“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.”