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Man-Size   By: (1871-1954)

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First Page:

MAN SIZE

BY

WILLIAM MACLEOD RAINE

AUTHOR OF

THE BIG TOWN ROUND UP,

OH, YOU TEX! ETC

1922

TO

CAPTAIN SIR CECIL E. DENNY, BART.

OF THE FIRST THREE HUNDRED RIDERS OF THE PLAINS

WHO CARRIED LAW INTO THE LONE LANDS

AND MADE THE SCARLET AND GOLD

A SYNONYM FOR

JUSTICE, INTEGRITY, AND INDOMITABLE PLUCK

CONTENTS

I. IN THE DANGER ZONE

II. THE AMAZON

III. ANGUS McRAE DOES HIS DUTY

IV. THE WOLFERS

V. MORSE JUMPS UP TROUBLE

VI. "SOMETHING ABOUT THESE GUYS"

VII. THE MAN IN THE SCARLET JACKET

VIII. AT SWEET WATER CREEK

IX. TOM MAKES A COLLECTION

X. A CAMP FIRE TALE

XI. C.N. MORSE TURNS OVER A LEAF

XII. TOM DUCKS TROUBLE

XIII. THE CONSTABLE BORES THROUGH DIFFICULTIES

XIV. SCARLET COATS IN ACTION

XV. KISSING DAY

XVI. A BUSINESS DEAL

XVII. A BOARD CREAKS

XVIII. A GUN ROARS

XIX. "D' YOU WONDER SHE HATES ME?"

XX. ONISTAH READS SIGN

XXI. ON THE FRONTIER OF DESPAIR

XXII. "MY DAMN PRETTY LI'L' HIGH STEPPIN' SQUAW"

XXIII. A FORETASTE OF HELL

XXIV. WEST MAKES A DECISION

XXV. FOR THE WEE LAMB LOST

XXVI. A RESCUE

XXVII. APACHE STUFF

XXVIII. "IS A' WELL WI' YOU, LASS?"

XXIX. NOT GOING ALONE

XXX. "M" FOR MORSE

XXXI. THE LONG TRAIL

XXXII. A PICTURE IN A LOCKET

XXXIII. INTO THE LONE LAND

XXXIV. THE MAN HUNTERS READ SIGN

XXXV. SNOW BLIND

XXXVI. THE WILD BEAST LEAPS

XXXVII. NEAR THE END OF A LONG CROOKED TRAIL

XXXVIII. OVER A ROTTING TRAIL

XXXIX. A CREE RUNNER BRINGS NEWS

XL. "MALBROUCK S'EN VA T EN GUERRE"

XLI. SENSE AND NONSENSE

XLII. THE IMPERATIVE URGE

CHAPTER I

IN THE DANGER ZONE

She stood on the crown of the hill, silhouetted against a sky line of deepest blue. Already the sun was sinking in a crotch of the plains which rolled to the horizon edge like waves of a great land sea. Its reflected fires were in her dark, stormy eyes. Its long, slanted rays were a spotlight for the tall, slim figure, straight as that of a boy.

The girl's gaze was fastened on a wisp of smoke rising lazily from a hollow of the crumpled hills. That floating film told of a camp fire of buffalo chips. There was a little knitted frown of worry on her forehead, for imagination could fill in details of what the coulée held: the white canvas tops of prairie schooners, some spans of oxen grazing near, a group of blatant, profane whiskey smugglers from Montana, and in the wagons a cargo of liquor to debauch the Bloods and Piegans near Fort Whoop Up.

Sleeping Dawn was a child of impulse. She had all youth's capacity for passionate indignation and none of the wisdom of age which tempers the eager desire of the hour. These whiskey traders were ruining her people. More than threescore Blackfeet braves had been killed within the year in drunken brawls among themselves. The plains Indians would sell their souls for fire water. When the craze was on them, they would exchange furs, buffalo robes, ponies, even their wives and daughters for a bottle of the poison.

In the sunset glow she stood rigid and resentful, one small fist clenched, the other fast to the barrel of the rifle she carried. The evils of the trade came close to her. Fergus McRae still carried the gash from a knife thrust earned in a drunken brawl. It was likely that to morrow he would cut the trail of the wagon wheels and again make a bee line for liquor and trouble. The swift blaze of revolt found expression in the stamp of her moccasined foot.

As dusk fell over the plains, Sleeping Dawn moved forward lightly, swiftly, toward the camp in the hollow of the hills. She had no definite purpose except to spy the lay out, to make sure that her fears were justified. But through the hinterland of her consciousness rebellious thoughts were racing. These smugglers were wholly outside the law. It was her right to frustrate them if she could.

Noiselessly she skirted the ridge above the coulée, moving through the bunch grass with the wary care she had learned as a child in the lodges of the tribe... Continue reading book >>




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