“What’s all this?” roared Braddon, so surprised that for the moment he forgot his caution; “do you mean to say you haven’t found the belt? Did you look everywhere—under the skins on the ground, and in their bags? Ten to one my friend here would find it, if only you made them let him go back with you. Nothing escapes his eagle eye. Tell them that, Pick-ne-quan-to; make them let him accompany you! The belt must be found, and there is no more likely hiding-place than in the tent of these paleface boys, who have been prowling around your lodge so much!” This sounded like good logic to the medicine man. When his powers failed why should he not take advantage of those belonging to another? If one of the white men were allowed to accompany him back into the tent, three pair of eyes might be better than two. He would demand that this be done. If the white boys still refused would it not look as though they were guilty, and that they feared lest the keen eyes of a paleface see through their trick? And so, filled with this new determination, he turned toward the spot where Adrian and Billie stood, with their guns still pointed towards the party. “You have heard what my white brother has said, and why should not his companion go with Pick-ne-quan-to into the tent, to look once more? The paleface boys do not dare refuse. If they say it must not be, then will the Zunis make them prisoners; and after that even the hand of the medicine man might not be able to save the despoilers of the Sacred Belt from the vengeance of the furious tribe.” CHAPTER XXV. THE COMING OF DONALD. “Oh! the brazen face of that old rascal, Braddon!” muttered Billie. “_Please_ let me give him my compliments in his shoulder, Adrian! I’m looking along the barrel of my trusty gun right now, and have got the nicest bead on him you ever saw. Not that I’m savage by nature, or like to inflict pain; but he deserves it, sure he does, Adrian. Can I pull the trigger, did you say?” His voice was really pleading, showing that Billie had been considerably worked up by the duplicity of the pretended showman; for, as he said, usually the stout chum was averse to scenes of violence, and avoided them whenever he could, without feeling that he was bringing disgrace on his head in so doing. “No, no, don’t think of it—yet!” said the other, hastily, but positively. “We haven’t got to the end of our rope. If they do attack us, remember that under no conditions are you to injure a hair on the head of a Zuni brave. Give the white men all the wounds, because it is their doing.” “But what can we do to stave it off any longer, Adrian?” begged the fat chum. “I hardly know,” replied Adrian, himself at a loss to grasp any idea that promised hope; “if only Donald would hurry along everything might be well. You don’t see anything of him, do you, Billie?”