Chapter XXXIII: Shanty Moir

Reivers' tumultuous scheme of life often had led him into situations where his life had hung on his ability to play artistically the part he had assumed. But never had his self-control been put to such a test as now, when he faced Shanty Moir.

Had he not prepared himself for a shock, his surprise must surely have betrayed him, for even the Snow-Burner could not look upon Shanty Moir without amazement. To Reivers, the first impression that came was that he was looking at something as raw and primitive as the sources of life itself.

Shanty Moir had little or nothing in common with the other men in the room. He was even shaped differently. He belonged, so it seemed to Reivers, to the age of the saber-tooth tiger, the long-haired mammoth, and a diet of roots and raw flesh.

There was about him the suggestion of man just risen to the dignity of an upright position. His body was enormous--longer, wider, denser than a man's body should be; the legs beneath it short and bowed. There was no neck that could be seen. His arms seemed to begin close up to the ears, and ran downward in curves, like giant calipers, the hands even with the knees.

The head fitted the body, squat and enormous, the forehead running abruptly back from the brows, and the face so flat and bony that the features seemed merely to dent it. The brow-bones came down and half hid the small eyes; the nose was small, but a pair of great nostrils ran back in the skull; the mouth was huge, yet it seemed small, and there was more of the head below it than above.

Iron Hair was well nicknamed. His hair was probably three inches long, and it stood out straight from his head--black, wiry, menacing. Reivers, with his foolish grin growing larger on his face, appraised Moir with considerable admiration. Here was the real thing, the pure, unadulterated man-animal, unweakened, untouched by effeminising civilisation. This man knew no more law or conscience than the ancient cave-tiger, whose only dictates sprang from appetite.

Reivers had rejected morals because it pleased him to run contrary to all the rest of the world; this man never knew that right or wrong existed. What his appetites told him to take he took as a matter of course. And it was written in his face that his appetites were as abnormally powerful as was he.

Reivers had been a leader of men because his mind was stronger than the minds of the men with whom he had dealt. This man was a leader because of the blind, unintelligent force that was in him. And inwardly the fighting man in Reivers glowed at the prospects of the Titanic clash that would come between them.

Shanty Moir as he looked from under his bony brows saw exactly what Reivers wished him to see: a drunken broken squaw-man, so weak that he could not possibly be the slightest source of trouble. Being primitive of mind he listed Reivers at once as helpless. Having done this, nothing could alter his opinion; and Reivers had gained the vantage that he sought.

Moir threw back his head and laughed, softly and behind set teeth, when his quick inspection of Reivers was ended.

"So that's tuh waster who's got tuh squaws 'at hass tuh camp upset," he said languidly. "Eh, sonnies! Art no men among ye that ye have not gone woman-stealing by this? Tuh waster does not look hard to take a young woman from."

Reivers broke into an apologetic snigger.

"Don't you try to steal my two kids, mister," he whined. "You'd be mighty sorry for your bargain if you did."

"How so, old son?" demanded Moir with a tolerant laugh.

"Them kids--if you was to steal them without my permission--one or both of 'em--they'd make you wish you'd never seen 'em--'less I was along," chuckled Reivers.

"Speak it up, old son," said Moir sharply. "What's behind thy fool's words?"

"Them kids--they'd die if they was took away from me," replied Reivers seriously. "And they'd take the man who stole 'em to the happy hunting ground along with 'em." He winked prodigiously. "Lots of funny things in this ol' world, mister. You wouldn't think to look at me that those two kids wouldn't want to live if I wasn't with 'em, but that's the fact. I wasn't always what I'm now, mister. Once--well, I was different once--and them kids will just nacherlly manage to poison the first man who touches 'em--unless I give the word."

The men of Fifty Mile looked at one another, and Black Pete shuddered.

"The ol' moocher sure has got 'em trained, Iron Hair," said Raftery. "He's locoed, but those squaws look up to him like a little tin god, and that's no lie."

"Poison?" repeated Moir doubtingly. "Art a medicine man, old son?"

Reivers shook his head loosely.

"Not me, mister, not me," he chuckled. "It's something Indian that I don't sabbe. But there's a couple graves 'way up where we came from, and they hold what's left of a couple of bad men who raided my camp and stole my kids. I don't know how it happened, mister. The kids come back to me the same night, and the two bad men were stiff and black--as black as your hair, mister, after the first kiss."

"The kiss of Death," chimed in Black Pete, crossing himself. "I have heard of eet. Sacré! I am the lucky dog, moi."

Shanty Moir nodded. He, too, had heard of the method by which Indian women of the North on rare occasions revenge themselves upon the brutal white men who steal them from their people. Having often indulged in that thrilling sport himself, Moir was well versed in the obstacles and dangers to be met in its pursuit. Being crafty, with the craft of the lynx that eschews the poisoned deer carcass, he had thus far managed to select his victims from the breed of squaws that do not seriously object to playing a Sabine part; and he had no intention of decreasing his caution now, although what men had spoken of Neopa had fired his blood.

"Ho, ho! I see how 'tis, old son," he said with a grin of appreciation. "Dost manage well for a waster."

He suddenly drew his hand from his mackinaw pocket and held it out, opened, toward Reivers. Two jagged nuggets of dull gold the size of big buckshot jiggled on his palm, and Moir laughed uproariously as Reivers, at the sight of them, bent forward, rubbing his hands together, apparently frantic with avarice.

"Eh--hey!" drawled Moir, closing his fist as Reivers' fingers reached for the gold. "I thought so. 'Tis tub gold thy wants, eh, old sonny? Well, do thee bring me tuh cattle to look at and we'll try to bargain."

"Come up to my camp," chattered Reivers, eying the fist that contained the nuggets. He was anxious to get out of the bar. He had no fear that the primitive Moir would be able to see any flaw in his acting, but Black Pete and Jack Raftery were less primitive, and he knew that they had not quite accepted him for the weakling that he pretended to be. "Come and visit me. Buy a bottle of hooch and we go up to my camp."

Moir tossed one of the nuggets across the bar to Raftery.

"Is't good for a round, lad?" he laughed.

Raftery cunningly hefted the nugget and set out the bottles.

"Good for two," he replied.

Moir tossed over the second nugget.

"Then that's good for four," said he. "Do ye boys drink it up while I'm away to tuh camp of old sonny here. A bottle, Raftery. Now, sonny, do thee lead on, and if I'm not satisfied I'll wring thy neck to let thee know my displeasure."