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Even my friend Fisette down there," he pointed to the halfbreed's cabin that lay between the See House and the river "even my friend Fisette has electric light in his house." "Ah! Is that where Fisette lives?" "You know him?" "He works for me." "Then he's like most of my friends in St. Marys. The pulp mills are doing well?" "Their capacity will shortly be doubled."
Close along the grade the little pinto lay low to its stride, and the halfbreed's feet seemed to be brushing the ground as he leaned forward to whisper encouragement in the flicking ears. For the fifth time Sergeant Mahon and Helen had firmly expressed their intention of retiring; the hour, they agreed, was unseemly, when now weeks of almost unbroken association stretched ahead of them.
And what darkened Belding's horizon was the thought that Clark, at any moment, might swing toward Elsie Worden. Two miles away, Fisette was at home with his children. He was tired but in no way worn out, and in his pocket was one single piece of ore kept as a souvenir. Clark's check lay safely deposited in the bank and the halfbreed's teeth gleamed when he thought of the mortgage.
There was blood on his clothing. The evidence was convincing, deadly. And this man " Kent paused, and in the darkness Marette's hand crept down his arm to his hand, and her fingers closed round it. "Was the man you lied to save," she whispered. "Yes. When the halfbreed's bullet got me, I thought it was a good chance to repay Sandy McTrigger for what he did for me in that tent years before.
There was blood on his clothing. The evidence was convincing, deadly. And this man " Kent paused, and in the darkness Marette's hand crept down his arm to his hand, and her fingers closed round it. "Was the man you lied to save," she whispered. "Yes. When the halfbreed's bullet got me, I thought it was a good chance to repay Sandy McTrigger for what he did for me in that tent years before.
The proper thing, he knew, was to look severe, but the lines wouldn't form in the right places. Hungrily the halfbreed's eyes roamed to the tobacco pouch spilled on the blotter; the old corncob pipe was fumbling expectantly in his big fist. "Same baccy, Inspector?" he enquired innocently, stepping through the door. The lines in the Inspector's face were getting out of hand entirely.
I've got 'em all back all I took from them. . . . An' I ain't chargin' nothin' fer it neither." Mahon thought it all out laboriously. "But you stole them again from Torrance." "Sure! Torrance knowed they was stole. He wudn't 'a got any other kind fer ten bucks. Yuh don't call that rustlin'?" Mahon smiled the halfbreed's code was so simple. "Tell it to the Inspector like that," he pleaded.
"You'll have to come in to the barracks, Pete. I I can't help it." "Get goin'," grinned the halfbreed. The Sergeant bent over his girth with flushed face. "I have no idea what's in store for you, Pete. The Inspector has a lot of faith in you." Blue Pete studied him quizzically. "More'n you have?" "I don't know. Oh, I don't understand." A shadow of pain came into the halfbreed's face.
His horse, with memories of many a free run there, made straight for Windy Coulee, the familiar western entrance to the mysteries of the Cypress Hills. Mahon did not direct. When the sloping trail leading up into the trees rose before him, he smiled. With Windy Coulee the halfbreed's memory was bound by a hundred incidents.
"If I could," he whispered, "I'd make you foreman this instant, and round up all the bohunks out of jail. But that ain't what I want you for. Are you a real Indian?" "Naw," drawled Mavy. "I'm a Chinee, with a bit o' Pole thrown in." Torrance showed he could appreciate humour like that. "I mean, can you follow a trail?" The halfbreed's eyes danced.
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