“Wah-coo-tah go, too?” the girl asked.
“Wah-coo-tah stay here,” the scout answered, throwing off his coat and hat. “Keep watch. If you see any one coming, fire two revolver-shots so that I may know, and climb back to the ore-dump. Sabe?”
“Me sabe, but me no got gun.”
“Take this one,” and the scout laid one of his forty-fives in the girl’s hand.
“Me watch,” said the girl. “Pa-e-has-ka trust Wah-coo-tah.”
After a precautionary glance around, the scout lowered himself through the opening and slid rapidly down the rope. At the lower end of it, his foot touched against something soft and yielding. Stepping over the object, he took a match from his pocket, and struck it against the wall of the shaft.
The object on the shaft’s bottom was what he had supposed it to be—the body of the Ponca. The Indian was dead.
Paying no further heed to the Ponca, the scout started along the level, lighting his way with matches. He had not proceeded far before he picked up a half-burned candle, and was able to continue his investigations to better purpose.
As he continued on along the crooked drift, the gleam of the candle sparkled on another object at his feet. He bent and picked it up, finding it to be an empty brass shell.
“Queer place for a shell,” he muttered, “particularly for a shotgun-shell. Who has been using a shotgun down here, and why?”