Short Stories
cut. Got the Beaver with 'm. Picked 'm up in his canoe, stuck in a
back channel, with a couple of bullet-holes in 'm. Other buck
was Klok Kutz, the one that knocked spots out of his squaw and
dusted."
"Eh? W'at Ah say? Eh?" Leclere cried exultantly. "Dat de one
fo' sure! Ah know. Ah spik true."
"The thing to do is to teach these stupid Siwashes a little
manners," spoke Webster Shaw. "They're getting fat and sassy,
and we'll have to bring them down a peg. Round in all the bucks
and string up the Beaver for an object lesson. That's the pro-
gramme. Come on and let's see what he's got to say for himself."
"Heh, M'sieu!" Leclere called, as the crowd began to melt
away through the twilight in the direction of Sunrise. "Ah lak
ver' moch to see de fon."
"Oh, we'll turn you loose when we come back," Webster
Shaw shouted over his shoulder. "In the meantime meditate on
your sins and the ways of Providence. It will do you good, so be
grateful."
As is the way with men who are accustomed to great haz-
ards, whose nerves are healthy and trained in patience, so it was
with Leclere who settled himself to the long wait—which is to
say that he reconciled his mind to it.
There was no settling of the body, for the taut rope forced
him to stand rigidly erect. The least relaxation of the leg muscles
pressed the rough-fibred noose into his neck, while the upright
position caused him much pain in his wounded shoulder. He
projected his under lip and expelled his breath upwards along
his face to blow the mosquitoes away from his eyes. But the situ-
ation had its compensation. To be snatched from the maw of
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