“A wolf,” he answered.
“Where did you see it? Pshaw, you’re joking,” accused Sandy. “A wolf! One seldom sees a wolf during the summer.”
“I see ’em wolf,” declared Toma, “an’ I shoot at him one, two, three times.”
“Yes, we heard you,” said Dick. “Hit him?”
“I not try very hard. I have lots fun scare that wolf. Wolf no good to eat unless one pretty near starve. Why for I kill him?”
“I’d kill a wolf any time I had a chance,” declared Dick. “I hate them.”
Sandy started to say something, then suddenly paused. Of a sudden his eyes had grown very round and he stared at Toma as if fascinated. He was looking straight at the young Indian’s hip pocket. From it a bulky object protruded. The object was brown and it was a little difficult to tell just what it was, nevertheless, Sandy had his suspicions. He strode forward quickly and yanked it from his chum’s pocket. He smoothed it and held it out for better inspection.
“Where did you get it?” he demanded.
At the sharp question, Dick turned and he, too, stood goggling.
“I no tell you a lie,” Toma explained. “That fellow him wolf all right—Wolf Brennan.”