Short Stories
feefty t'ousan' dollair to de church. I gif my husky dog, Batard,
to de devil. De leetle favour? Firs' you hang heem, an' den you
hang me. Eet is good, eh?"
Good it was, they agreed, that Hell's Spawn should break
trail for his master across the last divide, and the court was ad-
journed down to the river bank, where a big spruce tree stood by
itself. Slackwater Charley put a hangman's knot in the end of a
hauling- line, and the noose was slipped over Leclere's head and
pulled tight around his neck. His hands were tied behind his
back, and he was assisted to the top of a cracker box. Then the
running end of the line was passed over an over-hanging branch,
drawn taut, and made fast. To kick the box out from under
would leave him dancing on the air.
"Now for the dog," said Webster Shaw, sometime mining en-
gineer. "You'll have to rope him, Slackwater."
Leclere grinned. Slackwater took a chew of tobacco, rove a
running noose, and proceeded leisurely to coil a few turns in his
hand. He paused once or twice to brush particularly offensive
mosquitoes from off his face. Everybody was brushing mosqui-
toes, except Leclere, about whose head a small cloud was visible.
Even Batard, lying full-stretched on the ground with his fore
paws rubbed the pests away from eyes and mouth.
But while Slackwater waited for Batard to lift his head, a
faint call came from the quiet air, and a man was seen waving
his arms and running across the flat from Sunrise. It was the
store-keeper.
"C-call 'er off, boys," he panted, as he came in among them.
"Little Sandy and Bernadotte's jes' got in," he explained with
returning breath. "Landed down below an' come up by the short
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