"My daughter Jessie."

"Goddlemighty, d'ja mean to tell me a girl did it?" He threw back his
head in a roar of Homeric laughter. "Ever hear the beat of that? A
damn li'l' Injun squaw playin' her tricks on Bully West! If she was
mine I'd tickle her back for it."

The eyes in the Scotchman's granite face flashed. "Man, can you never
say twa-three words withoot profanity? This is a God-fearin' camp.
There's nae place here for those who tak His name in vain."

"Smashed 'em with her own hands--is that what you mean? I'll give it
to her that she's a plucky li'l' devil, even if she is a nitchie."

McRae reproved him stiffly. "You'll please to remember that you're
talking of my daughter, Mr. West. I'll allow no such language aboot
her. You're here to settle a business matter. What do ye put the
damage at?"

They agreed on a price, to be paid in hides delivered at Whoop-Up.
West turned and went straddling to the place where he and Morse had
left their horses. On the way he came face to face with a girl, a
lithe, dusky young creature, Indian brown, the tan of a hundred
summer suns and winds painted on the oval of her lifted chin. She was
carrying a package of sacks to the place where the pemmican was being
made.

West's eyes narrowed. They traveled up and down her slender body. They
gloated on her.