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Just now she was in desperate need of every ounce that would weigh in the scales. "Daughter of Angus McRae?" he asked, astonished. "Yes." "His woman's a Cree?" "His wife is," the girl corrected. "What you doin' here?" "Father's camp is near. He's hunting hides." "Did he send you to smash our whiskey-barrels?" "Angus McRae never hides behind a woman," she said, her chin up. That was true.
The Basin was bordered on either side near the end by pork-houses, where the pork was cut up and packed, and then lay in long rows of barrels on the banks, with other long rows of salt-barrels, and yet other long rows of whiskey-barrels; cooper-shops, where the barrels were made, alternated with the pork-houses.
After one scornful glance which swept over and ignored Morse, the girl looked angrily at the man barring her way. Slowly the blood burned into her cheeks. For there was that in the trader's smoldering eyes that would have insulted any modest maiden. "You Jessie McRae?" he demanded, struck of a sudden with an idea. "Yes." "You smashed my whiskey-barrels?" "My father has told you.
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