With MacGregor leading the way, Reivers humbly picked up his rope and
helped drag the sledge into the mine. The tunnel, high and broad enough
only for two men to crawl abreast, ran at a steep slant into the sand
for probably twenty-five feet. At its end it spread into a small room in
which Joey was at work, chopping loose chunks of frozen earth.
One glance around and Reivers knew from experience that this room had
been the home of the pocket, and that, unless the signs lied, the pocket
soon would be worked out. Judging by the extent of the excavation the
pocket had been a good-sized one, and the amount of dust and nuggets
taken from it undoubtedly would foot up to a neat sum. Yes, it would be
a tidy fortune. It would be plenty to give him a new start in life,
plenty to pay him for the trouble he had gone to, plenty even to pay him
for the baseness of his present position.
He obeyed Joey meekly when ordered, with curses and insults, to load the
sledge. He could have throttled Joey down there in the mine without a
sound coming up to warn those above of what was happening, but Moir's
conduct of the morning had made an impression upon Reivers. A man who
kept himself out of reach, who kept his six-shooter pointed at you all
the time, and who could shoot tin cups out of your moving hand, was not
a man to be despised.
The first hour of work that day convinced Moir and his henchmen that
their original unflattering estimate of Reivers was correct. Even a
close observer, regarding him during that period of probation, would
have seen nothing to indicate that he was anything but what Shanty Moir
had judged him to be. A miserable, broken-down squaw-man, without a will
of his own, and only one ambition--to clamour for as much liquor as
possible--that was the character that Reivers played perfectly for the
benefit of Moir and his two men.
At first, they kept an eye on him, watching to see if by any chance the
old fool might be dangerous. They discovered that he would be dangerous
if turned loose--to their supply of liquor. Beyond that he had,
apparently, not a single aim in the world. His physical weakness, they
soon discovered, was exactly what was to be expected of a whisky bloat.
He was able to help haul the sledge-loads of frozen earth up the incline
of the shaft, and that was all. Even that left him puffing and
trembling.
"Is an old ox, as 'ee said, Shanty, with even tuh horns burnt off him by
tuh hooch," said Joey, after the first few loads. "Keep a little o' tuh
liquor running down his throat each day and he'll be a good draft beast
to us. Nothing to fear o' him. Didst well when 'ee picked him out,
chief."
They stopped watching him. He was harmless. Which was exactly the frame
of mind which Reivers had worked to create.
MacGregor alone knew how cleverly Reivers was playing his part, and he
regarded his new companion in misery with greater awe and swore beneath
his breath in unholy admiration. He had excellent opportunity to
appreciate Reivers's ability to play the part of a weakling, for the
Snow-Burner, when not observed, caught his free hand in MacGregor's
traces and pulled the full weight of the heavy sledge as if it had been
a boy's plaything.
"Eh, mon!" gasped the weakened Scotchman in relief. "I begin to
comprehend now. 'Tis a surprise you're planning for Shanty Moir. Oh,
aye! 'Tis a braw joke. But you maun l'ave me finish him, man; 'tis my
right. And I thank you and will repay you well for the favour you are
doing me in my present bunged-up condition."
"Favour your eye!" snapped Reivers. "It's easier to pull the whole thing
than to have you dragging on it. Don't think I'm doing it for your sake.
You'll have a rude awakening, my friend, if you're building any hopes on
me."
"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."