“So that’s tuh waster who’s got tuh squaws ‘at hass tuh camp upset,” he said languidly. “Eh, sonnies! Art no men among ye that ye have not gone woman-stealing by this? Tuh waster does not look hard to take a young woman from.” Reivers broke into an apologetic snigger. “Don’t you try to steal my two kids, mister,” he whined. “You’d be mighty sorry for your bargain if you did.” “How so, old son?” demanded Moir with a tolerant laugh. “Them kids—if you was to steal them without my permission—one or both of ’em—they’d make you wish you’d never seen ’em—‘less I was along,” chuckled Reivers. “Speak it up, old son,” said Moir sharply. “What’s behind thy fool’s words?” “Them kids—they’d die if they was took away from me,” replied Reivers seriously. “And they’d take the man who stole ’em to the happy hunting ground along with ’em.” He winked prodigiously. “Lots of funny things in this ol’ world, mister. You wouldn’t think to look at me that those two kids wouldn’t want to live if I wasn’t with ’em, but that’s the fact. I wasn’t always what I’m now, mister. Once—well, I was different once—and them kids will just nacherlly manage to poison the first man who touches ’em—unless I give the word.” The men of Fifty Mile looked at one another, and Black Pete shuddered. “The ol’ moocher sure has got ’em trained, Iron Hair,” said Raftery. “He’s locoed, but those squaws look up to him like a little tin god, and that’s no lie.” “Poison?” repeated Moir doubtingly. “Art a medicine man, old son?” Reivers shook his head loosely. “Not me, mister, not me,” he chuckled. “It’s something Indian that I don’t sabbe. But there’s a couple graves ’way up where we came from, and they hold what’s left of a couple of bad men who raided my camp and stole my kids. I don’t know how it happened, mister. The kids come back to me the same night, and the two bad men were stiff and black—as black as your hair, mister, after the first kiss.” “The kiss of Death,” chimed in Black Pete, crossing himself. “I have heard of eet. Sacré! I am the lucky dog, moi.” Shanty Moir nodded. He, too, had heard of the method by which Indian women of the North on rare occasions revenge themselves upon the brutal white men who steal them from their people. Having often indulged in that thrilling sport himself, Moir was well versed in the obstacles and dangers to be met in its pursuit. Being crafty, with the craft of the lynx that eschews the poisoned deer carcass, he had thus far managed to select his victims from the breed of squaws that do not seriously object to playing a Sabine part; and he had no intention of decreasing his caution now, although what men had spoken of Neopa had fired his blood. “Ho, ho! I see how ’tis, old son,” he said with a grin of appreciation. “Dost manage well for a waster.”