“How long—how long before he’ll get here?”
“Yon beast—” she nodded her head toward the still figure in the snow—“raided our camp, struck me down and stole me away with my team two hours before sundown, yestere’en. Duncan Roy was out meat-hunting, and would be back by dark. He’ll be two hours behind us, and his dogs travel even with these.”
“Two hours? Too long,” groaned Reivers and pitched headlong into the snow.
CHAPTER XXIV—THE WOMAN’S WAY
When he came to, it was from the bite and sting of the terrible white whisky of the North, being poured down his throat by a rude, generous hand.
“Aye; he’s no’ dead,” rumbled a voice like unto a bear’s growl. “He lappit the liquor though his eye’s closed. Hoot, man! Ye take it in like mother’s milk.”
“Have done, Uncle Duncan,” warned another voice—the bold, free voice of the girl, Reivers in his semi-consciousness made out. “’Tis a sick man. Don’t give him the whole bottle.”
“Let be, let be,” grumbled the big voice, but nevertheless Reivers felt the bottle withdrawn from his lips. “’Tis no tender child that a good drink of liquor would hurt that we have here. Do you not note that mouth and jaw? I’m little more pleased with the look of him than with yon thing in the snow.”
“’Tis a sick, helpless being,” said the girl.
The big voice rumbled forth an oath.