"Indian take no pay," he said stolidly.
The contractor rubbed his chin. "What's the big idea? That's plumb crazy—it ain't human nature. I had an Indian working for me once—and come to think of it, it didn't take us long to strike much the same bargain—and he was the best man I ever had working for me. If there's a tribe like you and him, I'll engage the whole caboose on the spot—at the same price. And I'll give you the sweetest job an Indian ever had since the North-West Rebellion. All you need do is surround that mess of huts down there, make a noise like an apple pie, and shoot everything that comes out to take a bite—that is, after the trestle's done. If you can handle a spade and crowbar, and live on dessicated sawdust and tinned whale, you can take the shooting job on instanter. There's a good two weeks' work for you afterwards. Only start on Koppy. Eh, how's it look to you?"
"No pay Indian," repeated the Indian.
"There's a sting in the tail somewhere," Torrance muttered to his foreman. "Either he wants my calabash pipe, or he plans to land his whole family of papooses on my breakfast table while he's on the job. And their annual bath may be eleven months back. Go on, Chief, what's the answer?"
"Indian no work with P'lice."
"I don't ask you to—I don't want you to."
"Call off P'lice, then Indian find out everything."
"Mm-m! So that's the cue?" He turned his back to look meaningly at
Conrad. "You want the Police called off, eh?"
"Indian no can work with P'lice."
The redskin went through exaggerated motions of peering about, his moccasins scraping noisily on the floor. Torrance began to understand.