All four men lit their pipes. The sick man only drew once or twice at his, then he laid it aside. The process of smoking caused the blisters on his face to smart terribly.
“Gives your face gyp,” said the half-breed, sympathetically. “Best not bother to smoke to-night.”
He pulled vigorously at his own pipe, and the two Indians followed suit. And gradually a pleasant odour, not of tobacco but some strange perfume, disguised the reek of the atmosphere. It was pungent but delightful, and the stranger remarked upon it.
“What’s that you are smoking?” he asked.
For one instant the half-breed’s eyes were turned upon him with a curious look. Then he turned back to the contemplation of the stove.
“Kind o’ weed that grows around these wilds,” he answered. “Only stuff we get hereabouts. It’s good when you’re used to it.” He laughed quietly.
The stranger looked from one to the other of his three companions. He was struck by a sudden thought.
“What do you do here? I mean for a living?”
“Trap,” replied the Breed shortly.
“Many furs about?”