"
"Never you mind what I do with this gun. Go ahead and fix your foot,
and let's see what you got for grub." The man resumed his seat.
She twisted up her tangled hair, replaced her toque and untied the
dangling snowshoe.
Outside a tree cracked in the frost. He started in hair-trigger
fright. Creeping to the window, he peeped cautiously between casing
and blanket. Convinced that it was nothing, he returned to his seat
by the table.
"It's too bad we couldn't have a fire," suggested the woman then.
"I'd make us something hot." The stove was there, rusted but still
serviceable; available wood was scattered around. But the man shook
his bullet head.
After a trying time unfastening the frosted knots of the ropes that
had bound the knapsack upon her back, she emptied it onto the table.
She kept her eye, however, on the gun. He had disposed of it by
thrusting it into his belt. Plainly she would never recover it
without a struggle. And she was in no condition for physical conflict.
"You're welcome to anything I have," she told him.
"Little you got to say about it! If you hadn't given it up, I'd took
it away from you. So what's the difference?"
She shrugged her shoulders. She started around behind him but he
sprang toward her.
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