“The man with the superior mind can force his body to do anything. Understand, Mac? It’s the superior mind that counts. If you’d had a mind superior to Moir’s you’d be top dog here, with Moir fetching bones for you. As it is, you’re doing the fetching, and Moir’s growing fat. And here I come along, with a mind superior to Moir’s, and I’m going to be top dog now and gobble the whole proceeds of your squabbling. The mind, Mac, the grey stuff in the little bone-box at the top of your neck, that’s all that counts. Nothing else. And I’ve got the best grey matter in this camp, and I’m going to be top dog as a matter of course.”
MacGregor flared up hotly.
“You say, that’s all that counts?” he said. “D’you mean to tell me to my face that after I’d struck hands with a man to be my partner, as I did with Shanty Moir, that I’d turn on him and play him the scurvy trick he played me, just because I could? Well, if you say that, mon, you lie, and I throw the word smack in your teeth. Go back on my hand-shake, just to be top dog and get the bones! God’s blood! There’s other things better than bones, and there’s other things that count besides a superior mind. How many times do you suppose I could have shot Shanty Moir after we’d found this mine?”
“Not once. You didn’t have it in you. You couldn’t do it. If you could you’d have been the superior man, and you’re not.”
MacGregor thought it over.
“You’re right, mon, I couldn’t do it. I thank God I couldn’t. I’d rather be the slave I am at present than be able to do things like that.”
“Sentiment, Mac; foolish, unreasonable sentiment.”
“Sentiment!” MacGregor spoke hotly, then suddenly subsided. “Yes, you’re right, lad,” he admitted after awhile. “It’s naught but sentiment. I see now. It’s the kind of sentiment that white men die for, and that makes them the boss men of the world. Well, lad, I am sorry to hear you talk as if ’twas only your skin was white. But I do not see you top dog of this camp yet. I’ll warrant Shanty Moir didn’t allow you to slip a gun or knife into camp. And did you notice the little tool he had in his hand?”
“A six-shooter,” said Reivers. “A crude weapon compared to a good mind, MacGregor.”
“Aye? I’m glad to hear you say so, lad, for I’ve only a mind, such as it is, left me for a weapon, and I’m quite sure I must overcome the six-gun in Shanty’s hand ere I ever win back to lay eyes on my daughter Hattie.”