West, straddling past, snarled at her.  “Get Angus McRae outa yore head.  Him an’ you’s come to the partin’ o’ the ways.  You’re travelin’ with me now.  Un’erstand?”

His partner, sneering coldly, offered a suggestion.  “If you expect to travel far you’d better get your webs to hitting snow.  This girl wasn’t out looking at the traps all by herself.  Her trail leads straight here.  Her friends are probably headed this way right now.”

“Tha’s right.”  West stopped in his stride.  His slow brain stalled.  “What d’ you reckon I better do?  If there’s only one or two we might—­”

“No,” vetoed Whaley.  “Nothing like that.  Your play is to get out.  And keep getting out when they crowd you.  No killing.”

“Goddlemighty, I’m a wolf, not a rabbit.  If they crowd me, I’ll sure pump lead,” the desperado growled.  Then, “D’ you mean light out to-night?”

“To-night.”

“Where’ll I go?”

“Porcupine Creek, I’d say.  There’s an old cabin there Jacques Perritot used to live in.  The snow’ll blot out our tracks.”

“You goin’ too?”

“I’ll see you that far,” Whaley answered briefly.

“Better bring down the dogs from the coulee, then.”

The gambler looked at him with the cool insolence that characterized him.  “When did I hire out as your flunkey, West?”

The outlaw’s head was thrust forward and down.  He glared at his partner, who met this manifestation of anger with hard eyes into which no expression crept.  West was not insane enough to alienate his last ally.  He drew back sullenly.

“All right.  I’ll go, since you’re so particular.”  As his heavy body swung round awkwardly, the man’s eyes fell on Jessie.  She had lifted one small foot and was starting to pull on one of the duffle stockings.  He stood a moment, gloating over the beautifully shaped ankle and lower limb, then slouched forward and snatched her up from the stool into his arms.

His savage, desirous eyes had given her an instant’s warning.  She was half up before his arms, massive as young trees, dragged her into his embrace.

“But before I go I’ll have a kiss from my squaw,” he roared.  “Just to show her that Bully West has branded her and claims ownership.”

She fought, fiercely, desperately, pushing against his rough bearded face and big barrel chest with all the force in her lithe young body.  She was as a child to him.  His triumphant laughter pealed as he crushed her warm soft trunk against his own and buried her in his opened coat.  With an ungentle hand he forced round the averted head till the fear-filled eyes met his.

“Kiss yore man,” he ordered.

The girl said nothing.  She still struggled to escape, using every ounce of strength she possessed.

The fury of her resistance amused him.  He laughed again, throwing back the heavy bristling jaw in a roar of mirth.

“Yore man—­yore master,” he amended.