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"All the same, I'm about set to hit the trail," stubbornly maintained the man with the alfalfa pack. "I ain't broke. When you boys get to Dawson, just ask for Kid Bridges' saloon and I'll open wine. These woollys can have their mines; me for a hootch-mill on Main Street." Lucky addressed his bevy of boosters. "Have I nursed a serpent in my breast, or has the Kid met a banker's son?
In the direction of Dry Buck, far toward the northwest, a fog of dust was creeping along the horizon, gradually approaching the upland pasture. Skinny saw it. "By golly," he cried, "that's either Parker and the boys coming in with the cattle or else it's a band of sheep! It surely can't be 'woollys' they never get over in there!
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