This was too much for Ambrose to stomach. "You know damned well what he says!" he answered scornfully.
Strange swallowed it. "Is there any answer?" he asked.
"No!" said Ambrose.
The half-breed's curiosity overcame his prudence. "What are you going to do?" he asked slyly.
Ambrose strode out of the store without answering.
The two men paddled back to Grampierre's place in silence. Simon with native tact, forbore to ask questions. Such is the potency of the white man's eye that the leader of the breeds had unhesitatingly yielded the direction of affairs to the youth who was little more than a third of his age.
Upon landing, Ambrose pointed to the lookout bench. "Let us sit there and talk," he said.
"Simon," he said immediately, "suppose it came to a fight, how many men do you think Gaviller could count on?"
The old man took the question as a matter of course. "There is the policeman, the doctor and the parson," he said. "The parson is best for praying. There is the engineer and the captain of the steamboat; there is young Duncan Greer.
"In summer he is purser on the steamboat; in winter he is the miller. That is six white men. John Gaviller is no good yet. There is the crew of the steamboat, and the men who work for wages, maybe fifteen natives, not more."