to support his story with convincing details

  "Course you know it's only a joke of mine, Koppy."   "Better so," returned the leader coldly. "Many Indians about?" He was searching Werner's eyes. "You saw--or smelt them."   Werner wilted under that stare. Volubly he struggled to support his story with convincing details, but his face was flushed and his eyes were anywhere but on his leader's. And Koppy smiled inscrutably.   "Anyway, we still got ninety-two rifles," 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."