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Updated: May 10, 2025
But he never quite gave up the drink, though Angus McRae's hand held him back from it many and many a time. But Angus had been ill for a couple of years, and Peter had gone very far astray when the helping hand was removed. He had gone steadily downward until his powers were wasted and his health ruined.
The horrible lust to kill was stamped on his distorted, grinning face, but for the present the will alone was not enough. McRae's foot was on the revolver. His son Fergus, a swarthy, good-looking youngster, had come up and was standing quietly behind his father. Other hunters were converging toward their chief. The Indian trader swore a furious oath of vengeance. Morse tried to lead him away.
She lived much of the time inside herself with her own imagination. This had the generosity and the enthusiasm of youth. She wanted to believe people fine and good and true. It warmed her to discover unexpected virtues in them. Mid-afternoon brought them to Faraway. They drove down the main street of the village to McRae's house while the half-breeds cheered from the door of the Morse store.
The daughters even of the boisbrulés had much of the heaviness and stolidity of their native mothers. Jessie McRae was graceful as a fawn. Every turn of the dark head, every lift of the hand, expressed spirit and verve. She must, he thought, have inherited almost wholly from her father, though in her lissom youth he could find little of McRae's heavy solidity of mind and body.
And then, just as a wave of fear was coming over her, Roderick McRae, in his canoe, came out around the point and paddled straight towards them. She gave a cry of joyful relief. "A canoe! Oh, look, Fred! Somebody's coming this way from McRae's cove!" The young man turned with some apprehension mingling with his joy.
Like all gamblers, he followed hunches. Soon, one of these told him, his chance would come. When it did he would make all three of them sweat blood. Beresford met Tom Morse later in the day. He cocked a whimsical eye at the fur-trader. "I hear McRae's going to sue you for damages to his house," he said.
"I'm Jessie McRae, daughter of Angus, and if you insult me, you'll have to settle with him." He gave a short snort of laughter. "Wake up, girl. What's the use of foolin' yourself? You're a breed. McRae's tried to forget it and so have you. But all the time you know damn well you're half Injun." Jessie looked at him with angry contempt, then wheeled for the door.
"We'll call that settled, then. You're through bull-whackin', Tom." There was a little twitch of whimsical mirth at the corners of the old man's mouth. "Now you're shoutin, C.N. Threw me down from start to finish, he did. First off, when the breed girl busted the casks, he took her home 'stead of bringin' her to me. Then at old McRae's camp when I was defendin' myself, he jumped me too.
Harry Feinberg, one of the free speech prisoners named on the first information with Watson and Tracy, was then placed on the stand and questioned as to the beating he had received at the hands of deputies, as to the condition of Frank Henig after McRae's attack, and upon matters connected with various street meetings at which he had been the speaker.
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