They hadn't, and we soon produced a very tolerable breakfast. But neither of us had much appetite.
"Do you suppose Peter Crow has taken the horses as well as the ham?" I asked.
"No," gloomily responded Kate, who had evidently been compelled by the logic of hard facts to believe in Peter's guilt, "he would hardly dare to do that, because he couldn't dispose of them without being found out. They've probably strayed away on their own account when Peter decamped. As soon as this mist lifts I'll have a look for them. They can't have gone far."
We were spared this trouble, however, for when we were washing up the dishes the ponies returned of their own accord. Kate caught them and harnessed them.
"Are we going on?" I asked mildly.
"Of course we're going on," said Kate, her good humour entirely restored. "Do you suppose I'm going to be turned from my purpose by the defection of a miserable old Indian? Oh, wait till he comes round in the winter, begging."
"Will he come?" I asked.
"Will he? Yes, my dear, he will—with a smooth, plausible story to account for his desertion and a bland denial of ever having seen our ham. I shall know how to deal with him then, the old scamp."
"When you do get a conscientious Indian there's no better guide in the world, but they are rare," I remarked with a far-away look.
Kate laughed.