“He’s never tuh horse he was when we first put him in harness,” he chuckled. “Fell twice in his tracks to-day, he did, and lay there till Joey gave him an inch of tuh prod. Has been a good beastie, the Scot has, Shanty, but ’tis in my mind tuh climate does not ‘gree with him. Scarce able to pull his load. In tuh mines at home we knocked such worn beasties in the head and sent them up o’ tuh pit.” Moir laughed again. “Hast a quaint way o’ putting things, Tammy,” he said. “But I mind when ponies were scarce we used them till they crawled their knees raw. ’Tis plenty o’ time to knock old horse-flesh in tuh head when tuh job’s done.” They laughed together. Evidently this was a well-liked camp joke. “’Tis a well-coupled animal ’ee have there, Shanty,” said the humourist across the water, with a jerk of the head at Reivers. “Big in tuh bone and solid around tuh withers. Yon squaw is a solid piece, too. Happen they’re broke to pull double?” “Unbroke stock, Tammy,” drawled Moir leisurely. “Gentleman, squaw-man, waster. But breaking stock’s our specialty, eh, Tammy?” A muffled shout floated up from the mouth of the smoking pit before Tammy could reply. Instantly there followed a dull moan of pain: Moir and Tommy laughed knowingly. “Here comes sample of our work,” said Tammy, nodding toward the tunnel. “Poor Joey! Has to use tuh prod to start him with each load now.” A grating, shuffling sound now came from the mouth of the tunnel. Following it appeared the head of a man. And Reivers needed only one glance at the emaciated countenance to know that he was looking upon the father of Hattie MacGregor. “Giddap, Scotch jackass!” roared Moir in great good humour. “Pull it out o’ there. That’s tuh horse. Pull!” The man came painfully, an inch at a time, out of the pit, and looked across the creek at Shanty Moir. Behind him there dragged a rough wooden sledge loaded with lumps of earth. The man was hitched to this load by a harness of straps that held his arms helpless against his sides. No strait-jacket ever held its victim more utterly helpless than the contrivance which now held James MacGregor in toils as a beast of burden. A contrivance of straps about the ankles held his legs close together. So short were the traces by which the sledge was drawn that MacGregor could not have stood upright without having lifted the heavy load a foot or more from the ground. He made no attempt to stand so, but hung half-bowed against the harness, his eyes gleaming through the matted red hair over his brows straight at Shanty Moir.