It comes from long years of moccasin use,
and an habitual bent knee walk. Peigan Charley considered himself
unusually civilized. But it was for his native abilities that Kars
employed him.

His broad, bronze face and dark eyes were quite without expression, for
all he had searched closely and probed deeply into the horrors of that
desperate camp. Perhaps he had no appreciation of horror. Perhaps he
saw nothing outrageous in the dreadful destruction.

He was carrying a broken modern rifle in his hand, and with a word
promptly offered it to his chief.

Kars took the weapon. He examined it closely while Bill looked on.
Then the white chief's eyes searched the Indian's face.

"Well?" he demanded.

The copper-hued expressionless features of the man underwent a change.
They became almost animated. But it was with a look of awe, or even
apprehension.

"Him Bell River," he stated bluntly.

"Yes."

John Kars had learned all he wanted from the scout. His own opinion
was corroborated. So he handed the useless weapon back and pointed at
it.

"Allan Mowbray's outfit," he said. "Bell River neche steal 'em."

The scout nodded.

The smell of cooking pervaded the camp. For some moments no one spoke.
Bill was watching his friend, waiting for that decision which he knew
had long since been taken. The Indian was silent, as was his habit,
and Kars appeared to be considering deeply.

Presently he looked up at the sky.

"That snow will be--rain," he said. "Wind's got south. We'll make Big
Butte to-night. Bell River to-morrow. Noon."

Bill was observing the Indian. Peigan Charley's bovine stare changed
swiftly as the white chief whom he regarded above all men gave his
decision. Its stolidity had given way to incredulity, and Bill found
in it a source of amusement.

Suddenly Charley thrust up one hand. The long, tawny fingers were
parted, and he counted off each one.

"One, two, tree, four," he enumerated, bending each finger in turn.
"Him all big fool pack neche. No good. Plenty 'fraid. Plenty eat.
Oh, yes, plenty eat. One, two." Again he told off his fingers. "Good
neche. Fight plenty. Oh, yes. Peigan Charley." He held up one
finger. "Heap good feller," he commented solemnly. "Big Chief, boss.
Big Chief, Bill. Two." Again the inevitable fingers. "Shoot plenty
much. No good. Five hundred Bell River devils. Mush gun. Shoot bad.
Big Chief boss all kill up. Boss go Bell River. Boss craz