He reached down, lifted Reivers’ head from the snow and let it fall heavily. Still Reivers made no sign of awakening. Moir looked at him for a moment, then slily tiptoed toward the shelter tepee and threw up the flap. The next instant a bellow of rage shattered the morning quiet. Like a maddened bear Moir was back at Reivers, cuffing, kicking, cursing, commanding that he wake up.
Reivers awoke only in degree. Not until Moir had opened a new bottle of hooch and poured a drink down his throat did he essay to sit up and open his eyes.
“Wha’ smatter? Can’t a man shleep?” he protested. “Wha’ smatter with you?”
“Matter!” bellowed Moir. “Plenty of matter, you old waster. Where’s the young lass, eh? Where’s the girl gone? Look in the tepee and see what’s the matter. You told me you had the trulls buffaloed. What’s become of the young girl?”
It was some time before Reivers appeared to understand. Finally he stumbled to his feet and started toward the tent, met Tillie as she stepped out rubbing her eyes, and recoiled drunkenly.
“Neopa? Where is she?” muttered Tillie. “She slept near the door. Now she is gone.”
She had let her shiny black hair fall loosely over her shoulders and now she threw it back, looked straight at Moir and smiled.
“Neopa gone?” demanded Reivers thickly. “She can’t be; she wouldn’t dare.”
“Dare, you fool? Look there.” Moir pointed to the hollows where the missing dog team had lain and to the tracks that ran straight and true up the river bed. “She’s run away. Been gone half a night. Well, what have you got to say?”
Reivers turned with a scowl on Tillie, but Tillie was comfortably plaiting her thick hair.