"I don't think it," Smith replied dryly, noting the direction from which they came. "It looks like business." He knew that the two behind were Indians. He could tell by the way they used their quirts and sat their horses. Neither was there any mistaking the bug-hunter on his ewe-necked sorrel, which, displaying unexpected bursts of speed, was keeping in the lead and heading straight for the ranch-house. With one hand McArthur was clinging to the saddle-horn, and with the other was clinging quite as tightly to what at a distance appeared to be a carbine. "He's pulled his gun--why don't he use it?" Smith quickened his horse's gait. He knew that the Indians had learned White Antelope's fate. That was a lucky swap Smith had made that morning. He congratulated himself that he had not "taken chances." He wondered how effective McArthur's denial would prove in the face of the evidence furnished by the saddle-blanket. Personally, Smith regarded the bug-hunter's chances as slim. "They'll get him in the corral," he observed. "Oh, it's Mr. McArthur!" Dora cried in distress. Smith looked at her in quick jealousy. "Well, what of it?" In her excitement, the gruffness of his tone passed unobserved. "Come," she urged. "The Indians are angry, and he may need us." Hatless, breathless, pale, McArthur rolled out of his saddle and thrust a long, bleached bone into Tubbs's hand. "Keep it!" he gasped. "Protect it! It may be--I don't say it is, but it _may_ be--a portion of the paroccipital bone of an Ichthyopterygian!" Then he turned and faced his pursuers. Infuriated, they rode straight at him, but he did not flinch, and the horses swerved of their own accord. Susie had run from the house, and her mother had followed, expectancy upon her stolid face, for, like Smith, she had guessed the situation. The Indians circled, and, returning, pointed accusing fingers at McArthur. "He kill White Antelope!" By this time, the grub-liners had reached the corral, among them four Indians, all friends of the dead man. Their faces darkened. "White Antelope is dead in a gulch!" cried his accusers. "He is shot to pieces--here, there, everywhere!" A murmur of angry amazement arose. White Antelope, the kindly, peaceable Cree, who had not an enemy on the reservation! "This is dreadful!" declared McArthur. "Believe me"--he turned to them all--"I had but found the corpse myself when these men rode up. The Indian was cold; he certainly had been dead for hours. Besides," he demanded, "what possible motive could I have?" "Them as likes lettin' blood don't need a motive." The sneering voice was Smith's. "But you, sir, met us on the hill. You know the direction from which we came." "It's easy enough to circle." "But why should I go back?" cried McArthur. "They say there's that that draws folks back for another look."