Something in the alacrity the "bug-hunter" displayed angered Smith. He always had despised the little man in a general way. He uncinched his saddle on the wrong side; he clucked at his horse; he removed his hat when he talked to women; he was a weak and innocent fool to Smith, who lost no occasion to belittle him. Now, when the prisoner saw him moving about, free to go and come as he pleased, while he, Smith, was tied like an unruly pup, it, of a sudden, made his gorge rise; and, with one of his swift, characteristic transitions of mood, Smith turned to the Indians who guarded him. "You never could find out who killed White Antelope--you smart-Alec Injuns!" he sneered contemptuously. "And you've always wanted to know, haven't you?" He eyed them one by one. "Why, you don't know straight up, you women warriors! I've a notion to tell you who killed White Antelope--just for fun--just because I want to laugh, me--Smith!" The Indians drew closer. "You think you're scouts," he went on tauntingly, "and you never saw White Antelope's blanket right under your nose! Put it back, feller"--he nodded at McArthur. "I don't aim to sleep on dead men's clothes!" The Indians looked at the blanket, and at McArthur, whom they had grown to like and trust. They recognized it now, and in the corner they saw the stiff and dingy stain, the jagged tell-tale holes. McArthur mechanically held it up to view. He had not the faintest recollection where it had been purchased, or of whom obtained. Tubbs always had attended to such things. No one spoke in the grave silence, and Smith leered. "I likes company," he said. "I'm sociable inclined. Put him in the dog-house with me." Susie had listened with the Indians; she had looked at the blanket, the stain, the holes; she saw the blank consternation in McArthur's face, the gathering storm in the Indians' eyes. She stepped out a little from the rest. "Mister _Smith_!" she said. "_Mister_ Smith"--with oily, sarcastic emphasis--"how did you know that was White Antelope's blanket, when you never _saw_ White Antelope?" XXII A MONGOLIAN CUPID With his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets, Ralston leaned against the corner of the bunk-house, from which point of vantage he could catch a glimpse of the Schoolmarm's white-curtained window. He now had no feeling of elation over his success. Smith was a victorious captive. Ralston's heart ached miserably, and he wished that the day was ended and the morning come, that he might go, never to return. He too had seen the mist in Dora's eyes; and, with Smith's words, the air-castles which had persistently built themselves without volition on his part, crumbled. There was nothing for him to do but to efface himself as quickly and as completely as possible. The sight of him could only be painful to Dora, and he wished to spare her all of that within his power.