“Placed his foot on you? God’s blood! What has he done to me—robbed me, made an animal of me, stabbed me with a prod! Who has the better right to his foul life?” “It isn’t a case of right, but of might, Mac,” chuckled Reivers. “I’ve got the better might. Therefore, will you give me your word that you’ll refrain from interfering with my actions until I’ve paid my debt to Mr. Moir, or must I go back after the harness and strap you up?” “Cruel——” “Promise!” “I promise,” said MacGregor. “But it’s wrong, sore wrong. I protest.” “All right. Protest all you want to, but do it silently. Not another word or sound out of you now until the job’s done.” Together they crawled back to the brink above the large dugout and peered down into the darkening cavern. In a flash Reivers had his mackinaw and boots off. The cooking-fire was deserted. No one was in sight. Moir and his men and Tillie were at supper in the dugout, and Reivers’s chance had come. He swung himself silently over the brink and hung by a handhold on the rock. “Don’t interfere, Mac,” he said warningly. “Not till I’ve paid Shanty Moir for the touch of his foot.” CHAPTER XLVI—A FIGHT THAT WAS A FIGHT With a twist of his body he threw his stockinged feet forward and caught toe-holds on the rough surface of the wall. Next he released his right hand and fumbled downward till he found a solid piece of protruding rock. Having tested it thoroughly he let go his holds with both feet and left hand and dropped his full weight into the grip of his right. Above him, MacGregor, with his face glued to the brink of the opening, gasped twice, once because he was sure Reivers was dropping straight to the bottom, and again when his right hand took the shock of his full weight without loosening its grip. Reivers heard and looked up and smiled. Then he swung his feet inward again, secured another hold, lowered his right hand to another sure grip, and so made his startling way down the inwardly slanting cliff. At the third desperate drop MacGregor drew back, unable to stand the strain of watching. Had Reivers been able to see on top of the cliff he would have laughed, for the Scotchman was down on his knees in the snow, earnestly praying. Finally MacGregor summoned up courage to peer down once more. Then he knew his prayers had been answered. Reivers was hanging easily by his hands, directly above the front of the large dugout, and his feet were less than ten feet above the bottom of the cave. MacGregor gave a whoop of thanksgiving and gathered to him an armful of stones. For a moment Reivers hung there, looking down and appraising the situation. He loosened his hold until his whole weight hung on the ends of his fingers. “Come out and fight, Shanty!” he bellowed suddenly. “Come out, you cheap cur, and fight like a man!”