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Sinclair, Bertrand W., 1881-1972

"North of Fifty-Three"


"What is it?" she asked sharply.
"Oh, nothing," he said carelessly, and went on with his breakfast
preparations.
They finished the meal. Bill got his horses up beside the fire,
loading on the packs. Hazel sat on the trunk of a winter-broken fir,
waiting his readiness to start. She heard no sound behind her. But
she did see Roaring Bill stiffen and his face blanch under its tan.
Twenty feet away his rifle leaned against a tree; his belt and
six-shooter hung on a limb above it. He was tucking a keen-edged
hatchet under the pack lashing. And, swinging this up, he jumped--it
seemed--straight at her. But his eyes were fixed on something beyond.
Before she could move, or even turn to look, so sudden was his
movement, Bill was beside her. The sound of a crunching blow reached
her ears. In the same instant a heavy body collided with her, knocking
her flat. A great weight, a weight which exhaled a rank animal odor,
rolled over her. Her clutching hands briefly encountered some hairy
object. Then she was slammed against the fallen tree with a force that
momentarily stunned her.
When she opened her eyes again Roaring Bill had her head in his lap,
peering anxiously down.


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