CHAPTER XIII.
A STRANGE OCCURRENCE.
Once more Motoza had allowed an American youth to get the drop on him, for he could not mistake the meaning of that command, nor the deeper eloquence of the pose of Fred Greenwood with his rifle at a dead level.
The Sioux must have despised himself for his forgetfulness.
But he had already proven the readiness with which he accepted a situation, no matter how unwelcome.

The hand that held the weapon of Jack Dudley whipped round to the front with a deft movement, which, however, was not quicker than the return of the grin to his countenance.
"Motoza friend--he not want gun of brother," he remarked.
"You wouldn't get it if you _did_ want it," said Jack, not to be mollified by this sudden change of front.

Instead of accepting the hypocritical proffer, the youth was imprudent enough to add, as he felt his Winchester once more in his grasp: "You are the meanest thief in the country, Motoza, and this must be the last time you try your hand on us." "Off with you!" added Fred, beginning to tire with the constraint of his position; "good-by, Motoza, and I hope we shall not meet again." At the moment of obeying, the Sioux glanced at the lad who had thus turned the tables on him.

The expression of his face was frightful.
Ferocious hate, thirst for revenge and flaming anger shone through the coat of paint and were concentrated on the younger of the youths.

Fred saw it and cared not, but Jack was so alarmed that he almost wished his comrade would fire his weapon and thus shut out the fruition of the horrible threat that gleamed through that look.
It lasted, however, but an instant.