Sudden irresolution appeared on the brown face. "Oh, well, I guess
there's no hurry." He sat down and took out his last match.
The big man chuckled. "Look here, Fisette, I suppose you know I've
been buying property around town?"
"So?"
"Yes, and the other day I bought a thousand-dollar mortgage. It's the
one on your land. I guess you remember it?"
A sense of uncertainty fell over the half-breed. He knew that he owed
a thousand dollars and had owed it for years. Every six months he paid
thirty dollars to a lawyer and forgot all about it for the next six.
To his mind the document with the seals, beside one of which he had
traced a painful signature, was a forbidding thing, typical of the
authority of pale faces over brown. Then, quite suddenly, he
remembered that next year he would have to pay off the whole thousand,
and, moreover, pay it to Manson.
"Is that so? I guess you're quite a rich man?"
Manson smiled grimly. "No, not a rich man, but--" he paused, felt very
deliberately in his coat and, taking out a fat pocketbook, slowly
extracted a bill. It was for one hundred dollars. "I'll bet you this
that there is no iron within seventy-five miles of St. Marys." He
smoothed the bill on his broad knee.
The half breed gulped. Only once before had he seen so much money in
one note, and that was after he had signed the mortgage. Clark gave
him fifty dollars a month and his grub, and had promised more if he
succeeded. He had found iron ore. It was good enough to win the bet,
but was it good enough for Clark? and if it was not good enough for
Clark the mortgage would have to be met out of nothing.
"Well?" came Manson's deep voice.
Fine beads of sweat appeared on the dusky forehead. A sinewy hand
crept toward the sack, but just as he touched it there arose within him
something very old and vibrant and compelling. Slowly he yielded to
it. He saw Clark's gray eyes and heard his magnetic voice. He
distinguished his own voice given in promise, Clark had always
encouraged him, no matter how often he returned empty handed, and now,
looking broodingly at Manson, the half breed perceived the type that
for centuries had defrauded his ancestors with poor bargains and
glittering worthlessness. All that was good in Fisette, all the savage
honor of that vanishing race whose blood flowed in his veins, all the
unquestioning fidelity of his half naked forebears, rose in violent
protest. He might be sold out, but not by any means would he sell out.
"Go to hell," he Said thickly.
Manson laughed awkwardly, slid the bill back into the fat pocketbook,
and heaved up his great bulk.
"Come on, I haven't got a hundred dollars to throw away. I suppose you
thought I was in earnest."
Fisette shook his head. Just at that moment he was harboring no
suppositions, but had determined to go home without stopping at the
works. He swung the sack over his shoulder.
"Go ahead."
Manson drew a long breath and stepped into the narrow trail. Behind
him came the half breed, the neck of the sack drawn tight and its sharp
contents drilling into his back. He was carrying two hundred pounds of
freshly broken ore. He said nothing, but kept his black eyes fixed on
the figure just in front of him. A little further on he stumbled over
a root, recovered himself with a violent effort, and at that moment
heard with dismay a ripping sound close behind his ear. In the next
instant the load spilled on the soft earth.
Manson, twenty feet away, turned at the sound and stood staring until,
his face lighting with a triumphant smile, he stepped back. He had
recognized ore, and it looked like iron ore. Forgetting about Fisette,
he moved nearer, his large dark eyes shining with excitement, and just
then came a blinding slap. Fisette had swung the empty sack hard
against his face.
"You don't come here. Stand still." The half-breed was crouching
beside the ore like a bear on its hind legs.
"Won't I?" The constable smarted with pain and charged with sudden
passion. He came on, leaning a little forward, his great knotted hands
twitching, his shoulders curved in a slow segment of power. When he
was within six feet, Fisette screamed like a cat and darted at his
throat.
They fought silently with bare hands. Manson, heavier than the breed
by fifty pounds, was reputed one of the strongest men in the district,
but he was matched with an adversary who had drawn into himself the
endurance of the wilderness and the quick resiliency of the young
spruce tree. Were it only a contest of sheer force, Manson had won
outright. Now, as his veins swelled and his arms stiffened around
Fisette's pliant body, the latter seemed to convert itself into a mass
of steel springs that somehow evaded compression. With feet sinking in
the soft soil, crashing through the under-growth with no words but only
the heart breaking gasp of supreme effort, they fought on. Once Manson
thought he had conquered as his hands, closing behind the breed's back,
locked in a deadly grip, with great muscles contracted, but just as it
seemed the breed's ribs must crack there came an eel-like wriggle. The
constable's arms were empty and again he felt the lean brown fingers at
his bull-like neck. Once more he strove for that crushing clasp and,
as Fisette darted in, opened his arms wide, took the punishment of a
savage blow in the face, and closing his embrace, enwrapped his enemy
in a suffocating hug. It was to the death, for a brown thumb was
digging into his thorax and he felt sick and giddy.
Seconds passed. The violent expansion of Fisette's chest worked
palpitating beneath the great arms, and, just ere endurance reached its
limit and the trees began to swim before Manson's eyes, his little
finger touched the haft of the sheath knife that hung at Fisette's
back. The touch ran through Fisette's laboring frame like fire, for he
had reached the point where the world seemed dipped in blood. Slowly
Manson pushed down his hand, never relaxing his titanic embrace. But
the instant his fingers closed on the knife the half breed's back
curved like a mighty bow, the thick fingers creaked, cracked and
yielded, the deadly grip was burst asunder, and Manson, sick and
staggering, saw Fisette free and crouching in front of him, the knife
in his hand and murder in his eyes. A moment later he looked up.
Fisette was sitting on his chest, and running his thumb along the razor
edge of the blade. There was a little blood at the corner of his mouth
and his cheek was scratched. Otherwise he was undisturbed.
"Well?" he grunted presently, staring through half-closed lids.
Manson was pumping air into a laboring breast.
"I'm licked," he panted after a while.
"Say that again." The breed's eyes opened wider.
Manson said it while his soul revolted within him, but he would get
Fisette later on. Then there gleamed in the breed's dark eyes a
flicker of Indian fury, and Manson breathed an inarticulate prayer as
the knife approached his throat, until as though from a great distance
he heard a voice.
"You not going to tell any one I find iron. You swear that or I kill
you here."
The constable's brain began to rock giddily. Fisette in his present
condition would not hesitate to kill. He knew that. "I swear it," he
panted unsteadily, "on my honor."
Fisette bared his white teeth. "Your honor no good. You swear by God
and the Mother of God."
Manson repeated it, his breath coming more steadily. He had been near
death, but as he stared at his conqueror he felt a contemptuous pity
for him. Fisette had moved away and was fumbling in his pockets.
Presently he looked up. "You got a match?"
Manson searched, while his relaxing muscles trembled like quicksilver.
He found a match and held it out.
"Now go to hell!" said the half-breed calmly, and recommenced the
ritual of smoke.