No shooting iron, hey! That's rather careless of a gun-man." He dropped his rifle, and strode forward revolver in hand, glancing curiously at the dead Indian as he passed.

A riata hung to the pommel of a saddle, and he paused to shake it loose, uncoiling the thin rope, but with watchful eyes constantly on his prisoner.

He felt no fear of Dupont, now that he knew the fellow to be unarmed, and the wounded Indian had vanished over the ridge.

Yet Dupont was a powerful man, and desperate enough to accept any chance.

Something in the sullen, glowering face confronting him awoke the Sergeant to caution.