"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."
"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." The
Scotchman's blue eyes flashed. "It's a thing I do not permeet. Nor do
I let beardless lads tell me what they will or won't do here. Your
wound 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 sardonic laugh. 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 to it." The trader pulled back the sleeve of his shirt and stretched out a muscular, blood-stained arm. An ugly flesh wound stretched halfway from elbow to wrist.