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Manson, his face gray with pain, was nursing a dangling arm, and round them the derelicts of battle were strewn grotesquely. But it was Fisette who spoke first. "By Gar!" he said with flashing teeth, "she's one big fight, eh!" Silence spread again over the works. An armed picket was left at the big gates, while the rest of the troops patrolled suddenly deserted streets in Ironville.
Fisette backed silently out, his dark brow pinched into puzzled wrinkles. He had expected his patron to take the samples and stare at them and then at him with that wonderful look he remembered so well and could never forget; a look that had made the breed feel strangely proud and happy.
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.
By noon of the second day Fisette had blazed the enclosing boundaries of three claims, along the middle of which for three quarters of a mile he had traced the ridge of ore, and when corner posts were in, he shouldered his pack and, stepping quietly to the river where his canoe was hidden three miles away, began his homeward journey.
What about blast furnaces, Riggs? We haven't heard a whisper yet. Wonder what Clark is thinking of?" "Oh Lord!" murmured the little man, "if we only had iron!" Fisette, who was dipping his dishes in a pot of hot water, turned his head ever so slightly. The others had either forgotten about him or concluded that their conversation was beyond a half-breed.
Presently he looked up and caught the disappointed eyes of Fisette. "It's all right, mon vieux," he said with an encouraging smile, "and it's very good. How far from the railway?" "About six mile." Fisette's voice was unusually dull. "And you have it all staked and marked and dated?" "Yes, I'm not one damn fool." Clark laughed outright.
Well, I assume that's his way. I'd like you to tell him that we're building a new church because he did not seem to care for the other one." "Does that fall within the office of an engineer?" said Belding doubtfully. "Unquestionably. Your profession does many different things by many different methods. By the way, I hear we are to have iron works in St. Marys." "Yes, thanks to Fisette."
"Take what men you want, or no, don't take any. I want you to do this yourself, and don't talk. Good morning." Fisette nodded dumbly. The moment had come and gone and he felt a little paralyzed. "Here, have a cigar." He took one, such a cigar as he had never seen, large, dark and fat with a golden band around its plump middle.
Ax, paddles, dunnage bag, shed tent, these he laid neatly and, last of all, a small sack of samples, the weight of which, however he disguised it, swelled the veins in his temples. He was stooping to swing this on his shoulders when Manson spoke. "Sit down a minute and have a smoke." Fisette did not want to sit down.
He passed thoughtfully through the general office, noting as he closed the door that on a bench near Clark's door sat Fisette, a French halfbreed whom he knew. He remarked also that Fisette's pockets were bulging, it seemed, with rocks. A moment later Fisette was summoned. He went in, treading lightly on the balls of his feet, and leaning forward as though under a load on a portage.
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