Legget arose, shook himself like a shaggy dog, and was starting for the door when one of the sentinels stopped him. Brandt, who was now awake, saw the action, and smiled.
In a few moments Indians and outlaws were eating for breakfast roasted strips of venison, with corn meal baked brown, which served as bread. It was a somber, silent group.
Presently the shrill neigh of a horse startled them. Following it, the whip-like crack of a rifle stung and split the morning air. Hard on this came an Indian's long, wailing death-cry.
"Hah!" exclaimed Brandt.
Legget remained immovable. One of the savages peered out through a little port-hole at the rear of the hut. The others continued their meal.
"Whistler'll come in presently to tell us who's doin' thet shootin'," said Legget. "He's a keen Injun."
"He's not very keen now," replied Brandt, with bitter certainty. "He's what the settlers call a good Indian, which is to say, dead!"
Legget scowled at his lieutenant.
"I'll go an' see," he replied and seized his rifle.
He opened the door, when another rifle-shot rang out. A bullet whistled in the air, grazing the outlaw's shoulder, and imbedded itself in the heavy door-frame.