Morse turned to the girl, fastened his eyes on her steadily, and waited.

“Nae lees.  I’ll hae the truth,” Angus added harshly.

“I did it—­with my hunting-knife,” the daughter said, looking straight at her father.

“What’s that?  Are ye talkin’ havers, lass?”

“It’s the truth, Father.”

The Scotchman swung on the trader with a swift question, at the end of it a threat.  “Why would she do that?  Why?  If you said one word to my lass—­”

“No, Father.  You don’t understand.  I found a camp of whiskey-traders, and I stole up and smashed four-five kegs.  I meant to slip away, but this man caught me.  When he rushed at me I was afraid—­so I slashed at him with my knife.  We fought.”

“You fought,” her father repeated.

“He didn’t know I was a girl—­not at first.”

The buffalo-hunter passed that point.  “You went to this trader’s camp and ruined his goods?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The slim girl faced her judge steadily with eyes full of apprehension.  “Fergus,” she said in a low voice, “and my people.”

“What aboot them?”

“These traders break the law.  They sell liquor to Fergus and to—­”

“Gin that’s true, is it your business to ram-stam in an’ destroy ither folks’ property?  Did I bring you up i’ the fear o’ the Lord to slash at men wi’ your dirk an’ fight wi’ them like a wild limmer?  I’ve been ower-easy wi’ you.  Weel, I’ll do my painfu’ duty the nicht, lass.”  The Scotchman’s eyes were as hard and as inexorable as those of a hanging judge.

“Yes,” the girl answered in a small voice.  “That’s why he brought me home instead of taking me to his own camp.  You’re to whip me.”

Angus McRae was not used to having the law and the judgment taken out of his own hands.  He frowned at the young man beneath heavy grizzled eyebrows drawn sternly together.  “An’ who are you to tell me how to govern my ain hoose?” he demanded.

“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.”