In the first hour Reivers had noticed that Moir had a system of guarding himself. It was the system of the primitive fighting man and it consisted solely of: let no man get at your back. At no time, whether in the mine, at the washing-pans, in the open, or in the dugout did Moir permit any one to get behind him. He made no distinction. In the pit he stood with Joey before him. At the pans he worked behind Tammy. When the others grouped together he whirled as smoothly as a lynx if any one made to pass in his rear. Even when he sat at ease in the dugout with Tillie he placed his back against the bare stone wall at the rear of the room. So much Reivers had seen during his first day in the camp. “Does he sleep soundly at night?” he asked suddenly. “Who?” asked MacGregor. “Moir, of course.” “Soundly?” The Scotchman gritted his teeth. “Aye as soundly as a lynx lying down by its kill in a wolf country.” Reivers smiled a grim smile. There was no chance, then, of rushing Shanty Moir in his sleep. It would be harder to get the gold and get away than he had expected. In fact, the difficulties of it presented quite a problem. He liked problems, did the Snow-Burner, and his smile grew more grim as he rolled himself in his blankets and lay down to wait, dream-tortured by pictures of Hattie MacGregor, for the coming of daylight of the day in which he had resolved to force the problem to solution. CHAPTER XLIV—THE MADNESS OF “HELL-CAMP” REIVERS The day opened as the day before had opened. A bellow from Shanty Moir, and Reivers strapped MacGregor into his harness again and they tumbled out to their rude morning meal. Again Moir stood a distance away, the big six-shooter balanced easily in his hand. But this morning Joey and Tammy, over by the pit-mouth, also were awaiting the appearance of their two beasts of burden, and Reivers instantly sensed something new and sinister afoot. At the sight of MacGregor’s decrepitude, as, stiff and tottering, he made his way to his meal, Joey and Tammy strove vainly to conceal the wolfish grins that appeared on their ugly faces. “Aye, Shanty, art quite right. Is worth his keep no longer,” said Tammy. “Hast been a fair animal for a Scotch jackass, but does not thrive on his oats no more.” “One fair day’s work left in him,” said Joey, appraising MacGregor shrewdly. “Will knock off a little early, eh, Shanty, so’s to have tuh light to see him swim.” “Would not miss tuh sight of that for a pound of dust,” replied Shanty, and the three roared fiendishly together. “You poor, misbegotten spawn,” said MacGregor, quietly beginning to eat, eyeing them one after the other. “I’ll live to spit on the shamed corpses of the lot of you.” As the day’s work began, Reivers started to calculate each move that he and Moir made with a view to discovering the opportunity he was looking for. All that he wished was a chance to rush Shanty without giving the latter an opportunity to use his gun.