Man-Size. William MacLeod Raine

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      "My name's Morse—Tom Morse, Fort Benton, Montana, when my hat's hangin' up. I took up your girl's proposition, that if I didn't head in at our camp, but brought her here, you were to whip her and pay me damages for what she'd done. Me, I didn't propose it. She did."

      "You gave him your word on that, Jess?" her father asked.

      "Yes." She dragged out, reluctantly, after a moment: "With a horsewhip."

      "Then that's the way it'll be. The McRaes don't cry back on a bargain," the dour old buffalo-hunter said. "But first we'll look at this young man's arm. Get water and clean rags, Jess."

      Morse flushed beneath the dark tan of his cheeks. "My arm's all right.

       It'll keep till I get back to camp."

      "No such thing, my lad. We'll tie it up here and now. If my lass cut your arm, she'll bandage the wound."

      "She'll not. I'm runnin' this arm."

      McRae slammed a heavy fist down into the palm of his hand. "I'll be showin' you aboot that, mannie."

      "Hell, what's the use o' jawin'? I'm goin' to wait, I tell you."

      "Don't curse in my camp, Mr. Morse, or whatever your name is." The

       Scotchman's blue eyes flashed. "It's a thing I do not permeet. Nor do

       I let beardless lads tell me what they will or won't do here. Your

       wound will be washed and tied up if I have to order you hogtied first.

       So mak the best o' that."

      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 not stand out for my pound of flesh, Mr. McRae. Settle the damages for the lost liquor and I'll call it quits."

      The upper lip of the Scotchman was a straight line of resolution. "I'm not thrashing the lass to please you, but because it's in the bond and because she's earned it. Stand back, sir."

      The whip swung up and down. The girl gasped and shivered. A flame of fiery pain ran through her body to the toes. She set her teeth to bite back a scream. Before the agony had passed, the whip was winding round her slender body again like a red-hot snake. It fell with implacable rhythmic regularity.

      Her pride and courage collapsed. She sank to her knees with a wild burst of wailing and entreaties. At last McRae stopped.

      Except for the irregular sobbing breaths of the girl there was silence. The Indian woman crouched beside the tortured young thing and rocked the dark head, held close against her bosom, while she crooned a lullaby in the native tongue.

      McRae, white to the lips, turned upon his unwelcome guest. "You're nae doot wearyin' to tak the road, man. Bring your boss the morn an' I'll mak a settlement."

      Morse knew he was dismissed. He turned and walked into the darkness beyond the camp-fires. Unnoticed, he waited there in a hollow and listened. For along time there came to him the soft sound of weeping, and afterward the murmur of voices. He knew that the fat and shapeless squaw was pouring mother love from her own heart to the bleeding one of the girl.

      Somehow that brought him comfort. He had a queer feeling that he had been a party to some horrible outrage. Yet all that had taken place was the whipping of an Indian girl. He tried to laugh away the weak sympathy in his heart.

      But the truth was that inside he was a wild river of woe for her.

CHAPTER IV

       Table of Contents

      THE WOLFERS

      When Tom Morse reached camp he found Bully West stamping about in a heady rage. The fellow was a giant of a man, almost muscle-bound in his huge solidity. His shoulders were rounded with the heavy pack of knotted sinews they carried. His legs were bowed from much riding. It was his boast that he could bend a silver dollar double in the palm of his hand. Men had seen him twist the tail rod of a wagon into a knot. Sober, he was a sulky, domineering brute with the instincts of a bully. In liquor, the least difference of opinion became for him a cause of quarrel.

      Most men gave him a wide berth, and for the sake of peace accepted sneers and insults that made the blood boil.

      "Where you been all this time?" he growled.

      "Ploughin' around over the plains."

      "Didn't you hear me callin'?"

      "D'you call? I've been quite a ways from camp. Bumped into Angus

       McRae's buffalo-hunting outfit. He wants to see us to-morrow."

      "What for?"

      "Something about to-night's business. Seems he knows who did it.

       Offers to settle for what we lost."

      Bully West stopped in his stride, feet straddled, head thrust forward.

       "What's that?"

      "Like I say. We're to call on him to-morrow for a settlement, you 'n' me."

      "Did McRae bust our barrels?"

      "He knows something about it. Didn't have time to talk long with him.

       I hustled right back to tell you."

      "He can come here if he wants to see me," West announced.

      This called for no answer and Tom gave it none. He moved across to the spot where the oxen were picketed and made sure the pins were still fast. Presently he rolled his blanket round him and looked up into a sky all stars. СКАЧАТЬ