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.

Jessie brought a basin, water, a towel, and clean rags. By the light
of a lantern in the hands of her father, she washed and tied up the
wound. Her lips trembled. Strange little rivers of fire ran through
her veins when her finger-tips touched his flesh. Once, when she
lifted her eyes, they met his. He read in them a concentrated passion
of hatred.

Not even when she had tied the last knot in the bandage did any of
them speak. She carried away the towel and the basin while McRae hung
the lantern to a nail in the tent pole and brought from inside a
silver-mounted riding-whip. It was one he had bought as a present for
his daughter last time he had been at Fort Benton.

The girl came back and stood before him. A pulse beat fast in her
brown throat. The eyes betrayed the dread of her soul, but they met
without flinching those of the buffalo-hunter.

The Indian woman at the tent entrance made no motion to interfere. The
lord of her life had spoken. So it would be.

With a strained little laugh Morse took a step forward. "I reckon I'll