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Updated: June 3, 2025
At the next deal both got a point, and both stood at nine! Now came the crucial play. During the progress of the game nothing had been heard save the sound of a knuckle on the table, the flip flip of the pasteboard, or the rasp of a heel on the floor. There was a set smile on Shon's face a forgotten smile, for the rest of the face was stern and tragic.
The man brooded and looked mysterious. Mystery was not pleasing to Trafford. He had his own secrets, but in the ordinary affairs of life he preferred simplicity. In one of the silences that fell between Shon's attempts to give hilarity to the occasion, there came a rumbling far-off sound, a sound that increased in volume till the earth beneath them responded gently to the vibration.
"'Mais, Shon," mockingly rejoined the Frenchman, "this is not Ireland, but there is much like that to be done here. There is a roof, and there is that woman at Ward's Mistake, and the brats eh, by and by?" Shon's face clouded.
Their sympathy was mostly with Shon McGann; their admiration was about equally divided; for Pretty Pierre had the quality of courage in as active a degree as the Irishman, and they knew that some extraordinary motive, promising greater excitement, was behind the Frenchman's refusal to send a bullet through Shon's head a moment before.
The woman believing, at a painful time, that he who came back was about to take Shon's life, fired at him, and wounded him, and then killed herself." Mary Callen raised herself upon her elbow, and looked at the priest in piteous bewilderment. "It is dreadful," she said. . . . "Poor woman! . . . And he had forgotten forgotten me. I was dead to him, and am dead to him now.
Well, there shall be more 'Raca; soon perhaps. No, there shall not be fighting as you think, Shon; but " here Pierre rose, came over, and spread his fingers lightly on Shon's breast "but this thing is between this man and me, Shon McGann, and you shall see a great matter. Perhaps there will be blood, perhaps not perhaps only an end."
Jo Gordineer was calling to them, and there the conversation ended. In a few minutes the four stood on the edge of the glacier. Each man had a long hickory stick which served as alpenstock, a bag hung at his side, and tied to his back was his gold-pan, the hollow side in, of course. Shon's was tied a little lower down than the others.
Just then the Honourable came up. "Shon, my man... alive, thank God! How is it with you?" "I'm hardly worth the lookin' at. I wouldn't turn my back to ye for a ransom." "It's enough that you're here at all." "Ah, 'voila! this Irishman!" said Pretty Pierre, as his light fingers touched Shon's bruised arm gently. This from Pretty Pierre! There was that in the voice which went to Shon's heart.
"Holy Mary!" he said, and retreated. Lawless had not noticed; he was pouring out the liquor. He had handed the cup first to Pourcette, who raised it towards a gun hung above the fireplace, and said something under his breath. "A dramatic little fellow," thought Lawless; "the spirit of his forefathers a good deal of heart, a little of the poseur." Then hearing Shon's exclamation, he turned.
Not for me; he thought me dead long, long ago." "No; not for you," was the slow reply. She noticed his hesitation, and said: "Speak. I know that there is sorrow on him. Someone someone he loved?" "Someone he loved," was the reply. "And she died?" The priest bowed his head. "She was his wife Shon's wife?" and Mary Callen could not hide from her words the hurt she felt.
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