Higher and higher came the head, a long, heavy, furcoated body arose,
now half, now three-fourths from the water. Freckles looked at his
shaking hand and doubted, but he gathered his forces, the shot rang, and
the otter lay quiet. He hurried down and tried to lift it. He scarcely
could muster strength to carry it to the bridge. The consciousness that
he really could go no farther with it made Freckles realize the fact
that he was close the limit of human endurance. He could bear it little,
if any, longer. Every hour the dear face of the Angel wavered before
him, and behind it the awful distorted image of Black Jack, as he had
sworn to the punishment he would mete out to her. He must either see
McLean, or else make a trip to town and find her father. Which should
he do? He was almost a stranger, so the Angel's father might not be
impressed with what he said as he would if McLean went to him. Then he
remembered that McLean had said he would come that morning. Freckles
never had forgotten before. He hurried on the east trail as fast as his
tottering legs would carry him.
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