“Why, the usual stuff,” Pideau replied, surveying his shelves with pretended interest. “‘L. & B. Gold-stick.’ Then I got some dandy cut stuff with a dope of perique in it. We were mighty glad this morning to see you’d pulled into Buffalo Coulee in the night,” he went on, striving for cordiality. “We was guessin’. We been without a sight of a red-coat weeks. Well, we just didn’t get it. Then we wake up to find you around. Quick an’ cunnin’, eh? Anyway, we’re glad an’ relieved to see you, sir.”
It was Fyles’ first encounter with Pideau in the flesh. And he was relieved that the half-breed made no attempt to shake him by the hand.
But the man had offered him the cue he desired, and he was quick to take it.
“Quick, maybe,” he smiled pleasantly, careful to engage his whole audience. “Cunning? Well, I guess not. There’s nothing cunning to the police. It’s only crooks need to be that way. Surely I pulled in last night. I’d have been along two weeks back only I was ’way out on a trip, north. I was to have relieved young Sinclair then. He’s out on a big trip and won’t be back for maybe a month, or even—more. Superintendent Croisette reckoned Buffalo Coulee could get along without us for a while, so he didn’t send anyone till I was through. I’ll have two plugs of ‘Gold-stick.’ How much? A quarter each?”
Pideau reached behind him where the tobacco was lying on a shelf. Fyles laid down a five-dollar bill.
“You ain’t anythin’ less—er——?” Pideau broke off.
The invitation was obvious.
“Fyles—Sergeant Stanley Fyles. No, I haven’t anything less. Can you make the change?”
It was curious. Where before there had been a sort of smiling curiosity, as the policeman explained his arrival, that curiosity and smile had suddenly died completely. It was replaced, at the mention of the policeman’s name, by an ominous, serious-eyed watchfulness.
Every eye in the long store was on the policeman’s sturdy figure. Every eye was scrutinizing, seeking something which the officer’s armor of blandness refused to reveal.