"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 and the judgment taken out of his own hands. He frowned at the young man beneath heavy grizzled eyebrows drawn sternly together. "An' who are you to tell me how to govern my ain hoose?" he demanded. "My name's Morse--Tom Morse, Fort Benton, Montana, when my hat's hangin' up. I took up your girl's proposition, that if I didn't head in at our camp, but brought her here, you were to whip her and pay me damages for what she'd done. Me, I didn't propose it. She did." "You gave him your word on that, Jess?" her father asked. "Yes." She dragged out, reluctantly, after a moment: "With a horsewhip." "Then that's the way it'll be. The McRaes don't cry back on a bargain," the dour old buffalo-hunter said. "But first we'll look at this young man's arm. Get water and clean rags, Jess." Morse flushed beneath the dark tan of his cheeks. "My arm's all right. It'll keep till I get back to camp." "No such thing, my lad. We'll tie it up here and now. If my lass cut your arm, she'll bandage the wound." "She'll not. I'm runnin' this arm." McRae slammed a heavy fist down into the palm of his hand. "I'll be showin' you aboot that, mannie." "Hell, what's the use o' jawin'? I'm goin' to wait, I tell you." "Don't curse in my camp, Mr. Morse, or whatever your name is." The Scotchman's blue eyes flashed. "It's a thing I do not permeet. Nor do I let beardless lads tell me what they will or won't do here. Your wound will be washed and tied up if I have to order you hogtied first. So mak the best o' that." Morse measured eyes with him a moment, then gave way with a sardonic laugh. McRae had a full share of the obstinacy of his race. "All right. I'm to be done good to whether I like it or not. Go to it." The trader pulled back the sleeve of his shirt and stretched out a muscular, blood-stained arm. An ugly flesh wound stretched halfway from elbow to wrist.