His broad, bronze face and dark eyes were quite without expression, for all he had searched closely and probed deeply into the horrors of that desperate camp. Perhaps he had no appreciation of horror. Perhaps he saw nothing outrageous in the dreadful destruction.
He was carrying a broken modern rifle in his hand, and with a word promptly offered it to his chief.
Kars took the weapon. He examined it closely while Bill looked on. Then the white chief's eyes searched the Indian's face.
"Well?" he demanded.
The copper-hued expressionless features of the man underwent a change. They became almost animated. But it was with a look of awe, or even apprehension.
"Him Bell River," he stated bluntly.
"Yes."
John Kars had learned all he wanted from the scout. His own opinion was corroborated. So he handed the useless weapon back and pointed at it.
"Allan Mowbray's outfit," he said. "Bell River neche steal 'em."
The scout nodded.