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Updated: May 14, 2025
Beresford had walked out to meet him. He answered, curtly. "No." The long, lank whiskey-runner rubbed his chin bristles awkwardly. "We 'lowed maybe " "I keep my prisoners, both Morse and Barney." "Barney!" repeated Gosse, surprised. "Yes, we've got him and two others. I don't want them. I'll turn 'em over to you. But not Morse and Barney. They're going to the post with me for whiskey-running."
The purport of it was that Beresford had better come out with his hands up if he didn't want to be dragged out by a rope around his neck. The man's speech crackled with oaths and obscenity. The constable stepped into the open a few yards. "What do you want?" he asked. "You." The whiskey-runner screamed it in a sudden gust of passion. "Think you can make a fool of Bully West?
"Hell's hinges, you ain't standin' there tellin' me that a Cree breed is too good for Bully West, are you?" roared the big whiskey-runner. "A hundred times too good for you. I'd rather see the lass dead in her coffin than have her life ruined by you," McRae answered in dead earnest. "You don't get me right, Mac," answered the smuggler, swallowing his rage. "I know yore religious notions.
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