The moon came out, and, falling through the bare windows
full upon the stranger's face, revealed the artistic but slightly
disheveled curls and moustache of the fugitive, Spencer Tucker.
Whatever may have been the real influence of this unfortunate man upon
his fellows, it seemed to find expression in a singular unanimity of
criticism. Patterson looked at him with a half-dismal, half-welcoming
smile. "Well, you are a h-ll of a fellow, ain't you?"
Spencer Tucker passed his hand through his hair and lifted it from his
forehead, with a gesture at once emotional and theatrical. "I am a man
with a price on me!" he said bitterly. "Give me up to the sheriff,
and you'll get five thousand dollars. Help me, and you'll get nothing.
That's my d----d luck, and yours too, I suppose."
"I reckon you're right there," said Patterson gloomily. "But I thought
you got clean away. Went off in a ship--"
"Went off in a boat to a ship," interrupted Tucker savagely; "went off
to a ship that had all my things on board--everything.
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