In camp the advent of fresh venison was hailed with satisfaction.
“Wal, I’ll gamble the shot thet killed this meat was heerd by Injuns,” blurted out Horn, as he deposited his burden on the grass and whipped out his hunting-knife. Then he glared at the outfit of men he had come to despise.
“Horn, I reckon you ‘pear more set up about Injuns than usual,” remarked Jones.
“Fresh Sioux track right out thar along the brook.”
“No!”
“Sioux!” exclaimed another.
“Go an’ look fer yourself.”
Not a man of them moved a step. Horn snorted his disdain and without more talk began to dress the deer.
Meanwhile the sun set behind the ridge and the day seemed far spent. The evening meal of the travelers was interrupted when Horn suddenly leaped up and reached for his rifle.
“Thet’s no Injun, but I don’t like the looks of how he’s comin’.”