“Feed him up,” ordered Reivers, smiling. “I’ve got a little use for him when he’s fixed up so he can feel. You see, Treplin,” he continued to Toppy, who had been called to bring the man back to life, “I’m not all cruelty. When I want to save a man to amuse myself with I’m almost as much of a humanitarian as you are.”
He hurried on his way, but before he was out of hearing he flung back——
“You remember how carefully I had Tilly nurse you, don’t you—doctor?”
It was only the guards that Reivers did not make enemies of. He knew that he had need of their loyalty. At night the “white men” sat on the edges of their bunks and tried to concoct feasible schemes for securing possession of the shotguns of the guards.
On the morning of the shortest day of the year Toppy heard a scratching sound at the window near his bunk and sprang up. It was still pitch dark, long before any one should be stirring around camp save the cook and cookees.
“Who’s there?” demanded Toppy.
“Me. Want talk um with you,” came the low response from without. “You no come out. No make noise. Hear through window. You can hear um when I talk huh?”
“Tilly!” gasped Toppy. “What’s up?”
“You hear um what I talk?” asked the squaw again.
“Yes, yes; I can hear you. What is it?”