“Sentiment!” MacGregor spoke hotly, then suddenly subsided. “Yes, you’re right, lad,” he admitted after awhile. “It’s naught but sentiment. I see now. It’s the kind of sentiment that white men die for, and that makes them the boss men of the world. Well, lad, I am sorry to hear you talk as if ’twas only your skin was white. But I do not see you top dog of this camp yet. I’ll warrant Shanty Moir didn’t allow you to slip a gun or knife into camp. And did you notice the little tool he had in his hand?” “A six-shooter,” said Reivers. “A crude weapon compared to a good mind, MacGregor.” “Aye? I’m glad to hear you say so, lad, for I’ve only a mind, such as it is, left me for a weapon, and I’m quite sure I must overcome the six-gun in Shanty’s hand ere I ever win back to lay eyes on my daughter Hattie.” “Your daughter Hattie!” Reivers sat up, jarred out of his composure. “You forget your daughter Hattie; you hear, MacGregor? And now shut up. There’s been enough yawping to-night; I want to sleep.” He rolled himself tightly in his blankets. MacGregor crawled miserably to his corner and huddled down to sleep as best he could in his cruel shackles. The dugout grew as still as a tomb. Faint sounds came from the place where Moir and his men were living, but as the night grew older these ceased, and a silence as complete and primitive as it knew before man bent his steps thither fell over the isolated cavern. Reivers did not sleep. MacGregor’s last words had done the work. “My daughter Hattie.” Hattie with the clean, pure face of her. Hattie with the wide grey eyes; with the look of pain upon her. Curse MacGregor! What business had he mentioning that name? Reivers had forgotten, or thought he had. He was himself again. And then this old fool—curse him! Curse the whole MacGregor tribe. And especially did he curse himself for being weak and foolish enough to permit such trifles to interfere with his sleep. He dozed away toward daylight and dreamed that Hattie MacGregor was looking at him. The hard look on her face had softened a little, and she said she was glad he had sent Neopa back to her lover, Nawa. “—— you, get out of there!” In his half-waking Reivers fancied it was his own voice driving the picture from his mind. “Get out, beasts, and get out quick!” It was Shanty Moir’s voice and he was calling to MacGregor and Reivers to get up. CHAPTER XLI—SHANTY MOIR—TEMPERANCE ADVOCATE Reivers came forth from the dugout, stooped and shaking, the drunken squaw-man’s morning condition to perfection, but in reality alert and watchful for the opportunity he was seeking. He had had a bad night, and he was anxious to have the job over with and get away with his loot to some place where he could forget.