"Your brother is of the métis[2]. He's not a tribesman. And he's no child. He can look out for himself," Morse said at last.
[Footnote 2: The half-breeds were known as "métis." The word means, of course, mongrel. (W.M.R.)]
His choice of a word was unfortunate. It applied as much to her as to
Fergus. Often it was used contemptuously.
"Yes, and the métis doesn't matter," she cried, with the note of bitterness that sat so strangely on her hot-blooded, vital youth. "You can ride over him as though you're lords of the barren lands. You can ruin him for the money you make, even if he's a subject of the Great Mother and not of your country. He's only a breed—a mongrel."
He was a man of action. He brushed aside discussion. "We'll be movin' back to camp."
Instantly her eyes betrayed the fear she would not put into words.
"No—no! I won't go."
His lids narrowed. The outthrust of his lean jaw left no room for argument. "You'll go where I say."
She knew it would be that way, if he dragged her by the hair of the head. Because she was in such evil case she tamed her pride to sullen pleading.
"Don't take me there! Let me go to father. He'll horsewhip me. I'll have him do it for you. Isn't that enough? Won't that satisfy you?"
Red spots smoldered like fire in his brown eyes. If he took her back to the traders' camp, he would have to fight Bully West for her. That was certain. All sorts of complications would rise. There would be trouble with McRae. The trade with the Indians of his uncle's firm, of which he was soon to be a partner, would be wrecked by the Scotchman. No, he couldn't take her back to the camp in the coulée. There was too much at stake.