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Updated: May 9, 2025
"How's the White Squaw o' the Moosefoots goin' to savvee a low-down bat like Cree. I sed so 'fore." The blue eyes were turned on Nick with a deep inscrutable smile. Nick felt that life at her feet was the only life possible. And Ralph resorted to signs, while Nick alternated his attention between his idolatrous, silent worship of the lovely woman and clubbing his dogs into quiescence.
His stolid face was unmoved, only his eyes gave expression to that which passed behind them. There was a dangerous look in their sunken depths which the depressed brows accentuated. He looked into his brother's face, and, for awhile, the supper was forgotten. "Yes, spoke to her," said Nick, emphatically. "She ain't gone from us. She ain't left this valley. She's scairt o' the Moosefoots.
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