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as much to her as to
Fergus. Often it was used contemptuously.
"Yes, and the métis doesn't matter," she cried, with the note of
bitterness that sat so strangely on her hot-blooded, vital youth. "You
can ride over him as though you're lords of the barren lands. You can
ruin him for the money you make, even if he's a subject of the Great

Mother and not of your country. He's only a breed--a mongrel."
He was a man of action. He brushed aside discussion. "We'll be movin'
back to camp."
Instantly her eyes betrayed the fear she would not put into words.
"No--no! I won't go."
His lids narrowed. The outthrust of his lean jaw left no room for
argument. "You'll go where I say."
She knew it would be that way, if he dragged her by the hair of the
head. Because she was in such evil case she tamed her pride to sullen
pleading.
"Don't take me there! Let me go to father. He'll horsewhip me. I'll have
him do it for you. Isn't that enough? Won't that satisfy you?"
Red spots smoldered like fire in his brown eyes. If he took her back to
the traders' camp, he would have to fight Bully West for her. That was
certain. All sorts of complications would rise. There would be trouble
with McRae. The trade with the Indians of his uncle's firm, of which he
was soon to be a partner, would be wrecked by the Scotchman. No, he
couldn't take her back to the camp in the coulée. There was too much at
stake.
"Suits me. I'll take you up on that. He's to horsewhip you for that fool
trick you played on us and to make good our loss. Where's his camp?"
From the distance of a stone-throw a heavy, raucous voice called, "'Lo,
Morse!"
The young man turned to the girl, his lips set in a thin, hard line. "Bully
West. The dog's gone back and is bringin' him here, I reckon. Like to
meet him?"
She knew the reputation of Bully West, notorious as a brawler and a
libertine. Who in all the North did not know of it? Her heart fluttered a

signal of despair.
"I--I can get away yet--up the valley," she said in a whisper, eyes quick
with fear.
He smiled grimly. "You mean we can."
"Yes."
"Hit the trail."
She turned and led the way into the darkness.
CHAPTER III
ANGUS McRAE DOES HIS DUTY
The harsh shout came to them again, and with it a volley of oaths that
polluted the night.
Sleeping Dawn quickened her pace. The character of Bully West was
sufficiently advertised in that single outburst. She conceived him
bloated, wolfish, malignant, a man whose mind traveled through filthy
green swamps breeding fever and disease. Hard though this young man
was, in spite of her hatred of him, of her doubt as to what lay behind
those inscrutable, reddish-brown eyes of his, she would a hundred
times rather take chances with him than with Bully West. He was at
least a youth. There was always the possibility that he might not yet
have escaped entirely from the tenderness of boyhood.
Morse followed her silently with long, tireless, strides. The girl
continued to puzzle him. Even her manner of walking expressed
personality. There was none of the flat-footed Indian shuffle about her
gait. She moved lightly, springily, as one does who finds in it the joy of
calling upon abundant strength.
She was half Scotch, of course. That helped to explain her. The words
of an old song hummed themselves through his mind.

"Yestreen I met a winsome lass, a bonny lass was she, As ever climbed
the mountain-side, or tripped aboon the lea; She wore nae gold, nae
jewels bright, nor silk nor satin rare, But just the plaidie that a queen
might well be proud to wear."
Jessie McRae wore nothing half so picturesque as the tartan. Her
clothes were dingy and dust-stained. But they could not eclipse the
divine, dusky youth of her. She was slender, as a panther is, and her
movements had more than a suggestion of the same sinuous grace.
Of the absurdity of such thoughts he was quite aware. She was a
good-looking breed. Let it go at that. In story-books there were Indian
princesses, but in real life there were only squaws.
Not till they were out of the danger zone did he speak. "Where's your
father's camp?"
She pointed toward the northwest. "You don't need to be afraid. He'll
pay you for the damage I did."
He looked at her in the steady, appraising way she was to learn as a
peculiarity of his.
"I'm not afraid," he drawled. "I'll get my pay--and you'll get yours."
Color flamed into her dusky