“The devil was in me, I reckon.  We were runnin’ across the line that consignment of whiskey you found and destroyed near Whoop-Up.  She came on our camp one night, crept up, and smashed some barrels.  I caught her.  She fought like a wild-cat.”  Morse pulled up the sleeve of his coat and showed a long, ragged scar on the arm.  “Gave me that as a lil’ souvenir to remember her by.  You see, she was afraid I’d take her back to camp.  So she fought.  You know West.  I wouldn’t have taken her to him.”

“What did you do?”

“After I got her down, we came to terms.  I was to take her to McRae’s camp and she was to be horsewhipped by him.  My arm was hurtin’ like sin, and I was thinkin’ her only a wild young Injun.”

“So you took her home?”

“And McRae flogged her.  You know him.  He’s Scotch—­and thorough.  It was a sickening business.  When he got through, he was white as snow.  I felt like a murderer.  D’you wonder she hates me?”

Beresford’s smile was winning.  “Is it because she hates you that she wants you to come to supper to-night?”

“It’s because she’s in debt to me—­or thinks she is, for of course she isn’t—­and wants to pay it and get rid of it as soon as she can.  I tell you, Win, she couldn’t bear to touch my hand when she gave me the key to the storehouse the other night—­laid it down on the table for me to pick up.  It has actually become physical with her.  She’d shudder if I touched her.  I’m not going to supper there.  Why should I take advantage of a hold I have on her generosity?  No, I’ll not go.”

And from that position Beresford could not move him.

After supper the constable found a chance to see Jessie alone.  She was working over the last touches of the gun-case.

“When it’s finished who gets it?” he asked, sitting down gracefully on the arm of a big chair.

She flashed a teasing glance at him.  “Who do you think deserves it?”

“I deserve it,” he assured her at once.  “But it isn’t the deserving always who get the rewards in this world.  Very likely you’ll give it to some chap like Tom Morse.”

“Who wouldn’t come to supper when we asked him.”  She lifted steady, inquiring eyes.  “What was the real reason he didn’t come?”

“Said he couldn’t get away from the store because—­”

“Yes, I heard that.  I’m asking for the real reason, Win.”

He gave it.  “Tom thinks you hate him and he won’t force himself on your generosity.”

“Oh!” She seemed to be considering that.

“Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Hate him.”

She felt a flush burning beneath the dusky brown of her cheeks.  “If you knew what he’d done to me—­”

“Perhaps I do,” he said, very gently.

Her dark eyes studied him intently.  “He told you?”

“No, one hears gossip.  He hates himself because of it.  Tom’s white, Jessie.”

“And I’m Indian.  Of course that does make a difference.  If he’d had a white girl whipped, you couldn’t defend him,” she flamed.