"But you think if you pop up and check every ten seconds it'll stop?" He laughed. "Relax, your sign will go up today. It's only a flash rain. Dollar to a dog turd says it's sunny by two."
She smiled. "You'll excuse me if I find myself without a dog turd, I hope?"
He grinned and turned his attention back to his plates.
She cleared her throat. "I'm bored."
He plopped two matchsticks in the jar,
then said, "You wanted to be a post operator."
"Maybe I could hum. That doesn't count as talking."
That got his attention. "No!"
"Well, do you have a better suggestion?"
Sighing, he shoved the plates aside. "How about a few hands of poker?"
"But I don't know how to play."
"Good, we'll play for money. Have a seat. Now, let's start with the rules. ..."
In the next hour the wind picked up, whistling through the patchy copse of aspen trees that bordered the tent. The rain's fury trebled. Hammerbolts of icy water thumped the post's sagging roof and coursed down its canvas walls. The brownish water of the Yukon River burped and struggled against its banks.
But inside it was warm and dry. The little Yukon stove sputtered and hissed, taking the chill out of the storm-dark midday air. The two partners sat across from each other at the scarred spruce table, their elbows resting on the wooden surface as they studied their respective hands.
"Aha!" Devon gave a short cry of triumph as she lay down two queens.
He frowned.
She leaned forward in anticipation. One by one he lay down his cards. Four, ace, four, six ... four.
She tried to act like a good sport about it. "You win. Again." Then she muttered under her breath, "Darn it anyway."
"Notice anything different, Devon?"
She took the cards from him and started stacking them into four neat piles, one pile for each suit. "No."
"The rain has stopped."
Her hands stilled. Her gaze shot skyward. "It has!" She jumped to her feet and raced over to the counter for her coat. Bundling herself up, she grabbed her petticoat, snagged a hammer and nails, and headed for the flaps.
"Ah, Devon?"
She stopped. "What?"
"Do you remember the day you arrived?"
"Yes. Why?"
"Do you recall being up to your ass in mud?"
"Oh, no."
"Don't worry. We'll get the damn sign up." Grabbing hold of the old table, he hauled it over to the flaps and shoved it through the opening. It immediately sank about six inches into the mud. He waited until it stopped sinking, then he tested it for balance.
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