Man-Size

by William MacLeod Raine

  CHAPTER III

  ANGUS McRAE DOES HIS DUTY

  The harsh shout came to them again, and with it a volley of oaths thatpolluted the night.

  Sleeping Dawn quickened her pace. The character of Bully West wassufficiently advertised in that single outburst. She conceived himbloated, wolfish, malignant, a man whose mind traveled through filthygreen swamps breeding fever and disease. Hard though this young manwas, in spite of her hatred of him, of her doubt as to what lay behindthose inscrutable, reddish-brown eyes of his, she would a hundredtimes rather take chances with him than with Bully West. He was atleast a youth. There was always the possibility that he might not yethave escaped entirely from the tenderness of boyhood.

  Morse followed her silently with long, tireless, strides. The girlcontinued to puzzle him. Even her manner of walking expressedpersonality. There was none of the flat-footed Indian shuffle abouther gait. She moved lightly, springily, as one does who finds in itthe joy of calling upon abundant strength.

  She was half Scotch, of course. That helped to explain her. The wordsof an old song hummed themselves through his mind.

  "Yestreen I met a winsome lass, a bonny lass was she, As ever climbed the mountain-side, or tripped aboon the lea; She wore nae gold, nae jewels bright, nor silk nor satin rare, But just the plaidie that a queen might well be proud to wear."

  Jessie McRae wore nothing half so picturesque as the tartan. Herclothes were dingy and dust-stained. But they could not eclipse thedivine, dusky youth of her. She was slender, as a panther is, and hermovements had more than a suggestion of the same sinuous grace.

  Of the absurdity of such thoughts he was quite aware. She was agood-looking breed. Let it go at that. In story-books there wereIndian princesses, but in real life there were only squaws.

  Not till they were out of the danger zone did he speak. "Where's yourfather's camp?"

  She pointed toward the northwest. "You don't need to be afraid. He'llpay you for the damage I did."

  He looked at her in the steady, appraising way she was to learn as apeculiarity of his.

  "I'm not afraid," he drawled. "I'll get my pay--and you'll get yours."

  Color flamed into her dusky face. When she spoke there was the throbof contemptuous anger in her voice. "It's a great thing to be a man."

  "Like to crawfish, would you?"

  She swung on him, eyes blazing. "No. I don't ask any favors of awolfer."

  She spat the word at him as though it were a missile. The term was oneof scorn, used only in speaking of the worst of the whiskey-traders.He took it coolly, his strong white teeth flashing in a derisivesmile.

  "Then this wolfer won't offer any, Miss McRae."

  It was the last word that passed between them till they reached thebuffalo-hunter's camp. If he felt any compunctions, she read nothingof the kind in his brown face and the steady stride carrying herstraight to punishment. She wondered if he knew how mercilesslytwenty-year-old Fergus had been thrashed after his drunken spree amongthe Indians, how sternly Angus dispensed justice in the clan overwhich he ruled. Did he think she was an ordinary squaw, one to bewhipped as a matter of discipline by her owner?

  They climbed a hill and looked down on a camp of many fires in thehollow below.

  "Is it you, lass?" a voice called.

  Out of the shadows thrown by the tents a big bearded man came to meetthem. He stood six feet in his woolen socks. His chest was deep andhis shoulders tremendously broad. Few in the Lone Lands had thephysical strength of Angus McRae.

  His big hand caught the girl by the shoulder with a grip that washalf a caress. He had been a little anxious about her and this foundexpression in a reproach.

  "You shouldna go out by your lane for so lang after dark, Jess. Weelyou ken that."

  "I know, Father."

  The blue eyes beneath the grizzled brows of the hunter turned uponMorse. They asked what he was doing with his daughter at that time andplace.

  The Montana trader answered the unspoken question, an edge of irony inhis voice. "I found Miss McRae wanderin' around, so I brought her homewhere she would be safe and well taken care of."

  There was something about this Angus did not understand. At night inthe Lone Lands, among a thousand hill pockets and shoestring draws,it would be only a millionth chance that would bring a man and womantogether unexpectedly. He pushed home questions, for he was not one toslough any of the responsibilities that belonged to him as father ofhis family.

  A fat and waistless Indian woman appeared in the tent flap as thethree approached the light. She gave a grunt of surprise and pointedfirst at Morse and then at the girl.

  The trader's hands were covered with blood, his shirt-sleeve soaked init. Stains of it were spattered over the girl's clothes and face.

  The Scotchman looked at them, and his clean-shaven upper lip grewstraight, his whole face stern. "What'll be the meanin' o' this?" heasked.

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

  "Nae lees. I'll hae the truth," Angus added harshly.

  "I did it--with my hunting-knife," the daughter said, looking straightat 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 ofit a threat. "Why would she do that? Why? If you said one word to mylass--"

  "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, butthis man caught me. When he rushed at me I was afraid--so I slashed athim 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 campand 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 itherfolks' property? Did I bring you up i' the fear o' the Lord to slashat men wi' your dirk an' fight wi' them like a wild limmer? I've beenower-easy wi' you. Weel, I'll do my painfu' duty the nicht, lass." TheScotchman's eyes were as hard and as inexorable as those of a hangingjudge.

  "Yes," the girl answered in a small voice. "That's why he brought mehome 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 outof his own hands. He frowned at the young man beneath heavy grizzledeyebrows drawn sternly together. "An' who are you to tell me how togovern my ain hoose?" he demanded.

  "My name's Morse--Tom Morse, Fort Benton, Montana, when my hat'shangin' up. I took up your girl's proposition, that if I didn't headin at our camp, but brought her here, you were to whip her and pay medamages 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 ahorsewhip."

  "Then that's the way it'll be. The McRaes don't cry back on abargain," the dour old buffalo-hunter said. "But first we'll look atthis 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 cutyour 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 beshowin' you aboot that, mannie."

  "Hell, what's the use o' jawin'? I'm goin' to wait, I tell you."

  "Don't curse in my camp, Mr. Morse, or whatever your name is." TheScotchman's blue eyes flashed. "It's a thing I do not permeet. Nor doI let beardless lads tell me what
they will or won't do here. Yourwound will be washed and tied up if I have to order you hogtied first.So mak the best o' that."

  Morse measured eyes with him a moment, then gave way with a sardoniclaugh. McRae had a full share of the obstinacy of his race.

  "All right. I'm to be done good to whether I like it or not. Go toit." The trader pulled back the sleeve of his shirt and stretched outa muscular, blood-stained arm. An ugly flesh wound stretched halfwayfrom elbow to wrist.

  Jessie brought a basin, water, a towel, and clean rags. By the lightof a lantern in the hands of her father, she washed and tied up thewound. Her lips trembled. Strange little rivers of fire ran throughher veins when her finger-tips touched his flesh. Once, when shelifted her eyes, they met his. He read in them a concentrated passionof hatred.

  Not even when she had tied the last knot in the bandage did any ofthem speak. She carried away the towel and the basin while McRae hungthe lantern to a nail in the tent pole and brought from inside asilver-mounted riding-whip. It was one he had bought as a present forhis daughter last time he had been at Fort Benton.

  The girl came back and stood before him. A pulse beat fast in herbrown throat. The eyes betrayed the dread of her soul, but they metwithout flinching those of the buffalo-hunter.

  The Indian woman at the tent entrance made no motion to interfere. Thelord of her life had spoken. So it would be.

  With a strained little laugh Morse took a step forward. "I reckon I'llnot stand out for my pound of flesh, Mr. McRae. Settle the damages forthe lost liquor and I'll call it quits."

  The upper lip of the Scotchman was a straight line of resolution. "I'mnot thrashing the lass to please you, but because it's in the bond andbecause she's earned it. Stand back, sir."

  The whip swung up and down. The girl gasped and shivered. A flame offiery pain ran through her body to the toes. She set her teeth to biteback a scream. Before the agony had passed, the whip was winding roundher slender body again like a red-hot snake. It fell with implacablerhythmic regularity.

  Her pride and courage collapsed. She sank to her knees with a wildburst of wailing and entreaties. At last McRae stopped.

  Except for the irregular sobbing breaths of the girl there wassilence. The Indian woman crouched beside the tortured young thing androcked the dark head, held close against her bosom, while she crooneda lullaby in the native tongue.

  McRae, white to the lips, turned upon his unwelcome guest. "You're naedoot wearyin' to tak the road, man. Bring your boss the morn an' I'llmak a settlement."

  Morse knew he was dismissed. He turned and walked into the darknessbeyond the camp-fires. Unnoticed, he waited there in a hollow andlistened. For along time there came to him the soft sound of weeping,and afterward the murmur of voices. He knew that the fat and shapelesssquaw was pouring mother love from her own heart to the bleeding oneof the girl.

  Somehow that brought him comfort. He had a queer feeling that he hadbeen a party to some horrible outrage. Yet all that had taken placewas the whipping of an Indian girl. He tried to laugh away the weaksympathy in his heart.

  But the truth was that inside he was a wild river of woe for her.