The breed betrayed no surprise, and Jack reflected that he must have
seen the smoke of their fire from up the valley. He was riding one of
the missing horses, and the other followed with a light pack. He
smiled blandly, and, bringing his horse close to Jack's, held out his
hand.
"I glad you come back," he said. "I need help, me."
Jack ignored the hand. "We're not friends, Jean Paul," he said grimly,
"and we won't make believe."
Jean Paul shrugged like an injured and forgiving person.
"You've got to give an account of yourself," Jack went on.
A spark shot sidewise out of Jean Paul's black eyes. "To you?" he
asked.
"To me," said Jack coolly, and the blue eyes faced the black ones down.
Jean Paul thought better of his threatened defiance. "You all time
think bad of me," he said deprecatingly. "I work for you. I get the
horses back."
Jack laughed in his face. "You're not dealing with Sir Bryson now.
You know as well as I do that the Indians are not stealing company
horses. They might be persuaded to drive them away, but they'd be glad
enough to drive them back when they thought it over. The horses are
nothing to me. Where's Garrod?"