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Updated: June 23, 2025
Down in the camp half a thousand bohunks were watching every move. The Indians had dismounted. He was pointing across the trestle. His squaw seemed to hesitate. "If I made a sound like a bottle of fire-water," grinned Torrance, "he'd beat the record." "You're not to let them have a drop. Now remember, daddy." "The nearest bar's too far away to waste it on an Indian, my dear.
The mob was quieting a little, it was true, but it was the comparative calm only of discovering new foes. Torrance, ten yards away, was battling like a madman, but now advance was hopelessly blocked by weight of numbers and concentrated resistance. Two dozen bohunks, lost now to any ordinary sense of peril, were bent on paying off old scores.
He knew the bohunks well enough to feel certain that an attack at close quarters would be attempted only when defence was practically beaten down. The silence told him that no immediate danger threatened; he did not doubt that the Indian was somewhere on guard. Uncertain, however, how closely the shack was invested, he crept carefully forward to reconnoitre.
Why don't you shoot? Let me " The Sergeant, with a deft twist, secured the rifle. "What's he been doing?" "Doing?" yelled the contractor. "Didn't you see that whole window didn't you " "We don't shoot men for that." Tressa came to the rescue: "He's an Indian, one of the bohunks. I didn't know he'd done anything. We were talking to him when you came.
That contingency Koppy would no doubt have provided for by tearing up the track to east and west. And to drop the siege would not save the leaders. The Sergeant knew now that the attack had long been in plan, and every chance would be provided for. Daylight would make no difference, except that the bohunks would be more careful of their cover.
Standing to the left of the living room window while he reflected, he imagined a movement far down the grade. Immediately he fired. From Torrance's room came the thunder of his rifle. Evidently the bohunks were crossing the grade in numbers. Thereafter nothing happened for half an hour but pointless and desultory potting. It promised nothing to the attackers and the defence was still intact.
Half a thousand bohunks were existing there now, five hundred of the wildest foreigners even Torrance had handled. But they were his gang. And Mile 130 was his camp. That thought had impelled him once to punch the head of a leering engineer who rashly ventured to call it "Torrance's pig-sty" in Torrance's hearing.
"I don't quite understand why it doesn't to me except that we've found no reason yet to suspect him. . . . Wish I could talk with him." "You kick around here for a day or two; he's sure to turn up down the chimney or through the keyhole." Mahon shook his head. "He doesn't want to talk to the Police. It doesn't necessarily imply guilt in an Indian. He's watching us as closely as he is the bohunks.
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