“I tak’ it they had a fair reason for becoming a mob?”
“The best in the world,” agreed Reivers. “They wanted to kill me. Now, why they wanted to do that is something that belongs to my other life—with the other man—has nothing at all to do with this man—with me—and therefore I am not going to tell you anything about it, except this: I didn’t come away with anything that belonged to them, except possibly my life.”
MacGregor nodded sagely as Reivers ended.
“And his own bare life a man has a right to get away with if he can, even though it’s property forfeited to others,” he said. “I suppose you have, or had, a name?”
“I did. I haven’t now; I haven’t thought of one that would please me.”
“How would the ‘Woman Tamer’ suit you?” asked the girl, without pausing in her sewing. “You remember you told me one of your specialties was taming spitfires like me?”
Reivers smiled.
“I am glad to see that you’ve become sufficiently interested in me, Miss MacGregor, to select me a name.”
“Interested!” she flared; then subsided and bent over her sewing. “I will speak no more, Uncle,” she said meekly.
“Good!” sneered Reivers. “Your manners are improving. And now, Mr. MacGregor, what about yourselves, and your brother, and a mine, and a man named Moir that I’ve heard you speak of?”