“And what have we—you and I—to do with sick, helpless beings? Are we not on the trail to find Shanty Moir, who is working your father’s mine, wherever it is, and there take vengeance on said Shanty for your father’s murder, as well as recover your own property? Is this a trail on which ’tis fit and well we halted to nurse and care for sick, helpless beings? Blood of the de’il! An unlucky mess! What business has man to be sick and ailing on the Winter trail here in the North? ’Tis the law of Nature that such die!”
“And do you think that law will be followed here?” demanded the girl.
“Were I alone, it would,” retorted the man. “Our task is to find the place of Shanty Moir and do him justice.”
“And the hospitality of the MacGregors? Is it like Duncan Roy to see beast or man needing or wanting help without stretching his hand to help it?”
The man was silent.
“Do you think any good could come to you or me if we turned our hearts to stones and let a sick man perish after he had fallen helpless on our hands?”
“I tell you what I think, Hattie MacGregor,” broke out the big voice. “I think there is trouble travelling as trail-fellow with this man. I see trouble in the cut of his jaw and the lines of his mouth. There is a fate written there; he’s a fated man and no else, and nothing would please me better than to have him a thousand days mushing away from me and never to see him again. Trouble and trouble! It’s written on him plain.
“Who is he? Whence came he? Why is he alone, dogless, foodless, weaponless, here in these Dead Lands! ’Tis uncanny. Blood o’ the de’il! He might be dropped down from somewhere, or more like shot up from somewhere—from the black pit, for instance. It’s no’ proper for mere human being to be found in his condition out this far on the barrens, with no sign of how he came or why?”
“Have no fear, Uncle Duncan,” laughed the girl. “He’s only a common man.”
Reivers opened his eyes, chuckling feverishly.