Close to the tent Philip sat down, smoked his pipe, and waited.
Not only had the developments of the last few minutes been
disappointing to him, but they had added still more to his
bewilderment. He had expected and hoped for immediate physical
action, something that would at least partially clear away the
cloud of mystery. And at this moment, when he was expecting things
to happen, there had appeared this new factor, Jean, to change the
current of excitement under which Josephine was fighting. Who
could Jean be? he asked himself. And why should his appearance at
this time stir Josephine to a pitch of emotion only a little less
tense than that roused by her fears of a short time before? She
had told him that Jean was part Indian, part French, and that he
"belonged to her." And his coming, he felt sure, was of tremendous
significance to her.

He waited impatiently. It seemed a long time before he heard
voices and the sound of footsteps over the edge of the coulee. He
rose to his feet, and a moment later Josephine and her companion
appeared not more than a dozen paces from him. His first glance
was at the man. In that same instant Jean Croisset stopped in his
tracks and looked at Philip. Steadily, and apparently oblivious of
Josephine's presence, they measured each other, the half-breed
bent a little forward, the lithe alertness of a cat in his
posture, his eyes burning darkly. He was a man whose age Philip
could not guess. It might have been forty. Probably it was close
to that. He was bareheaded, and his long coarse hair, black as an
Indian's, was shot with gray. At first it would have been
difficult to name the blood that ran strongest in his veins. His
hair, the thinness of his face and body, his eyes, and the tense
position in which he had paused, were all Indian. Then, above