vibrant, the words well enunciated. She
bloomed like a desert rose, had some quality of vital life that struck
a spark from his imagination.

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 boisbrules 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 metis[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 "metis." 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 metis 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 coulee. 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 m