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Updated: June 18, 2025
Well, I'm going along up north this opening, and I'm going to finish the job, and when it's done, and Lorson's handed the cash-pappy over, and it's set deep in my dip, why, then I'll pass him all he needs. He can get all I know then. It's a cinch that hundred thou " "Who are the folks Lorson means to murder? Do I know them? Have I ?" The man shook his head.
He's the man who sent my mother to her grave before I made home last summer. He's the man who Lorson Harris is going to hand a hundred thousand dollars for the murder of your outfit, and to steal your trade. He's the man who asked me to share with him the price of his crime, and would have held me prisoner to obey his will if I hadn't just had the means right there to help myself.
For the inspiration of Julyman had stirred his own inspiration beyond all reason. In a moment his mind was a surge of teeming thought, with Unaga the fires of Unaga the centre of a vivid, reckless imagination. For fourteen years a wealth of dogged effort had been expended in an accumulation of failure, as he had admitted to Lorson Harris only a few weeks back in Seal Bay.
"Why don't they trail him this guy?" demanded Kid sharply. "Trail? Why, the sharps are after him all the time. But he skins 'em to death. Lorson's at the game, too. Oh, yes. Guess Lorson 'ud jump the claim if he could get wise. But he ain't wise. No one is. But they'll get that way one time, and then that mule-faced guy, who guesses we'll hand him plague, will forget to get around in snow time.
He was a type, in his picturesque buckskin, familiar enough among the trail men of the Northland. Tough, as his nickname suggested, hard, unscrupulous, ready for anything that the gods of fortune passed down to him, nothing concerned, nothing mattered so that he gathered enough for a red time at his journey's end. "Business?" "Yep. Lorson Harris. It's big.
I care nothing for Lorson Harris, or this scum Nicol. We've the growing weed. And the battle's won." For moments Marcel had no answer in face of Steve's denial, so sternly confident and assured. Young and impulsive as he was the force of the older man was still irresistible. He drew out his pipe and filled it thoughtfully, and finally disappointment took possession of him.
"Well?" she demanded, while she forced the smile to her eyes again. The man leered down at her out of his inflamed eyes. He shook his head with maudlin indulgence. "You don't need to know any more," he said thickly. "What's the use? You're a gal with clean notions. Guess my hands are used to the dirty sort of work Lorson needs." "Then it is Lorson?" "Lorson? Sure it's Lorson.
Lorson Harris has lost the dirty game he's playing, and now now he'll just have to pay us all we choose to ask." Marcel's food was forgotten. He stared across the table, blank amazement looking out of his eyes. "You've found it? The growing weed? You've brought it home? Uncle!" "Yes." Never were Steve's eyes more sober. Never were they less emotional.
It seems there's a biggish trading post way up hidden somewhere on the plateau of Unaga. It was run by two partners, and they had a sort of secret trade. The man at Seal Bay Lorson Harris reckons it's a hell of an important trade. The names of these traders were Marcel Brand a chemist and Cy Allshore, a pretty tough northern man. These fellers used to come down and trade at Seal Bay.
She would be possessed of every art and wile of the women of her trade. It would be too pitifully easy. She must have returned to her headquarters with the secret he had held so long hidden. And then the coming of the murderer to complete the task Lorson Harris had set. Now Marcel had gone again to meet this Delilah.
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