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Updated: June 14, 2025
She was so weak now that she sank upon the stones shivering. "That's right! Sit down and behave while I make you something hot to drink. You're all in." After a time he continued, as he busied himself about his task: "Say, you ought to be glad to get me; I've got a lot of money, or I will have, and once you're Mrs. Runnion, nobody'll ever know about this or think of you as a squaw."
Outside Runnion was saying again to Stark: "She won't go with me, Ben; she don't like me. You see, I made love to her, and she got mad and wanted me killed." "She'll never know who you are until it's too late to turn back," said the other, "and you are the only man I can trust to take her through. I can trust you you owe me too much to be crooked." "Oh, I'll act square with you!
These Poleon and Runnion bore down to the end of the spit for bedding, while Stark chopped a pile of dry wood for the night.
"That man who did the talking is a tin-horn gambler who drifted in a month ago, the same as Runnion, and the others ain't much better," said Gale, when they had gone. "Seems like the crooks always beat the straight men in." "Never knowed it to fail," Lee agreed. "There's a dozen good men in camp I'd like to see in on this find, but it'll be too late 'gin we get back."
"The old man takes it hard," said Lee, shaking his head, and Burrell remarked: "I've seen things like that in army quarters, and the fellow who accidentally discharges his gun invariably gets a greater shock than his companion." "I call it damned careless, begging your pardon, Miss Necia," said Runnion.
Overhead a bleak ruin of clouds drifted; underneath the river ran, a bilious yellow. The whole country so far as the eye could range was unmarred by the hand of man, untracked save by the feet of the crafty forest people. She saw Runnion gazing over his shoulder in search of a shelving beach or bar, his profile showing more debased and mean than she had ever noticed it before.
"There ain't another Peterborough in town." It was Poleon's deal now, and when he had finished both Stark and Runnion had disappeared, also the man they had accosted, which pleased the Canadian, for now that Runnion was eliminated from the game he might win a little. A steady, unvarying run of bad hands is uninteresting, and does not occupy one's mind as well as an occasional change of luck.
Runnion glanced about hurriedly, then cursed as he saw no place of concealment. The Peterborough stood out upon the bar conspicuously, as did he and the girl; but the chance remained that this man, whoever he was, would pass by, for his speed was great, the river a mile in width, and the bend sharp.
Poleon was not too absorbed in his own fortunes to fail to notice the extraordinary ferocity and exhilaration of the saloon-keeper, nor that his face was keener, his nostrils thinner, his walk more nervous, and his voice more cutting than usual when he spoke to Runnion. "Come here." "I'll be with you when I finish this hand," said the player, over his shoulder. "Come here!"
When he had disappeared Runnion drew a deep breath. "I guess I've framed something for Mister Burrell this time." "You go about it queer," said Stark. "I'd rather tackle a gang-saw than a man like Poleon Doret. Your frame-up may work double." "Huh! No chance. The soldier was out all night alone with that half-breed girl, and anybody can see she's crazy about him. What's the answer?"
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