammered Werner. "That surely ought—"
Koppy struck him to sudden silence by a peremptory hand. "You talk too much," he said acidly.
"Just let me fire the first shot, that's all I want," babbled Werner, reading the disfavour under which he rested. "I'll blow the whole bunch to hell."