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Updated: May 3, 2025
Don't jump a dog when he's down. You've only heard one side. A whiter man than Jack Westondale never ate from the same pot nor stretched blanket with you or me. 'Last fall he gave his whole clean-up, forty thousand, to Joe Castrell, to buy in on Dominion. Today he'd be a millionaire. But, while he stayed behind at Circle City, taking care of his partner with the scurvy, what does Castell do?
Fifteen minutes had barely elapsed when the jingle of bells announced new arrivals. The door opened, and a mounted policeman of the Northwest Territory entered, followed by two half-breed dog drivers. Like Westondale, they were heavily armed and showed signs of fatigue. The half-breeds had been borne to the trail and bore it easily; but the young policeman was badly exhausted.
'Three hours' sleep after seventy-five miles with the dogs, and then the trail again. Who is he, Kid? 'Jack Westondale. Been in going on three years, with nothing but the name of working like a horse, and any amount of bad luck to his credit.
Still, the dogged obstinacy of his race held him to the pace he had set, and would hold him till he dropped in his tracks. 'When did Westondale pull out? he asked. 'He stopped here, didn't he? This was supererogatory, for the tracks told their own tale too well.
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