"I not say that, me," put in Jean Paul quickly. "I jus' say best to be ready."
"So that's his game," cried Jack scornfully. "He's fooling you! It's an old redskin trick to drive off the horses to prevent pursuit. But as to standing up to white men—well, I'm willing to go and take my man and my horses away from the whole village of them."
Sir Bryson violently shook his head. Jack saw that the fate of Garrod had little weight with him. "We are quite defenceless!" he cried. "And with the women to look after! It is my duty to start back!"
Jack's lip curled.
Sir Bryson's voice scaled up shrilly. "How will we ever get back?" he cried.
"That's easy," said Jack. "Twelve miles walk over the portage to Fort Geikie, then by raft down the river. We'll make it in two days."
"Can we start this morning?"
Jack flushed. "No!" he cried. "Abandon our outfit! That would be disgraceful. It would be the joke of the country. I won't be a party to it! We'll cache the stuff to-day, and you can start to-morrow."
"Very well," said Sir Bryson nervously. "In the meantime we must keep a sharp lookout!"
Before Jack left him he made another appeal to be allowed to go after Garrod. He might as well have saved his breath. Sir Bryson and those with him, except perhaps Mrs. Worsley, were in the grip of panic. It was futile to try to reassure those whose notions of Indians had been gathered from the Wild West fiction of a preceding generation.