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face. When she spoke there was the throb
of contemptuous anger in her voice. "It's a great thing to be a man."
"Like to crawfish, would you?"
She swung on him, eyes blazing. "No. I don't ask any favors of a
wolfer."
She spat the word at him as though it were a missile. The term was one
of scorn, used only in speaking of the worst of the whiskey-traders. He
took it coolly, his strong white teeth flashing in a derisive smile.
"Then this wolfer won't offer any, Miss McRae."

It was the last word that passed between them till they reached the
buffalo-hunter's camp. If he felt any compunctions, she read nothing of
the kind in his brown face and the steady stride carrying her straight to
punishment. She wondered if he knew how mercilessly twenty-year-old
Fergus had been thrashed after his drunken spree among the Indians,
how sternly Angus dispensed justice in the clan over which he ruled.
Did he think she was an ordinary squaw, one to be whipped as a matter
of discipline by her owner?
They climbed a hill and looked down on a camp of many fires in the
hollow below.
"Is it you, lass?" a voice called.
Out of the shadows thrown by the tents a big bearded man came to
meet them. He stood six feet in his woolen socks. His chest was deep
and his shoulders tremendously broad. Few in the Lone Lands had the
physical strength of Angus McRae.
His big hand caught the girl by the shoulder with a grip that was half a
caress. He had been a little anxious about her and this found expression
in a reproach.
"You shouldna go out by your lane for so lang after dark, Jess. Weel
you ken that."
"I know, Father."
The blue eyes beneath the grizzled brows of the hunter turned upon
Morse. They asked what he was doing with his daughter at that time
and place.
The Montana trader answered the unspoken question, an edge of irony
in his voice. "I found Miss McRae wanderin' around, so I brought her
home where she would be safe and well taken care of."
There was something about this Angus did not understand. At night in
the Lone Lands, among a thousand hill pockets and shoestring draws, it

would be only a millionth chance that would bring a man and woman
together unexpectedly. He pushed home questions, for he was not one
to slough any of the responsibilities that belonged to him as father of
his family.
A fat and waistless Indian woman appeared in the tent flap as the three
approached the light. She gave a grunt of surprise and pointed first at
Morse and then at the girl.
The trader's hands were covered with blood, his shirt-sleeve soaked in
it. Stains of it were spattered over the girl's clothes and face.
The Scotchman looked at them, and his clean-shaven upper lip grew
straight, his whole face stern. "What'll be the meanin' o' this?" he asked.
Morse turned to the girl, fastened his eyes on her steadily, and waited.
"Nae lees. I'll hae the truth," Angus added harshly.
"I did it--with my hunting-knife," the daughter said, looking straight at
her father.
"What's that? Are ye talkin' havers, lass?"
"It's the truth, Father."
The Scotchman swung on the trader with a swift question, at the end of
it a threat. "Why would she do that? Why? If you said one word to my
lass--"
"No, Father. You don't understand. I found a camp of whiskey-traders,
and I stole up and smashed four-five kegs. I meant to slip away, but this
man caught me. When he rushed at me I was afraid--so I slashed at him
with my knife. We fought."
"You fought," her father repeated.
"He didn't know I was a girl--not at first."

The buffalo-hunter passed that point. "You went to this trader's camp
and ruined his goods?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
The slim girl faced her judge steadily with eyes full of apprehension.
"Fergus," she said in a low voice, "and my people."
"What aboot them?"
"These traders break the law. They sell liquor to Fergus and to--"
"Gin that's true, is it your business to ram-stam in an' destroy ither
folks' property? Did I bring you up i' the fear o' the Lord to slash at men
wi' your dirk an' fight wi' them like a wild limmer? I've been ower-easy
wi' you. Weel, I'll do my painfu' duty the nicht, lass." The Scotchman's
eyes were as hard and as inexorable as those of a hanging judge.
"Yes," the girl answered in a small voice. "That's why he brought me
home instead of taking me to his own camp. You're to whip me."
Angus McRae was not used to having the law