Evidently patience with a squaw was not held a virtue by the master. "Sulky, eh?" he grumbled and sprang down from the log to stand directly in front of her. Reaching out, he took her chin between thumb and forefinger and tilted it until her stained face looked up into his.
"A new one, ain't you?" he asked. "Thought I hadn't seen you before, princess."
A look came into his dark eyes that frightened her more. Not daring to utter protest for fear her Chinook would betray her, she cuffed at the hand which held her and broke his hold. Bonnemort's chuckle sounded more ominous to her than an imprecation.
"A Siwash klootch with spirit—and a beauty to boot!" he exclaimed. "There is something new under the sun. Your light's been hidden long enough, young wildcat. Take a stroll up to my tent and we'll talk it over."
His huge hand closed upon her shoulder with a firm grasp, but without undue violence. When he started back to camp, she stepped, perforce, at his side. Although tall for a woman, the red-haired breed was head and shoulders above her, and she recognized a captor that could only be circumvented by guile.
He tried her out with several impertinent questions. Was she married? What would she take for a kiss? Did she like white men, the big bear kind?
He seemed to disown the Indian blood that was reputed to flow in his veins. Evidently he spoke little Chinook, for he complained at her refusal to understand English.
As they strolled slowly along, Moira wasted no thought on self-censure. Seymour had been right—her exploit was absolutely wild. Escape she must, but if humanly possible by her own wit, without involving the Mountie or even disturbing him in his investigation. A plan flashed into her mind and she hastened to perfect it.
With just the reluctance she thought her role required, she accompanied him to the placers. The Siwash men who looked up from their mining grinned at her or turned stolidly away. It was nothing to them that this skookum Boston chief saw fit to pay attention to one of their women. No hope of help lay in that quarter.
When she reached that section of the placer where the two squaws to whom she had disclosed herself earlier in the morning were working a sluice, she began to struggle, hoping they would come to her rescue without disclosing her identity. But with her first jerk, Bonnemort's fingers tightened like a vise, as though he had been expecting some such move. She continued to struggle.