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Curwood, James Oliver, 1879-1927

"The Courage of Marge O'Doone"

" She turned so that she was pointing to the south.
"And then?"
"There are people over there. I've heard Hauck talk about them."
"Did you ever hear him speak of a man by the name of Tavish?" he asked,
watching her closely.
"Tavish?" She pursed her lips into a red "O," and little lines gathered
thoughtfully between her eyes. "Tavish? No-o-o, I never have."
"He lived at one time on Firepan Creek. Had small-pox," said David.
"That is terrible," the girl shuddered. "The Indians die of it up here.
Hauck says that my father and mother died of small-pox, before I could
remember. It is all like a dream. I can see a woman's face sometimes,
and I can remember a cabin, and snow, and lots of dogs. Are you ready to
go?"
He shouldered his pack, and as he arranged the straps Marge ran to Tara.
At her command the big beast rose slowly and stood before her, swinging
his head from side to side, his jaws agape. David called to Baree and
the dog came to him like a streak and stood against his leg, snarling
fiercely.
"Tut, tut," admonished David, softly, laying a hand on Baree's head.
"We're all friends, boy. Look here!"
He walked straight over to the grizzly and tried to induce Baree to
follow him. Baree came half way and then sat himself on his haunches and
refused to budge another inch, an expression so doleful in his face that
it drew from the girl's lips a peal of laughter in which David found it
impossible not to join.


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