Angus McRae was that rare product, an honest, outspoken man.  He sought to do justice to all with whom he had dealings.  Part of West’s demand was fair, he reflected.  The trader had a right to know all the facts in the case.  But the old Hudson’s Bay trapper had a great reluctance to tell them.  His instinct to protect Jessie was strong.

“I’ve saved ye the trouble, Mr. West.  The guilty yin was o’ my ain family.  Your young man will tell ye I’ve done a’ the horsewhippin’ that’s necessary.”

The big trail boss looked blackly at his helper.  He would settle with Morse at the proper time.  Now he had other business on hand.

“Come clean, McRae.  Who was it?  There’ll be nothin’ doin’ till I know that,” he growled.

“My daughter.”

West glared at him, for once astonished out of profanity.

“What?”

“My daughter Jessie.”

“Goddlemighty, d’ja mean to tell me a girl did it?” He threw back his head in a roar of Homeric laughter.  “Ever hear the beat of that?  A damn li’l’ Injun squaw playin’ her tricks on Bully West!  If she was mine I’d tickle her back for it.”

The eyes in the Scotchman’s granite face flashed.  “Man, can you never say twa-three words withoot profanity?  This is a God-fearin’ camp.  There’s nae place here for those who tak His name in vain.”

“Smashed ’em with her own hands—­is that what you mean?  I’ll give it to her that she’s a plucky li’l’ devil, even if she is a nitchie.”

McRae reproved him stiffly.  “You’ll please to remember that you’re talking of my daughter, Mr. West.  I’ll allow no such language aboot her.  You’re here to settle a business matter.  What do ye put the damage at?”

They agreed on a price, to be paid in hides delivered at Whoop-Up.  West turned and went straddling to the place where he and Morse had left their horses.  On the way he came face to face with a girl, a lithe, dusky young creature, Indian brown, the tan of a hundred summer suns and winds painted on the oval of her lifted chin.  She was carrying a package of sacks to the place where the pemmican was being made.

West’s eyes narrowed.  They traveled up and down her slender body.  They gloated on her.

After one scornful glance which swept over and ignored Morse, the girl looked angrily at the man barring her way.  Slowly the blood burned into her cheeks.  For there was that in the trader’s smoldering eyes that would have insulted any modest maiden.

“You Jessie McRae?” he demanded, struck of a sudden with an idea.

“Yes.”

“You smashed my whiskey-barrels?”

“My father has told you.  If he says so, isn’t that enough?”

He slapped an immense hand on his thigh, hugely diverted.  “You damn li’l’ high-steppin’ filly!  Why?  What in hell ’d I ever do to you?”