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."

Manson yawned. "All right, I'm going that way myself."

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