Shanty Moir laughed harshly.
“How works tuh old Scot jackass to-day?” he called.
The man across the creek shook his head.
“He’s never tuh horse he was when we first put him in harness,” he chuckled. “Fell twice in his tracks to-day, he did, and lay there till Joey gave him an inch of tuh prod. Has been a good beastie, the Scot has, Shanty, but ’tis in my mind tuh climate does not ‘gree with him. Scarce able to pull his load. In tuh mines at home we knocked such worn beasties in the head and sent them up o’ tuh pit.”
Moir laughed again.
“Hast a quaint way o’ putting things, Tammy,” he said. “But I mind when ponies were scarce we used them till they crawled their knees raw. ’Tis plenty o’ time to knock old horse-flesh in tuh head when tuh job’s done.”
They laughed together. Evidently this was a well-liked camp joke.
“’Tis a well-coupled animal ’ee have there, Shanty,” said the humourist across the water, with a jerk of the head at Reivers. “Big in tuh bone and solid around tuh withers. Yon squaw is a solid piece, too. Happen they’re broke to pull double?”
“Unbroke stock, Tammy,” drawled Moir leisurely. “Gentleman, squaw-man, waster. But breaking stock’s our specialty, eh, Tammy?”
A muffled shout floated up from the mouth of the smoking pit before Tammy could reply. Instantly there followed a dull moan of pain: Moir and Tommy laughed knowingly.