They'll forget all about you in a month or less, what of
stampeding to York and what not, and you can hit the trail under their
noses and they won't bother. I've got my own ideas of justice. When I
ran after you, out of the El Dorado and along the beach, it wasn't to
catch you or give you up. My ideas are my own, and that's not one of
them."
He ceased as the murderer drew a prayer-book from his pocket. With the
aurora borealis glimmering yellow in the northeast, heads bared to the
frost and naked hands grasping the sacred book, Fortune La Pearle swore
him to the words he had spoken--an oath which Uri Bram never intended
breaking, and never broke.
At the door of the shack the gambler hesitated for an instant, marvelling
at the strangeness of this man who had befriended him, and doubting. But
by the candlelight he found the cabin comfortable and without occupants,
and he was quickly rolling a cigarette while the other man made coffee.
His muscles relaxed in the warmth and he lay back with half-assumed
indolence, intently studying Uri's face through the curling wisps of
smoke. It was a powerful face, but its strength was of that peculiar
sort which stands girt in and unrelated.
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