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But he waited discreetly. When the trap was sprung there would be no escape. "You are sure it was Francois Breault?" she said at last. He nodded. "Yes, the mail-runner. You knew him?" She had moved to the table, and her hand was gripping the edge of it. For a space she did not answer him, but seemed to be looking somewhere through the cabin walls a long way off.
Blake laughed such a big, healthy, happy laugh, with an odd tremble in it. He stroked her hair again, and his fingers lay for an instant against her warm cheek. And then, quite casually, he played his second big card. "A man was found dead on the trail yesterday," he said. "Some one killed him. He had a bullet through his lung. He was the mail-runner, Francois Breault."
I half killed Beaudin, the Government mail-runner, because he insulted another man's wife when that man my friend was away. Then Beaudin, seeing his chance, robbed the mail himself, and the crime was laid to me. Well, I got even, and stuck up a mail-sledge myself but I guess there was a good reason for it.
Once during the autumn Jan came in for supplies and traps, and his dogs and sledge. He was planning to spend the winter two hundred miles to the west, in the country of the Athabasca. He was at Lac Bain for a week, and during this time a mail-runner came in from Fort Churchill. The runner brought a new experience into the life of Melisse her first letter.
He would cut down a mail-runner from pure wantonness, or bombard a mud-fort with rifle-fire when he knew that our men needed to sleep. In his leisure moments he would go on circuit among his neighbours, and try to incite other tribes to devilry. Also, he kept a kind of hotel for fellow-outlaws in his own village, which lay in a valley called Bersund.
I half killed Beaudin, the Government mail-runner, because he insulted another man's wife when that man my friend was away. Then Beaudin, seeing his chance, robbed the mail himself, and the crime was laid to me. Well, I got even, and stuck up a mail-sledge myself but I guess there was a good reason for it.
Chief among the leaders of the smaller tribes the little clans who knew to a penny the expense of moving white troops against them was a priest-bandit-chief whom we will call the Gulla Kutta Mullah. His enthusiasm for border murder as an art was almost dignified. He would cut down a mail-runner from pure wantonness, or bombard a mud fort with rifle fire when he knew that our men needed to sleep.
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