as soon have freed himself from the clamp of a vice.

The Scotchman shook him till he was black in the face, then flung him
reeling away.

"Get oot, ye yellow wolf!" he roared. "Or fegs! I'll break every bone
in your hulkin' body. Oot o' my camp, the pair o' you!"

West, strangling, gasped for air, as does a catfish on the bank. He
leaned on the cart wheel until he was able to stand. The help of Morse
he brushed aside with a sputtered oath. His eyes never left the man
who had beaten him. He snarled hike a whipped wolf. The hunter's
metaphor had been an apt one. The horrible lust to kill was stamped on
his distorted, grinning face, but for the present the will alone was
not enough.

McRae's foot was on the revolver. His son Fergus, a swarthy,
good-looking youngster, had come up and was standing quietly behind
his father. Other hunters were converging toward their chief.

The Indian trader swore a furious oath of vengeance. Morse tried to
lead him away.

"Some day I'll get yore squaw girl right, McRae, an' then God help
her," he threatened.

The bully lurched straddling away.

Morse, a sardonic grin on his lean face, followed him over the hill.