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Sinclair, Bertrand W., 1881-1972

"Raw Gold A Novel"

Anyway, our time was fully occupied in
watching the brush-patch that sheltered our plundering friends. They
held close to their concealment, however, nor did they waste any powder
on us--for that matter, I don't think they knew just where we were, and
they were familiar enough with the gentle art of bushwhacking to
realize that the open was a distinctly unhealthy place for either party
to prospect.
It was a long time till we heard from MacRae again, and, lying there
passively, we grew afraid that after all they would give us the slip;
for the smoke was now rolling in black clouds above the gorge. So far
the thickest of it had blown overhead, but any moment a change of wind
might whip it down the canyon bottom like an ocean fog, and that would
mean good-by to Hicks & Co.
"That fire's mighty close, an' comin' on the jump," Piegan remarked,
with an upward glance. "I wish she'd let up long enough for us t' finish
this job. That smoke's as good as they want, once it begins t' settle in
the gorge. What in thunder d'yuh s'pose Mac's doin' all this time. He
ought t' show pretty quick, now."
He showed, as Piegan put it, very shortly. From the top of the opposite
bank he fired a shot or two, and drew for the first time a return from
the enemy. Then he broke off, and when he next gave hint of his
whereabouts, it was to hail us from the nearest point on the canyon rim.


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