He glanced into the northeast.
"Been rooting about for over a year now, haven't you?"
The halfbreed grinned. "Since I was so high." He indicated a stature
of two feet.
"Come far this time?"
There was a little pause while Fisette sheared thin shavings of tobacco
from a dog-eared plug. He rolled them into a ball between his tawny
palms, thoughtfully unpicked the ball, re-rolled it more loosely,
abstracted a match from the inside band of his tattered hat and began
to suck wetly at a gurgling pipe. "What's that?" he said presently.
"I asked you did you come far?"
"Guess not so far as it seemed. Pretty bad bush."
Manson hesitated, then, in a flash, saw through the breed's assumption
of indifference. Clark had been looking for iron for more than a year.
All St. Marys knew that. Now, glancing covertly at the angular
projectings of the bulging sack, the constable jumped to his
conclusion. Fisette had found it and was on his way to report and
prove the discovery.
"I often wonder," he remarked casually, "what keeps you fellows going.
I never met a prospector yet who gave in that he was licked, and mighty
few of them found anything. They always claim they would have had it
if they could have stayed out a bit longer. Take iron, for instance.
Fellows have gone out after iron for years right from here and they all
thought they had it, but they didn't. There was Joe Lalonde and Pete
Nanoosh and the rest of them. Same story over again. There's no iron
here anyway. The country rock is wrong--a mining engineer told me
that."
Fisette did not move nor did his expression change. His insides seemed
on fire. He would have given much to be on his way to Clark's office,
but something in his Indian blood whispered warningly. Moments passed.
Presently he got up a little stiffly.
"I guess I'll go now."