n hot pursuit.

"Is it a race--for fun?"

"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 wh