A dozen feet away stood Petwanisip, leaning on an ax; even that cocking of the rifle had attracted the half-breed’s attention. Denis covered the man instantly.
“Hands up, Smoking Duck!”
Smoking Duck stared as if at an apparition. Then he cast a wild glance around, and Denis saw a rifle leaning against the wall. But it was three yards distant, and not even the desperate half-breed dared risk it. His hands rose slowly.
Each lean-to adjoined the other, here at the back. To the left of the rifle was a low doorway, near which Smoking Duck had been throwing the wood as he had cut it. Denis observed that this was firewood.
“Go to the left of that door, stand with your face to the wall, and stick your hands out behind your back!” commanded Denis.
There was a snap to his voice that spelled earnestness. His brown face convulsed with helpless rage, the half-breed did as Denis had ordered. Advancing to the man, Denis stuck his rifle in Petwanisip’s back.
“Be mighty careful, now—this gun is cocked!”
With one hand he unlaced his moccasins, knotted the lacing, and drew it about the swarthy wrists. Then he set down his rifle, and in a few seconds had knotted the buckskin thongs stoutly. Smoking Duck was trapped beyond escape.
“Walk around to the front of the cabin.”
Driven by that relentless rifle, the sullen half-breed led the way around the shack to the door. Denis ordered him on inside, and so to the same little room where he himself had been confined. Removing the fellow’s knife, he locked him in the inner room.