THE THAW AT SLISCO'S

The storm broke at Salmon Lake, and we ran for Slisco's road-house.
It whipped out from the mountains, all tore into strips coming
through the saw-teeth, lashing us off the glare ice and driving us up
against the river banks among the willows. Cold? Well, some! My
bottle of painkiller froze slushy, like lemon punch.

There's nothing like a warm shack, with a cache full of grub, when
the peaks smoke and the black snow-clouds roar down the gulch.

Other "mushers" were ahead of us at the road-house, freighters from
Kougarok, an outfit from Teller going after booze, the mail-carrier,
and, who do you reckon?--Annie Black. First time I had seen her
since she was run out of Dawson for claim jumping.

Her and me hadn't been essential to one another since I won that suit
over a water right on Eldorado.

"Hello, Annie," says I, clawing the ice out of my whiskers; "finding
plenty of claims down here to relocate?"

"Shut up, you perjured pup," says she, full of disappointing
affabilities; "I don't want any dealings with a lying, thieving
hypocrite like you, Billy Joyce."

Annie lacks the sporting instinct; she ain't got the disposition for
cup-racing. Never knew her to win a case, and yet she's the
instigatress of more emotional activities than all the marked cards