It was the cabin of this scum of the outland that Endicott and Alice
approached after pushing up the river for a mile or more from the point
where they had reached it by means of a deep coulee that wound
tortuously through the breaks. Long Bill stood in his doorway and eyed
the pair sullenly as they drew rein and climbed stiffly from the
saddles. Alice glanced with disgust into the sallow face with its
unkempt, straggling beard, and involuntarily recoiled as her eyes met
the leer with which he regarded her as Endicott addressed him:
"We've been fighting the dust storm for two days, and we've got to have
grub and some real water, quick."
The man regarded him with slow insolence: "The hell ye hev," he
drawled; "Timber City's only seven mile, ef ye was acrost the river. I
hain't runnin' no hotel, an' grub-liners hain't welcome."
"God, man! You don't mean----"
"I mean, ef ye got five dollars on ye I'll ferry ye acrost to where ye
c'n ride to Timber City ef them old skates'll carry ye there, an' ef ye
hain't got the five, ye c'n swim acrost, or shove on up the river, or
go back where ye come from."
Endicott took one swift step forward, his right fist shot into the
man's stomach, and as he doubled forward with a grunt of pain,
Endicott's left crashed against the point of his jaw with a force that
sent him spinning like a top as he crumpled to the hard-trodden earth
of the door-yard.
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