THE CRIME AT BIG TREE PORTAGE
she won't like them to say her father's a murderer. . . . That's all."
November sat on the edge of the table. His handsome face was grave. Nothing more was said for a good while. Then Highamson stood up.
"I'm ready, November, but you'll let me see Janey again before you give me over to the police."
November looked him in the eyes. "Expect you'll see a good deal of Janey yet. She'll be lonesome over there now that her brute husband's gone. She'll want you to live with her," he said.
"D'ye mean . . ."
November nodded.
"If the police can catch you for themselves, let 'em. And you'd lessen the chance of that a wonderful deal if you was to burn them moose-shank moccasins you're wearing. When did you kill your moose?"
"Tuesday's a week. And my moccasins was wore out, so I fixed 'em up woods fashion."
"I know. The hair on 'em is slipping. I found some of it in your tracks in the camp, away above Big Tree. That's how I knew you'd
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