“It is Kateegoose—loading his gun, I think.”
La Certe got up, with a sigh of regret at the necessity for exertion, and, lifting the curtain-door, stepped out.
“What are they firing at, Kateegoose?”
The Indian did not know. Some one, he thought, might have let off his gun by accident. He thought it wise, however, to be ready, and had just sent the ramrod down the barrel of his gun to make sure that it was loaded with ball. To make still surer that all was ready, the Indian shook the priming out of the pan of his gun, wiped it, and re-primed. Then he laid the weapon down by his side, and resumed the pipe which he had apparently laid down to enable him to perform these operations more conveniently, and, at the same time, with more safety.
At that moment Dechamp walked smartly towards the fire in front of La Certe’s tent.
“Does Kateegoose know who fired that shot?” he asked with a keen glance, for his suspicions had been aroused.
“Some one over there,” answered the Indian languidly, as he pointed in the right direction.
“It does not need a medicine-man to tell me that,” said Dechamp, sternly. “I heard the shot, and saw the smoke. Have you any idea who fired it, La Certe?”
“I have not,” replied the half-breed. “I was lying in my tent when I heard it. Kateegoose was smoking beside the fire. We both thought it was an accident, or some one trying his gun, till we heard the shouting and running. Then I jumped up, seized my gun, and sprang out to see what it was all about. I found Kateegoose equally on the qui vive. He was shoving his ramrod down to make sure his gun was loaded when you came up. What is it all about?”
“Only that the horse of Okématan has been shot under him by some one, and that there is a would-be murderer in the camp.”