"Who is she?" says I, "an' what's she doin' out here on the trail?"

"Dunno, but she's all right; come clean from Dawson with a dog team;
says she's looking for her mother."

I heard a pan clatter on the floor where Annie was washing dishes,
and her face went a sickly grey. She leaned across, gripping the
table and straining to ask something, but the words wouldn't come,
while "Dutch" continues:

"Somethin' strange about it, I think. She says her ma's over in the
Golden Gate district, workin' a rich mine. Of course we all laughed
at her, and said there wasn't a woman in the whole layout, 'ceptin'
_some_ folks might misconstrue Annie here into a kind of a female.
She stuck to it though, much as to say we was liars. She's comin'
on--what's the matter, Annie--you ain't sore at me effeminatin' you
by the gentle name of female, are you?"

She had come to him, and gripped his shoulder, till her long, bony
fingers buried themselves in his mackinaw. Her mouth was twitching,
and she hadn't got shed of that "first-aid-to-the-injured" look.

"What name? What name, Dutch? What name?" She shook him like a rat.

"Bradshaw--but you needn't run your nails through and clinch 'em.
Ow! Le'go my white meat. You act like she was your long lost baby.
What d'ye think of that idea, fellers? Ain't that a pleasin'
conceit? Annie Black, and a baby. Ha! Ha! that's a hit. Annie and
a daughter. A cow-thief and a calla-lily."