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Thomson looked into the stall, and nearly dropped the measure. "By George, Pose!" he said. "By George!" The news flew over the camp like wildfire. Posey Breem's red roan, the best horse in the camp, had been stolen! The burly lumbermen came hurrying from all directions. There was no doubt about it the horse was gone, and the snow had covered every trace. There was absolutely no clue to follow.
"Cut it nigh half off, and hurt the bone. It'll be weeks before I can do a stroke of work again. It means I don't know what, and I daren't think what, Nannie. The cook sewed it up." He glowered at the injured member savagely. His wife's face grew paler still, but she only asked tenderly, "How did you ever get here, Joe?" "Rode one of Pose Breem's hosses his red roan."
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