"My gracious! you are right; that dent in the ground was made by the stock of my gun, and it couldn't have gone its own length further." The space was clear for several yards, and they would have discerned a small coin lying anywhere on it, but nothing suggesting a weapon was in sight. A momentary consternation took possession of them. Only one conclusion was possible: some person had taken the Winchester. "Do you suppose it was Hank, who wanted to have some fun with us?" asked Fred. Jack shook his head. "At any other time I might believe it, but Hank isn't one to look for fun when the lives of two persons are in danger. It wasn't he." "Who, then, could it be?" Again Jack shook his head. "You know there are a number of Indians hunting in this neighborhood. Some of them may have been near us, and, hearing our cries and the reports of our guns, started to find out what it meant. Coming upon my Winchester, they carried it off." This was the most reasonable explanation they could think of, but it did not lessen their disappointment at the loss of the indispensable weapon. "I won't stand it!" exclaimed Jack, whose indignation was rising; "the man who took that gun must give it back!" It was impossible to know in what direction to look for the pilferer, but the youth's long strides led him toward the break in the walls of the canyon where they had seen the three Indians earlier in the forenoon. Whether it was reasonable to expect to find them, or rather the thief, there, would be hard to say, but Jack did find the one for whom he was looking. Half the intervening distance was passed, when he turned his head and said in an excited undertone to his companion: "He's just ahead, and as sure as I live the thief is Motoza!" Before Fred, slightly at the rear, could gain sight of the Indian, Jack broke into a lope and called: "Hold on there, Motoza! You have something that belongs to me." The dusky vagrant was alone and walking at a moderate pace from the youth. Although he did not look around until hailed he must have known he was followed, but he stopped short and wheeled about with a wondering expression on his painted face. There could be no mistake by Jack Dudley, for Motoza was carrying two Winchesters, one in either hand, and a glance enabled the youth to recognize his own property. "Howdy, brother?" asked Motoza, with the old grin on his face. Jack was too angry to be tactful. He continued his rapid strides, and as he drew near reached out his hand. "Never mind how I do; give me my rifle." But with the fingers of Jack almost on the weapon, Motoza shifted his hand backward, so that the gun was held behind his body. He did not stir, but continued grinning. "What do you mean?" demanded Jack, his face flushed, and his anger greater than before; "didn't you hear me ask for my gun?" "Whooh! brother frow way gun--me pick him up--he mine."