He rolled himself to the front of the dugout, and suddenly there rang out in the cavern such a shriek of terror as stopped the blood in the veins of all who heard. Twice Reivers uttered his horrible cry. Then he began to shout drunkenly:
“Take him off, take him away! Oh, oh, oh! Big dog coming out of the river. Take him away. Big dog swimming in the river. Take him away. Help, help!”
Shanty Moir got to the front of the little dugout in advance of the others. He came with a six-shooter in his hand, and the gun covered Reivers, huddled up on the sand, as steadily as if held in a vise. But Reivers observed that Moir stopped well out of reach.
“What tuh ——!” roared Muir, as he noted the absence of the watch-dog. “What devil’s work——”
“The dog!” chattered Reivers. “Big dog; big as a house. Came out of the river. Tried to jump on me. Jumped back into the river. Swimming—swimming out there.”
Shanty Moir swung the muzzle of his six-shooter till it pointed straight at Reivers’s forehead. He did not step forward, but remained well out of reach.
“Steady, old son,” he said quietly, “steady, or this’ll go off.”
Under the influence of the threat Reivers pretended to come back to his senses.
“Gimme a drink, mister,” he pleaded. “I’m seeing things. I was sure there was a big dog out there. I’d ‘a’ sworn I saw him jump into the river. Now I see there isn’t, but gimme a drink—quick!”
“Bring tuh old sow a cup of hooch, Joey,” snapped Moir over his shoulder. “Wilt see about this.” He turned the weapon on the cowering MacGregor. “Speak quick, Scotch jackass, or I pull trigger. What’s been done here; where’s Tige?”