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,