What manner of girl was she? Not by any possibility would she fit into the specifications of the cubby-hole his mind had built for Indian women. The daughters even of the boisbrulés had much of the heaviness and stolidity of their native mothers. Jessie McRae was graceful as a fawn. Every turn of the dark head, every lift of the hand, expressed spirit and verve. She must, he thought, have inherited almost wholly from her father, though in her lissom youth he could find little of McRae's heavy solidity of mind and body. "Your brother is of the métis[2]. He's not a tribesman. And he's no child. He can look out for himself," Morse said at last. [Footnote 2: The half-breeds were known as "métis." The word means, of course, mongrel. (W.M.R.)] His choice of a word was unfortunate. It applied 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