"You little devil," he said again.

"Let me up!" she repeated wildly. "Let me up, I tell you."

"Like blazes I will. You're through biting and knifing me for one
night." He had tasted no liquor all day, but there was the note of
drunkenness in his voice.

The terror in her grew. "If you don't let me up--"

"You'll do what?" he jeered.

Her furious upheaval took him by surprise. She had unseated him and
was scrambling to her feet before he had her by the shoulders.

The girl ducked her head in an effort to wrench free. She could as
easily have escaped from steel cuffs as from the grip of his brown
fingers.

"You'd better let me go!" she cried. "You don't know who I am."

"Nor care," he flung back. "You're a nitchie, and you smashed our
kegs. That's enough for me."

"I'm no such thing a nitchie[1]," she denied indignantly.

[Footnote 1: In the vernacular of the Northwest Indians were
"nitchies." (W.M.R.)]

The instinct of self-preservation was moving in her. She had played