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She had been fighting for self-control, to curb her growing resentment, but now it flamed passionately into words. "I hate the sight of you. Why don't you go all of you and leave me in peace?" It was a cry of bruised pride and wounded love. Elliot touched the Indian woman on the shoulder. Meteetse turned stolidly and walked out of the room, still leading Colmac by the hand. The young man followed.
In the afternoon he came upon a real surprise when he found Meteetse and her little boy Colmac seated upon a box on the lower deck where freight for local points was stored. His guess was that they were local passengers, but wharf after wharf slipped behind them and the two still remained on board.
First syllable of each of his names." The land inspector stopped in his stride and wheeled upon Holt. His eyes asked eagerly a question. "You don't mean Colby Macdonald?" "Why don't I?" "But Good Lord, he isn't a squawman, is he?" "Not in the usual meaning of the word. She never cooked and kept house for him. Just the same, little Colmac is his kid. Couldn't you see it sticking out all over him?
One takes on the color of one's environment, and the girl from Drogheda knew in her heart that Meteetse and Colmac were no longer the real barriers that stood between her and the Alaskan. She had been disillusioned, saw him more clearly; and though she still recognized the quality of bigness that set him apart, her spirit did not now do such complete homage to it.
"Colmac," the boy answered bashfully. His fist closed on the quarter, he turned, and like a startled caribou he fled to a comely young Indian woman standing near the trail. With gleaming eyes Holt turned to Elliot. "Take a good look at the squaw," he said in a low voice. Elliot glanced at the woman behind whose skirts the youngster was hiding. He smiled and nodded pleasantly to her.
The man would never believe him in the world. "I'll remember this," the Alaskan promised his rival. There was a cold glitter in his eyes, a sudden flare of the devil that was blood-chilling. "It's true, then," broke in Sheba. "You're a a squawman. You belong to this woman." "Nothing of the kind," he cried roughly. "That's been ended for years." "Ended?" Sheba drew Colmac forward by the wrist.
"She is young and good-looking for an Indian. Her boy is four or five years old. Colmac, they call him, and he looks just like Macdonald." "People are always tracing resemblances. There's nothing to that. But suppose his life was irregular years ago. This isn't Boston. It used to be the fringe of civilization. Men did as they pleased in the early days.
The boy had his father's trick of squinting a slant look at anything he found interesting. It was impossible to see him and not recognize Colby Macdonald reincarnated. "What is your name?" asked Sheba suddenly. The youngster hung back shyly among the folds of the Indian woman's skirt. "Colmac," he said at last softly. "Come!" Sheba flung open the door of the living-room and ushered them in.
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