“Wow! See that?” whispered Betts.
“I am hearing idt.”
Encouraged by the Indian, the dog made a barking rush at the dark umbrella.
“The Injun thinks this is a bowlder,” said Betts, “but the dog knows better.”
“Yaw! He knows idt mit his nose.”
“Shall I let him have it?”
The dog settled the question by making a furious rush upon the bowlder.
The finger of Bill Betts clutched round the stock of the umbrella handle in a nervous grip; a dull click sounded, and the dog, yelping its last, fell dead in its tracks.
The Ute stared in wildest astonishment, then ran to the dog, which was thirty feet or more from the bowlder.
“Now he vill gome on unt seen us,” whispered the German.