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Updated: June 1, 2025
Expert after expert, in the jam about the table, scribbled down his bets and numbers in vain attempts to work out his system. They complained of their inability to get a clew to start with, and swore that it was pure luck, though the most colossal streak of it they had ever seen. It was Smoke's varied play that obfuscated them.
Next morning the legal transfer of Dwight Sanderson's town-site was made "henceforth to be known as the town-site of Tra-Lee," Smoke incorporated in the deed. Also, at the Northwest Bank, twenty-five thousand of Smoke's gold was weighed out by the cashier, while half a dozen casual onlookers noted the weighing, the amount, and the recipient. In a mining-camp all men are suspicious.
"Master Carey, sir, ahoy! Three cheers, and another for luck. If ever there was a sight for sore eyes it's now. Sail ho, sir, not three mile out, lying just beyond the reef. A small steamer, dear lad, as must ha' seen the fire last night." "Help at last!" panted Carey. "Ay, my lad, they've kept their fires banked up, and the smoke's pouring out of her funnel and hanging to leeward like a flag."
It slid along the smooth, green cloth and stopped fairly in the centre of '34. The ball came to rest, and the game-keeper announced, "Thirty-four wins!" He swept the table, and alongside of Smoke's dollar, stacked thirty-five dollars. Smoke drew the money in, and Shorty slapped him on the shoulder. "Now, that was the real goods of a hunch, Smoke! How'd I know it?
Shorty trudged at Smoke's heels, beguiling the time with guesses at what Dwight Sanderson had to sell. "Reindeer? Copper-mine or brick-yard? That's one guess. Bear-skins, or any kind of skins? Lottery tickets? A potato-ranch?" "Getting near it," Smoke encouraged. "And better than that." "Two potato-ranches? A cheese-factory? A moss-farm?" "That's not so bad, Shorty.
One hot day, five or six years ago, numerous lodges of Smoke's kinsmen were gathered around some of the Fur Company's men, who were trading in various articles with them, whisky among the rest. Mahto-Tatonka was also there with a few of his people. As he lay in his own lodge, a fray arose between his adherents and the kinsmen of his enemy.
McCan strove to struggle, but Smoke gripped him cruelly and searched him, drawing forth from under his armpit, where it had been thawed by the heat of his body, a strip of caribou meat. A quick exclamation from Labiskwee drew Smoke's attention. She had sprung to McCan's pack and was opening it.
"Inside," I heard John Silence cry, and the Colonel followed him through the door, while I was just quick enough at their heels to hear him add, "the smoke's the worst part of it. There's no fire yet, I think." And, true enough, there was no fire. The interior was thick with smoke, but it speedily cleared and not a single bucket was used upon the floor or walls.
Shorty's hand in the darkness went out warningly to Smoke's chest, and together they listened to a groan, deep and long drawn, that came from one of the cabins. Ere it could die away it was taken up by another cabin, and another a vast suspiration of human misery. The effect was monstrous and nightmarish. "B-r-r-r," Shorty shivered.
When the crash came, Smoke's fingers were clawing into the hard face of the wall of the crevasse, while his body dragged back with the falling bridge. Carson, sitting up, feet wide apart and braced, was heaving on the rope. This effort swung Smoke in to the side wall, but it jerked Carson out of his niche. Like a cat, he faced about, clawing wildly for a hold on the ice and slipping down.
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