Chapter XLII: The Snow-Burner Works for Two

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."