Man-Size. William MacLeod Raine

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СКАЧАТЬ If this girl was a daughter of the old Scot, not even a whiskey-trader could safely lay hands on her. For back of Angus was a group of buffalo-hunters related to him by blood over whom he held half-patriarchal sway.

      "Why did you do it?" Morse demanded.

      The question struck a spark of spirit from her. "Because you're ruining my people—destroying them with your fire-water."

      He was taken wholly by surprise. "Do you mean you destroyed our property for that reason?"

      She nodded, sullenly.

      "But we don't trade with the Crees," he persisted.

      It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that she was of the Blackfoot tribe and not of the Crees, but again for reasons of policy she was less than candid. Till she was safely out of the woods, it was better this man should not know she was only an adopted daughter of Angus McRae. She offered another reason, and with a flare of passion which he was to learn as a characteristic of her.

      "You make trouble for my brother Fergus. He shot Akokotos (Many Horses) in the leg when the fire-water burned in him. He was stabbed by a Piegan brave who did not know what he was doing. Fergus is good. He minds his own business. But you steal away his brains. Then he runs wild. It was you, not Fergus, that shot Akokotos. The Great Spirit knows you whiskey-traders, and not my poor people who destroy each other, are the real murderers."

      Her logic was feminine and personal, from his viewpoint wholly unfair.

       Moreover, one of her charges did not happen to be literally true.

      "We never sold whiskey to your brother—not our outfit. It was Jackson's, maybe. Anyhow, nobody made him buy it. He was free to take it or leave it."

      "A wolf doesn't have to eat the poisoned meat in a trap, but it eats and dies," she retorted swiftly and bitterly.

      Adroitly she had put him on the defensive. Her words had the sting of barbed darts.

      "We're not talking of wolves."

      "No, but of Blackfeet and Bloods and Sarcees," she burst out, again with that flare of feminine ferocity so out of character in an Indian woman or the daughter of one. "D'you think I don't know how you Americans talk? A good Indian is a dead Indian. No wonder we hate you all. No wonder the tribes fight you to the death."

      He had no answer for this. It was true. He had been brought up in a land of Indian wars and he had accepted without question the common view that the Sioux, the Crows, and the Cheyennes, with all their blood brothers, were menaces to civilization. The case for the natives he had never studied. How great a part broken pledges and callous injustice had done to drive the tribes to the war-path he did not know. Few of the actual frontiersmen were aware of the wrongs of the red men.

      The young man's hands fell from her arms. Hard-eyed and grim, he looked her over from head to foot. The short skirt and smock of buckskin, the moccasins of buffalo hide, all dusty and travel-stained, told of life in a primitive country under the simplest and hardest conditions.

      Yet the voice was clear and 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 boisbrulés 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 métis[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 "métis." 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 métis 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 coulée. 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 make good our loss. Where's his camp?"

      From the distance of a stone-throw a heavy, raucous voice called,

       "'Lo, Morse!"

      The young man turned to the girl, his lips set in a thin, hard line.

       "Bully West. The dog's gone back and is bringin' him here, I reckon.

       Like to meet him?"

      She knew the reputation of Bully West, notorious as a brawler and a libertine. Who in all the North did not know of it? Her heart fluttered a signal of despair.

      "I—I can get away yet—up the valley," she said in a whisper, eyes quick with fear.

      He smiled grimly. "You mean we can."

      "Yes."

      "Hit the trail."

      She turned and led the way into the darkness.

CHAPTER III

       Table of Contents

      ANGUS McRAE DOES HIS DUTY

      The harsh shout came to them again, and with it a volley of oaths that polluted the night.

      Sleeping Dawn quickened her pace. The character of Bully West was sufficiently advertised in that single outburst. She conceived him bloated, wolfish, malignant, a man whose mind traveled through filthy СКАЧАТЬ