From this position she failed to budge him.  Once angered, partly by her expressed intention and partly by the outspoken protest against the mountain of work imposed on her, Charlie refused point-blank to give her either the ninety dollars he had taken out of her purse or the three months’ wages due.  Having made her request, and having met with this—­to her—­amazing refusal, Stella sat dumb.  There was too fine a streak in her to break out in recrimination.  She was too proud to cry.

So that she went to bed in a ferment of helpless rage.  Virtually she was a prisoner, as much so as if Charlie had kidnaped her and held her so by brute force.  The economic restraint was all potent.  Without money she could not even leave the camp.  And when she contemplated the daily treadmill before her, she shuddered.

At least she could go on strike.  Her round cheek flushed with the bitterest anger she had ever known, she sat with eyes burning into the dark of her sordid room, and vowed that the thirty loggers should die of slow starvation if they did not eat until she cooked another meal for them.

CHAPTER IX

JACK FYFE’S CAMP

She was still hot with the spirit of mutiny when morning came, but she cooked breakfast.  It was not in her to act like a petulant child.  Morning also brought a different aspect to things, for Charlie told her while he helped prepare breakfast that he was going to take his crew and repay in labor the help Jack Fyfe had given him.

“While we’re there, Jack’s cook will feed all hands,” said he.  “And by the time we’re through there, I’ll have things fixed so it won’t be such hard going for you here.  Do you want to go along to Jack’s camp?”

“No,” she answered shortly.  “I don’t.  I would much prefer to get away from this lake altogether, as I told you last night.”

“You might as well forget that notion,” he said stubbornly.  “I’ve got a little pride in the matter.  I don’t want my sister drudging at the only kind of work she’d be able to earn a living at.”

“You’re perfectly willing to have me drudge here,” she flashed back.

“That’s different,” he defended.  “And it’s only temporary.  I’ll be making real money before long.  You’ll get your share if you’ll have a little patience and put your shoulder to the wheel.  Lord, I’m doing the best I can.”

“Yes—­for yourself,” she returned.  “You don’t seem to consider that I’m entitled to as much fair play as you’d have to accord one of your men.  I don’t want you to hand me an easy living on a silver salver.  All I want of you is what is mine, and the privilege of using my own judgment.  I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

If there had been opportunity to enlarge on that theme, they might have come to another verbal clash.  But Benton never lost sight of his primary object.  The getting of breakfast and putting his men about their work promptly was of more importance to him than Stella’s grievance.  So the incipient storm dwindled to a sullen mood on her part.  Breakfast over, Benton loaded men and tools aboard a scow hitched beside the boat.  He repeated his invitation, and Stella refused, with a sarcastic reflection on the company she would be compelled to keep there.