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Harte, Bret, 1836-1902

"Frontier Stories"

Yet even this was evidently bravado, for the water
started to her eyes, and she could not restrain the paroxysm of
coughing that followed.
"I reckon that's the kind that kills at forty rods," she said, with a
hysterical laugh. "But I say, pardner, you look as if you were fixed
here to stay," and she stared ostentatiously around the chamber. But
she had already taken in its minutest details, even to observing that
the hanging strips of bark could be disposed so as to completely hide
the entrance.
"Well, yes," he replied; "it wouldn't be very easy to pull up the
stakes and move the shanty further on."
Seeing that either from indifference or caution he had not accepted her
meaning, she looked at him fixedly, and said,--
"What is your little game?"
"Eh?"
"What are you hiding for--here in this tree?"
"But I'm not hiding."
"Then why didn't you come out when they hailed you last night?"
"Because I didn't care to."
Teresa whistled incredulously. "All right--then if you're not hiding,
I'm going to." As he did not reply, she went on: "If I can keep out of
sight for a couple of weeks, this thing will blow over here, and I can
get across into Yolo.


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