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Updated: June 18, 2025
I mean where the haze shuts down like a curtain on a forbidden world. There, where there's the dim outline of one big hill propping up the roof of things, standing above all the others. If you took the notion there were pelts there that would worry Lorson Harris to pay for, you'd think no more of making those hills than you worry with the trail over this darn river.
She heard him gasp with the scorch of the liquor passing down his throat. She waited. The man moved round and came across to the stove. His gait was unsteady and Keeko was aware of it. "Say, you've done well, kid," Nicol exclaimed, with coarse familiarity, and with the intention of conciliation. "Sixteen hundred dollars for those pelts? Gee! You surely must have set Lorson hating you bad."
I just hunt pelts because it suits me, and I like to hear Lorson Harris squeal when I make him pay my prices. Still, you don't reckon to accept, that way. That being so, how's this? I'm just free as air to hunt where I choose. My outfit's scattered, and each hunts on his own. Well, I've all the catch I need.
If the merciless hand of Lorson Harris had destroyed the simple soul of Marcel, then Lorson should pay as he little dr Steve started. His depressed brows lightened. His eyes, so full of brooding, widened as he listened. The sound of a voice, big, strong, reached him over the guttural buzz of the trading Sleepers' tones. "Uncle Steve? He's back. He's safe?" The tone was urgent. It was Marcel.
The yarn goes that this feller Nicol David Nicol that's his name, I reckon, has been working for the Seal Bay Trading for some years. He seems to be some crook, and Harris found him out. Guess he seems to have cost the Seal Bay outfit a big bunch of money. They were all for sending him down for penitentiary. Then a sort of miracle happened. Lorson begged off. Why? It ain't usually Lorson's way.
Oh, yes, there was easy money and plenty. So what else mattered? These were the opinions of those who really counted, such men as Lorson Harris, head of the Seal Bay Trading Corporation, and Alroy Leclerc, who kept a mud shelter of extensive dimensions for the sale of drink and food and gambling.
"No, he don't fancy a thing wrote out," he said. "And anyway I'm writin' out nothing for Lorson Harris. He's got one piece of my paper, and I guess that's mostly why I'm here." "And your summer trip?" Tough recalled his host to the business in hand. He did it amiably, almost pleasantly, but such things were entirely upon the surface. Tough Alroy was Lorson's most trusted agent.
"I was remembering Lorson's play," the trader went on. "He had his 'toughs' that time. Brand had pulled out two weeks and more. Then one day a bunch of Northern neches pulled in. They'd beat down the coast in a big-water canoe. The folks didn't notice them. It's the sort of thing frequent happens. But Lorson got the scare of his life.
Savee that, and savee it good!" "But you'll do it?" "That's what I've been shouting at you." "Good. Now listen, and I'll pass you the rest of Lorson's message." Tough emptied his pannikin to the dregs, and, leaning back in his chair, beamed across at the man he knew to be at the mercy of Lorson Harris. There was no feeling, no sympathy in him.
It seemed to her that the simple trust which prompted the man's action in revealing his secret to her, the secret Lorson Harris was willing to pay a hundred thousand dollars for, was something too simply wonderful for words. With the adjustment of the masks Steve removed the fastenings that barred the door. He held it closed a moment and turned to Marcel. "You'll go first, boy. You'll go right in.
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