“But that’s not all, Little Bill,” returned his brother, “for I’m almost certain that I saw a little smoke comin’ out o’ the muzzle of his gun as he passed—though I couldn’t exactly swear to it.”
Archie had overrated his brother’s powers in the way of advice, for, although they talked the matter over for some time, they failed to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion.
Meanwhile Okématan, having entered the camp, was met by Dechamp, and led by him to a retired part.
“You have an enemy here, Okématan,” he said, inquiringly.
“It would seem so,” returned the Indian gravely. “Friends do not shoot each other’s horses; and if the poor horse had not tossed his head when the shot was fired, his rider would have bit the dust.”
“I fear it looks something like that,” said Dechamp; “but I hope Okématan believes that I know nothing of the matter—nor can I tell who the cowardly villain is that did it.”
“Okématan knows that,” answered the Indian, sternly. “No half-breed fired the shot.”
“There is no Indian in the camp but Kateegoose,” rejoined the other, quickly; “surely you don’t think that a man of your own tribe would try to kill you?”
“I know not. Kateegoose hates me. No other man in the camp hates me.”
“It is strange—unaccountable,” returned Dechamp. “If the Indian did it, he shall forfeit his horse and leave the camp. But tell me,”—here the half-breed commandant turned a searching gaze on his companion, “why did Okématan leave us, and spend all night alone on the prairie? Did he spend the night in conversation with the buffalo—or in the company of his departed forefathers?”