“Cautious!” MacGregor threw up the flap of the dugout. “Look out there, man.”
Reivers looked. On the sand directly before the door lay chained a huge, husky dog, an ugly, starved brute with mad eyes.
“Try but to crawl outside the shack,” suggested MacGregor.
Reivers tried. His head had no more than appeared outside when the dog sprang. The chain jerked him back as his teeth clashed where Reivers’ head had been. He leaped thrice more, striving to hurl himself into the dugout, then returned to his place and lay down, growling.
“Very cautious,” agreed Reivers.
He peered carefully out toward the cooking-fire. The fire had died down now and was deserted. By the sounds coming from the larger dugout Reivers knew that Moir and his men were occupied with their supper, supplemented by occasional drafts of liquor, and once more he crawled out upon the sand.
With a snarl the great dog leaped again, his bared fangs flashing in the night. The snarl died in a choke. Reivers’ long arms flashed out and his fingers caught the dog by the throat so swiftly and surely that not another sound came from between its teeth. It was a big, strong dog and it died hard, but out there on the sand Reivers sat, silently keeping his hold till the last sign of life had gone from the brute’s body. Not a sound rose to attract attention from the larger dugout.
When the animal was quite dead Reivers crawled forward and untied the chain that held it to a rock. Noiselessly he crawled farther on and noiselessly slipped the carcass into the brook. The brisk current caught it and dragged it down. Reivers waited until he saw the thing disappear into the dark tunnel at the lower end of the cavern, then returned to the dugout and quietly lay down on his blankets.
“God’s blood!” gasped MacGregor and sat silent.
“Well,” yawned Reivers, “our friend Moir is short one dog.”