“I dinna understand you,” said MacGregor with a shake of his head. “You’re different from any man I ever met. But at all events, you’ve made the loads lighter, and I think I must have perished soon had you not done so.” “Shut up!” hissed Reivers irritably. “I tell you I’m doing it because it’s easier for me.” His attitude toward the old man was brutally domineering when they were alone and openly abusive when they were in the presence of Moir or the others. He showered foul epithets upon him, pretended to shoulder the greater part of the work on him, and abused him in a fashion that won the approval of the three brutes over them. “Make him do his share, old sonny,” roared Moir. “Wilt have tuh prod? Joey, give him tuh prod so he can poke up tuh jackass when he lags back.” “Don’t need no prod,” boasted Reivers. “I can handle him without any prod. Come on, pull up there, you loafer. Think I’m going to do it all?” MacGregor on such occasions would hold his head low to hide the gleam in his eyes and the grin that strove for room on his tightly pressed lips. His harness was hanging slack; Reivers took more of the load upon himself with every curse that he uttered. All through the day it was Reivers’ strength that pulled the heavy sledge up the dirt incline of the tunnel, and at night, when the day’s work was done, and MacGregor, tottering feebly toward his bunk, fell helpless through the dugout’s flap, Reivers picked him up, laid him down gently and placed his own blanket beneath his head. “God bless you, lad!” whispered MacGregor. “Shut up!” hissed Reivers. “I don’t want any talk like that.” He looked down at the prostrate man for a moment. Then with a muttered curse he unloosened the straps that bound MacGregor’s arms to his sides and hurled himself over to his own side of the shack. He was very angry with himself. Pity and succour for the helpless had never before been a part of his creed. Why should he trouble about MacGregor? “I’ll have to strap you up again in the morning,” he flung out suddenly, “but it won’t hurt to have your hands free for the night. Shut up—lay still! I hear somebody coming.” CHAPTER XLIII—“THE PENALTY OF A WHITE MAN’S MIND” “Oh, Snow-Burner!” It was Tillie who came, bearing the evening food, and Reivers crept out on the sand to meet her. “Oh, Snow-Burner,” she whispered quietly, “I am weary of this camp. The air is bad, and the country is not open. It is in my heart to poison Iron Hair as soon as the Snow-Burner says we are ready to go from this place.” Reivers stared at her. A short while ago he would not have been shocked in the slightest degree to have heard this—to her, natural speech—fall from Tillie’s lips. But of late another woman, another kind of woman, had been in his thoughts, and Tillie’s words left him speechless for the moment. The squaw continued placidly— “The Snow-Burner comes here after gold?” “Yes.” “And when he has the gold we go away?” “Yes.”