"I'm going it alone," said Jack doggedly.
Cranston struck the counter with his fist. "No, by Gad!" he cried. "I'm the boss around here. You know as well as I that it's foolhardy for a man to ride alone at any time—the police don't do it—let alone into a village of redskins in an ugly mood. That's tempting them to murder you. And if they did, how could we convict them?"
Jack's face hardened. "They wouldn't murder me," he said, "because I'm not afraid of them."
"That's all right. It's too big a chance."
"You'd think nothing of taking it yourself."
"Never you mind that. I'm the boss here, and I forbid it!"
"You're not my boss," muttered Jack.
"Just the same, I can prevent you, my lad," said Cranston grimly. "You'll get no outfit from me for such a purpose."
Jack shrugged, and appeared to let the matter go. Cranston might have taken warning from his tight lips, but the trader thought, as he said, that he commanded the situation.
"We'll talk to Sir Bryson in the morning," Cranston went on.