Morani's long knife passed slickly back and forth on the side of his boot; and they watched with staring eyes. A dirty, moistened finger tested the keen edge, the dark, cruel face lit up with satisfaction, and the weapon slid unobtrusively out of sight somewhere in the Italian's clothing.
Werner shuddered. "It's a wonder your vittles don't sour on your stomach, Chico. Every time I dream I can feel that stiletto spiding down my spine."
And then, by a stealthy, apparently innocent movement, the knife was out again, sliding along the leather of the boot.
"If you don't put that sticker where it belongs," protested Werner,
"I'm going to carry a gun. I suppose you got to be carving something.
Well, go out and tackle a log. You was brought up on a knife instead
of a spoon."
"Saturday night!" Koppy announced suddenly.
"Er—what's that?" Werner had straightened on the bunk and was regarding his leader with fearful eyes. "Ah—yes—Saturday night. But don't you think a week from now, say next Tuesday—"
"Saturday night," repeated Koppy.
"If you wouldn't be so swift, Koppy, I was going to point out that the moon will be darker a few days later. I'm a regular nightingale when it comes to the dark."
"Some bird!" sneered Koppy. "Maybe you flew from the Indians."
"Look here, old chap," Werner bridled, "you don't think I ran about looking for that Indian and threw the damn things at him?"