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Updated: May 6, 2025
And, by the Lord Harry, you shall swing for what you did in the mountains! Highway robbery of the Government bullion under the charge of Leslie Grey, and the murder of our Indian guide, Rainy-Moon." Then he turned "Hold that door!" he shouted; and Iredale sprang to obey. "But " Prudence rushed forward, but Sarah stopped her and drew her back. A wild laugh came from Hervey's direction.
Look here, neche, you just get right on and don't let me have any more nonsense about the trail." The Indian shook his head. "Ow," he grunted. "This little just little." Then he pointed ahead. "Big, white all white. No, no; white-man no come dis way. Bimeby neche so," and Rainy-Moon made a motion of lying down and sleeping. He meant that they would get lost and die in the snow. Grey became angry.
His first shot had been fired under the influence of excitement, and he had missed his object and only wounded the dog. Now it was different. Again the pistol rang out. Rainy-Moon gave one sharp cry of pain and sprang backwards into space. In one hand he still gripped the leashes of the dogs. The other clutched wildly at the air.
"If that were possible I guess we ought to make the primest bacon. Hallo, here comes the d d neche. What's up now, I wonder? Well, Rainy-Moon, what is it?" The Indian had stopped his dogs and now turned back to speak to the two men. His face was expressionless. He was a tall specimen of the Cree Indian. "Ugh," he grunted, as he came to a standstill.
Half-an-hour later the two Customs officers were seated with their host round the camp-stove which stood hissing and spluttering in the centre of the hut. The dogs and Rainy-Moon were housed in the woodshed. Now that the travellers were divested of their heavy furs, their appearance was less picturesque but more presentable.
At that moment the loud yelping of the dogs penetrated the thick sides of the dugout. Rainy-Moon was preparing for the start. Doubtless the brilliant change in the weather had inspired the savage burden-bearers of the north. "That's curious-smelling stuff you're smoking," said Grey, rousing himself with an effort after a moment's dead silence. "What do you call it?"
"Get on," he shouted. And Rainy-Moon reluctantly turned and started his dogs afresh. The little party ascended the sloping path. The whipping snow lashed their faces as the wind rushed it up from the ground in rapidly thickening clouds. The fierce gusts were concentrating into a steady shrieking blast. A grey cloud of snow, thin as yet, but plainly perceptible, was in the air.
The glare of the crystal white earth was dazzling to a degree, and the hungry-looking trapper stood blinking in the light. His pistol was concealed behind him. The sleigh was before the door. Rainy-Moon stood on the far side of the path in the act of hitching the dogs up.
"Can't say a weed," said Zachary Smith, glancing down his nose towards the bowl of his pipe. "Not bad, is it? Smells of almonds tastes like nutty sherry." Grey stifled a yawn. "I feel sleepy, d d sleepy. Wonder if Rainy-Moon has got the sleigh loaded." Smith emitted another dense cloud of smoke from between his pursed lips; he seemed wrapt in the luxurious enjoyment of his smoke.
However, Rainy-Moon urged them to their task with no light hand, and just as the storm settled down to its work in right good earnest they drew up abreast of a small dugout.
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