es," stammered Werner. "That
surely ought--"

Koppy struck him to sudden silence by a peremptory hand. "You talk too
much," he said acidly.

"Just let me fire the first shot, that's all I want," babbled Werner,
reading the disfavour under which he rested. "I'll blow the whole
bunch to hell."

Morani's long knife passed slickly back and forth on the side of his
boot; and they watched with staring eyes. A dirty, moistened finger
tested the keen edge, the dark, cruel face lit up with satisfaction,
and the weapon slid unobtrusively out of sight somewhere in the
Italian's clothing.

Werner shuddered. "It's a wonder your vittles don't sour on your
stomach, Chico. Every time I dream I can feel that stiletto spiding
down my spine."

And then, by a stealthy, apparently innocent movement, the knife was
out again, sliding along the leather of the boot.

"If you don't put that sticker where it belongs," protested Werner,
"I'm going to carry a gun. I suppose you got to be carving something.
Well, go out and tackle a log. You was brought up on a knife instead
of a spoon."

"Saturday night!" Koppy announced suddenly.

"Er--what's that?" Werner had straightened on the bunk and was
regarding his leader with fearful eyes. "Ah--yes--Saturday night. But
don't you think a week from now, say next Tuesday--"

"Saturday night," repeated Koppy.

"If you wouldn't be so swift, Koppy, I was going to point out that the
moon will be darker a few days later. I'm a regular nightingale when
it comes to the dark."

"Some bird!" sneered Koppy. "Maybe you flew from the Indians."

"Look here, old chap," Werner bridled, "you don't think I ran about
looking for that Indian and threw the damn things at him?"

"You run-a spry away from him," jeered Morani.

Werner made a furious movement, but noticed the Italian's knife-hand in
time.

"I wish to blazes I'd run spryer before he hit me. Anybody's welcome
to this knob on my nut. Trouble was I was too heavily armed to fight.
Ask me my private opinion and I'd say Mavy's brought his tribe down to
bother us. I'm game to butt up against anything that wears boots. But
them Indians don't even wear pants--not what you'd notice."

"Indians got-a you--they wear pants, no?" leered Morani.

Koppy interrupted what promised to develop into a row.

"At one o'clock Saturday night," he announced in a loud voice. "Till
then no touch rifles. Say nothing till the day. That's all."

He di