“Man,” whispered MacGregor in horror, “is there naught but a piece of ice where your heart should be? Do you not understand it’s for a poor, unprovided girl I’m talking? A man you might rob; but have you the coldness in your heart to rob my little, unfortunate Hattie?” “‘Little, unfortunate Hattie!’” mocked Reivers. “Consider her robbed already. What then?” “A word to Shanty Moir and you’re as good as dead,” retorted MacGregor hotly. Reivers’ long right arm shot out and terrible fingers clutched MacGregor’s throat. The old man wriggled and gasped and tried to cry out, but Reivers held him voiceless and helpless and smiled. “One word to Shanty Moir, and—you see?” he said, releasing his hold. “Then your little, unfortunate Hattie would be robbed for sure.” “Man—man—what are you, man or devil?” gasped MacGregor. “Devil, if it suits you,” said Reivers. “But, remember, I’ll manage to be within reach of you when Shanty Moir’s about, and I rather fancy Moir would be glad to have me put you out of business. Now listen to me. I’ve no objection to your getting out of here alive—if you can. I’ve no objection to your getting your revenge on Moir, if you can, provided that none of this interferes with my getting what I came after. You know now what I can and will do if necessary. Your life lies right there.” He opened and closed his right hand significantly. “Well, I’ll trade you your life for a little information. Where does Shanty keep his gold?” MacGregor ceased gasping. He began to laugh. He leaned over and laughed. He rocked from side to side. “Man, man! Do you not know that? That proves you’re only human!” he chuckled. “You came out here, like a lamb led to slaughter, to find where Shanty Moir keeps his gold. You were on the trail with Shanty. You had him where it was only one man to one. Well—well, the joke is too good to keep: Shanty Moir, day and night, wears a big buckskin belt about the middle of him, and the gold—the gold is in the belt!” CHAPTER XL—THE WHITE MAN’S SENTIMENT It was very still in the dugout. Suddenly Reivers leaned forward to see if MacGregor were telling the truth. Satisfied with his scrutiny he sat back and laughed softly. “In a belt, around his middle, eh?” he said. “Good work. Mr. Moir is cautious enough to be interesting.” “Cautious!” MacGregor threw up the flap of the dugout. “Look out there, man.” Reivers looked. On the sand directly before the door lay chained a huge, husky dog, an ugly, starved brute with mad eyes. “Try but to crawl outside the shack,” suggested MacGregor. Reivers tried. His head had no more than appeared outside when the dog sprang. The chain jerked him back as his teeth clashed where Reivers’ head had been. He leaped thrice more, striving to hurl himself into the dugout, then returned to his place and lay down, growling. “Very cautious,” agreed Reivers.