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Curwood, James Oliver, 1879-1927

"The Golden Snare"


"Now--talk!" commanded Philip. "I'm going to give you half a
minute to begin telling me what I want to know, Blake. You've
brought the Eskimos down. There's no doubt of that. What do you
want of this girl, and what have you done with her people?"
He had never looked into the eyes of a cooler man than Blake,
whose blood-stained lips curled in a sneering smile even as he
finished.
"I ain't built to be frightened," he said, taking his time about
it. "I know your little games an' I've throwed a good many bluffs
of my own in my time. You're lyin' when you say you'll shoot, an'
you know you are. I may talk and I may not. Before I make up my
mind I'm going to give you a bit of brotherly advice. Take that
team out there and hit across the Barren--ALONE. Understand?
ALONE. Leave the girl here. It's your one chance of missing what
happened to--"
He grinned and shrugged his huge shoulders.
"You mean Anderson--Olaf Anderson--and the others up at Bathurst
Inlet?" questioned Philip chokingly.
Blake nodded.


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