“No. That’s so. Maybe gold isn’t safe in a pack?”
The pock-marked face remained turned towards the glowing stove. The man’s manner was quite indifferent. It suggested that he merely wished to talk.
The traveller seemed to draw back into his shell at the mention of gold. A slight pause followed.
“Maybe you ain’t been digging up there?” the half-breed went on presently.
“It’s rotten bad digging on the Creek,” the traveller said, clumsily endeavouring to evade the question.
“So I’ve heard,” said the half-breed.
He had produced a pipe, and was leisurely filling it from a pouch of antelope hide. His two companions did the same. The stranger took his pipe from his fur coat pocket and cut some tobacco from a plug. This he offered to his companions, but it was rejected in favour of their own.
“The only thing I’ve had––that and my fur coat––to keep me from freezing to death for more than four days. Haven’t so much as seen a sign of life since I lost the dog track.”
“This country’s a terror,” observed the half-breed emphatically.