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Updated: May 14, 2025
That's four hundred pounds a day, and, with the old people and the children, five days is the quickest time we can bring them into Mucluc. Now what are you going to do?" "Take up a collection to buy all the grub," said the craps-player. "I'll stand for the grub," Smoke began impatiently. "Nope," the other interrupted. "This ain't your treat. We're all in. Fetch a wash-basin somebody.
Tears of anger came into his eyes, and his Scandinavian explosions could not be stopped until he was given a place in the heavy division, the craps-player jumping at the chance to take out Olsen's light team. Five teams were accepted and were being harnessed and loaded, but only four drivers had satisfied the committee of the whole. "There's Cultus George," some one cried.
The craps-player, his money still lying on the table and his slippery Joe Cotton still uncaptured, had come over to Smoke, and was now the first to speak. "We gotta do something. That's straight. But what? You've had time to think. What's your plan? Spit it out." "Sure," Smoke assented. "Here's what I've been thinking. We've got to hustle light sleds on the jump.
"Don't be a hawg," cried the second man. "You ain't the only one with a poke. Gimme a chance at it." "Huh!" sneered the craps-player. "You'd think it was a stampede, you're so goshdanged eager about it." Men crowded and jostled for the opportunity to contribute, and when they were satisfied, Smoke hefted the heavy basin with both hands and grinned.
To them, he was a selfish brute; to him, they were selfish brutes. When the rope was brought, Long Bill Haskell, Fat Olsen, and the craps-player, with much awkwardness and angry haste, got the slip-noose around the Indian's neck and rove the rope over a rafter. At the other end of the dangling thing a dozen men tailed on, ready to hoist away. Nor had Cultus George resisted.
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