"Wait just a minute. He's told me--and I know he's told you too--that
I'd suit him all right for a son-in-law. He and I agree on that. And
this country ain't like the places you read about in your story
books--it's a man's country. Oh, I know you well enough. It's time you
got down to brass tacks. If you're going to be a northern woman, you've
got to be content with the kind of men that grow up here. Up here, the
best man wins, the hardest, strongest man. That's why I'm going to win
you."

Because he was secretly attacking her dreams, the dearest part of her
being, she felt the first surge of rising anger.

"You're not the best man here," she told him, straightening. "If you
were, I'd move out. You may be the strongest in your body, and certainly
the hardest, going further to get your own way--but a real man would
break you in two in a minute. Some one more than a brute to beat horses
to death and jump claims. I'm going in now. Please take away your hand."

"One thing more. This is the North. We do things in a man's way up
here--not a story-book way. The strong man gets what he wants--and I
want you. And I'll get you, too--just like I get this kiss."

He suddenly snatched her toward him. A powerful man; she was wholly
helpless in his grasp. His arms went about her and he pressed his lips
to hers--three times. Then he released her, his eyes glowing like red
coals.

But she was a northern girl, trained to self-defense. As he freed her,
her strong, slender arm swung out and up--with really startling force.
Her half-closed hand struck with a sharp, drawing motion across his
lips, a blow that extinguished his laughter as the wind extinguishes a
match-blaze.

"You little--devil!"

The tempest of the forest was upon her, and her eyes blazed as she
hastened around the house.

V

Jeffery Neilson and Chan Heminway were already in session when Ray
Brent, his face flushed and his eyes still angry and red, joined them.
Neilson was a tall, gaunt man, well past fifty--from his manner
evidently the leader of the three. He had heavy, grizzled brows and
rather quiet eyes, a man of deep passions and great resolve. Yet his
lean face had nothing of the wickedness of Brent's. There had evidently
been some gentling, redeeming influence in his life, and although it was
not in the ascendancy, it had softened his smile and the hard lines
about his lips. Notorious as he was through the northern provinces he
was infinitely to be