The mystified Indian, after stooping for a moment over the dog, advanced toward the “bowlder,” probably thinking some one was behind it, yet puzzled because he had heard no gun.
The dull click sounded again, and the Indian reeled backward with a yell, his right arm dropping at his side. He yelled again; then began to run toward the dancing Indians.
“The bowlder’s got to move back ag’in,” said Bill Betts. “Ye’re seein’ now the uses of a gun what don’t seem ter be a gun. I reckon this ole umbreller has saved more’n a dozen lives fer me; I’d been killed that many times if I hadn’t had it.”
“Vun more life idt haf safed you to-nighdt—huh?”
“You bet you! Hitch back fast’s ye kin, Schnitz; thar’ll be more Injuns whar that’n stood in a little while. He’s reached the dancers and is spreadin’ the news thar.”
Some of the dancers stopped their whirling and howling and began to run toward the spot where the dog had been killed and the Ute had received a shattered arm. The injured Ute led the way, holding his bleeding arm with his left hand.
“Now we haf got to make der slide.”
“Yes, it’s a lively skedaddle fer us. Up goes ther umbreller. Now, jump fer it.”
The umbrella closed with a snap, and the two men whom it had concealed sprang to their feet and beat a hasty retreat out of the village before the staring eyes of the astounded Utes.
But the Utes, getting their wits together, followed, howling like a crazy mob.