"Sure they're out." The man laughed. "They're out most all the time. Gee, it's livin' with a cyclone playin' around you on this God-forgotten river. But, say, you boys need to beat it, an' beat it quick, if you want to git out with your hair on. They're crazy for guns an' things. If they git their noses on your trail they'll git you sure as death."
The warning received less attention than it seemed to demand.
Kars looked the half-breed squarely in the eyes.
"Who are you?" he demanded. Abrupt as was the challenge the tone of it had no roughness.
"Louis Creal."
"Belong here?"
Kars' steady eyes were compelling.
A flush of anger surged in the half-breed's mutilated cheeks. His eyes snapped viciously.
"This ain't a catechism, is it?" he cried hotly. Then in a moment he moderated his tone. "Fellers on the 'inside' don't figger to hand around their pedigrees—usual. Howsum, I allow I come right along to pass you a friendly warning, which kind o' makes it reasonable to tell you the things folk don't usually inquire north of 'sixty.' Yep. I live around this river, an' hand the neches a bum sort o' trade fer their wares. Guess I scratch a livin', if you can call it that way, up here. But it don't figger any. My ma come of this tribe. I guess my paw belonged to yours."
"Where d'you get your goods for trade?"