Lablache was not a man of variable moods. He was too strong; his purpose in life was too strong for any vacillation of temper. His one aim—his whole soul—was wrapt in a craving for money-making and the inevitable power which the accumulation of great wealth must give him. In all his dealings he was perfectly—at least outwardly—calm, and he never allowed access to anger to thwart his ends. An inexorable purpose governed his actions to an extent which, while his feelings might undergo paroxysms of acute changes, never permitted him to make a false move or to show his hand prematurely. But this latest reverse had upset him more than he had ever been upset in his life, and all the great latent force of his character had suddenly, as it were, been precipitated into a torrent of ungovernable fury. He had been wounded deeply in the most vulnerable spot in his composition. Thirty-five thousands of his precious dollars ruthlessly torn from his capacious and retentive money-bags. Truly it was a cruel blow, and one well calculated to disturb the even tenor of his complacency.

Thought was very busy within that massive head as he lumped heavily along from John Allandale's house in the direction of his own store. Some slight satisfaction was his at the reflection of the prompt assistance he had obtained from the police. It was the satisfaction of a man who lived by the assistance of the law, of a man who, in his own inordinate arrogance, considered that the law was made for such as he, to the detriment of those who attempt to thwart the rich man's purpose. He knew Horrocks to be capable, and although he did not place too much reliance on that astute prairie-man's judgment—he always believed in his own judgment first—still, he knew that he could not have obtained better assistance, and was therefore as content as circumstances would permit. That he was sanguine of recovering his property was doubtful. Lablache never permitted himself the luxury of optimism. He set himself a task and worked steadily on to the required end. So he had decided now. He did not permit himself to dwell on the desired result, or to anticipate. He would simply leave no stone unturned to bring about the recovery of his stolen property.

He moved ponderously along over the smooth dusty road, and at last reached the market-place. The settlement was drowsily quiet. Life of a sort was apparent but it was chiefly "animal." The usual number of dogs were moving about, or peacefully basking in the sun; a few saddle horses were standing with dejected air, hitched to various tying-posts. A buckboard and team was standing outside his own door. The sound of the smith's hammer falling upon the anvil sounded plaintively upon the calmness of the sleepy village. In spite of the sensational raid of the night before, Foss River displayed no unusual activity.

At length the great man reached his office, and threw himself, with great danger to his furniture, into his capacious wicker chair. He was in no mood for business. Instead he gazed long and thoughtfully out of his office window. What somber, vengeful thoughts were teeming through his brain would be hard to tell, his mask-like face betrayed nothing. His sphinx-like expression was a blank.

In this way half an hour and more passed. Then his attention became fixed upon a tall figure sauntering slowly towards the settlement from the direction of Allandale's ranch. In a moment Lablache had stirred himself, and a pair of field-glasses were leveled at the unconscious pedestrian. A moment later an exclamation of annoyance broke from the money-lender.

"Curse the man! Am I never to be rid of this damned Englishman?" He stood now gazing malevolently at the tall figure of the Hon. Bunning-Ford, who was leisurely making his way towards the village. For the time being the channel of Lablache's thoughts had changed its direction. He had hoped, in foreclosing his mortgages on the Englishman's property, to have rid Foss River of the latter's, to him, hateful presence. But since misfortune had come upon "Lord" Bill, the Allandales and he had become closer friends than ever. This effort had been one of the money-lender's few failures, and failure galled him with a bitterness the recollection of which no success could eliminate. The result was a greater hatred for the object of his vengeance, and a lasting determination to rid Foss River of the Englishman forever. And so he remained standing and watching until, at length, the entrance of one of his clerks, to announce that the saloon dinner-time was at hand, brought him out of his cruel reverie, and he set off in quest of the needs of his inner man, a duty which nothing, of whatever importance, was allowed to interfere with.

In the meantime, Horrocks, or, as he was better known amongst his comrades, "the Ferret," was hot upon the trail of the lost cattle. Horrocks bristled with energy at every point, and his men, working with him, had reason to be aware of the fact. It was an old saying amongst them that when "the Ferret" was let loose there was no chance of bits rusting. In other words, his mileage report to his chiefs would be a long one.

As the sergeant anticipated, it was child's play to track the stolen herd. The tracks left by the fast-driven cattle was apparent to the veriest greenhorn, and Horrocks and his men were anything but greenhorns.

Long before evening closed in they had followed the footprints right down to the edge of the great muskeg, and already Horrocks anticipated a smart capture. But his task seemed easier than it really was. On the brink of the keg the tracks became confused. With some difficulty the sleuth instincts of these accomplished trackers led them to follow the marks for a mile and a half along the edge of the mire, then, it seemed, the herd had been turned and driven with great speed back on their tracks. But worse confusion became apparent; and "the Ferret" soon realized that the herd had been driven up and down along the border of the great keg with a view to evading further pursuit. So frequently had this been done that it was impossible to further trace the stock, and the sun was already sinking when Horrocks dismounted, and with him his men were at last forced to acknowledge defeat.

He had come to a standstill with a stretch of a mile and a half of cattle tracks before him. There was no sign further than this of where the beasts had been driven. The keg itself gave no clew. It was as green and trackless as ever, and again on the land side there was not a single foot-print beyond the confused marks along the quagmire's dangerous border.

The work of covering retreat had been carried out by a master hand, and Horrocks was not slow to acknowledge the cleverness of the raider. With all one good prairie man's appreciation for another he detected a foeman worthy of his steel, and he warmed to the problem set out before him. The troopers waited for their superior's instructions. As "the Ferret" did not speak one of the men commented aloud.

"Smart work, sergeant," he said quietly. "I'm not surprised that this fellow rode roughshod over the district for so long and escaped all who were sent to nab him. He's clever, is P. Retief, Esq."

Horrocks was looking out across the great keg. Strangely enough they had halted within twenty yards of the willow bush, at which point the secret path across the mire began. The man with the gold chevrons upon his arm ignored the remark of his companion, but answered with words which occurred in his own train of thought.

"It's plain enough, I guess. Yonder is the direction taken by the cattle," he said, nodding his head towards the distant peaks of the mountains beyond. "But who's got the nerve to follow 'em? Say," he went on sharply, "somewhere along this bank, I mean in the mile and a half of hoof marks, there's a path turns out, or, at least, firm ground by which it is possible to cross this devil's keg. It must be so. Cattle can't be spirited away. Unless, of course—but no, a man don't duff cattle to drown 'em in a swamp. They've crossed this pernicious mire, boys. We may nab our friend, Retief, but we'll never clap eyes on those beasts."

"It's the same old business over again, sergeant," said one of the troopers. "I was on this job before, and I reckon we landed hereabouts every time we lit on Retief's trail. But we never got no further. Yonder keg is a mighty hard nut to crack. I guess the half-breed's got the bulge on us. If path across the mire there is he knows it and we don't, and, as you say, who's goin' to follow him?" Having delivered himself of these sage remarks he stepped to the brink of the mire and put his foot heavily upon its surface. His top-boot sank quickly through the yielding crust, and the black subsoil rose with oily, sucking action, 'and his foot was immediately buried out of sight. He drew it out sharply, a shudder of horror quickening his action. Strong man and hardy as he was, the muskeg inspired him with a superstitious terror. "Guess there ain't no following them beasties through that, sergeant. Leastways, not for me."

Horrocks had watched his subordinate's action thoughtfully. He knew, without showing, that no man or beast could attempt to cross the mire with any hope of success without the knowledge of some secret path. That such a path, or paths, existed he believed, for many were the stories of how criminals in past days escaped prairie law by such means. However, he had no knowledge of any such paths himself, and he had no intention of sacrificing his life uselessly in an attempt to discover the keg's most jealously guarded secret.

He turned back to his horse and prepared to vault into the saddle.

"It's no use, boys. We are done for to-day. You can ride back to the settlement. I have another little matter on hand. If any of you see Lablache just tell him I shall join him in about two hours' time."

Horrocks rode off and his four troopers headed towards the Foss River.

Despite the fact that his horse had been under the saddle for nearly eight hours Horrocks rode at a great pace. He was one of those men who are always to be found on the prairie—thorough horsemen. Men who, in times of leisure, care more for their horses than they do for themselves; men who regard their horses as they would a comrade, but who, when it becomes a necessity to work or travel, demand every effort the animal can make by way of return for the care which has been lavished upon it. Such men generally find themselves well repaid. A horse is something more than a creature with four legs, one at each corner, head out of one end, tail out of the other. There is an old saying in the West to the effect that a thorough horseman is worthy of man's esteem. The opinion amongst prairie men is that a man who loves his horse can never be wholly bad. And possibly we can accept this decision upon the subject without question, for their experience in men, especially in "bad men," is wide and varied.

Horrocks avoided the settlement, leaving it well to the west, and turned his willing beast in the direction of the half-breed camp. There was an ex-Government scout living in this camp whom he knew; a man who was willing to sell to his late employers any information he chanced to possess. It was the officer's intention to see this man and purchase all he had to sell, if it happened to be worth buying. Hence his visit to the camp.

The evening shadows were fast lengthening when he espied in the distance the squalid shacks and dilapidated teepees of the Breeds. There was a large colony of those wanderers of the West gathered together in the Foss River camp. We have said that these places are hot-beds of crime, a curse to the country; but that description scarcely conveys the wretched poverty and filthiness of these motley gatherings. From a slight rising ground Horrocks looked down on what might have, at first sight, been taken for a small village. A scattering of small tumbled-down shacks, about fifty in number, set out on the fresh green of the prairie, created the first blot of uncleanly, uncouth habitation upon the view. Add to these a proportionate number of ragged tents and teepees, a crowd of unwashed, and, for the most part, undressed children, a hundred fierce and half-starved dogs of the "husky" type. Imagine a stench of dung fire cooking, and the gathering of millions of mosquitoes about a few choyeuses and fat cattle grazing near by, and the picture as it first presents itself is complete.

The approach to such a place makes one almost wish the undulating prairie was not quite so fair a picture, for the contrast with man's filthy squalor is so great that the feeling of nauseation which results is almost overpowering. Horrocks, however, was used to such scenes. His duty often took him into worse Breed camps than this. He treated such places to a perfectly callous indifference, and regarded them merely as necessary evils.

At the first shack he drew up and instantly became the center of attention from a pack of yelping dogs and a number of half-fearful, wide-eyed ragamuffins, grimy children nearly naked and ranging in age from two years up to twelve. Young as the latter were they were an evil-looking collection. The noisy greeting of the camp dogs had aroused the elders from their indolent repose within the shacks, and Horrocks quickly became aware of a furtive spying within the darkened doorways and paneless windows.

The reception was nothing unusual to the officer. The Breeds he knew always fought shy of the police. As a rule, such a visit as the present portended an arrest, and they were never quite sure who the victim was to be and the possible consequences. Crime was so common amongst these people that in nearly every family it was possible to find one or more law-breakers and, more often than not, the delinquent was liable to capital punishment.

Ignoring his cool reception, Horrocks hitched his horse to a tree and stepped up to the shack, regardless of the vicious snapping of the dogs. The children fled precipitately at his approach. At the door of the house he halted.

"Hallo there, within!" he called.

There was a moment's pause, and he heard a whispered debate going on in the shadowy interior.

"Hey!" he called again. "Get a hustle on, some of you. Get out," he snapped sharply, as a great husky, with bristling hair, came snuffing at his legs. He aimed a kick at the dog, which, in response, sullenly retreated to a safe distance.

The angry tone of his second summons had its effect, and a figure moved cautiously within and finally approached the door.

"Eh! what is it?" asked a deep, guttural voice, and a bulky form framed itself in the opening.

The police-officer eyed the man keenly. The twilight had so far deepened that there was barely sufficient light to distinguish the man's features, but Horrocks's survey satisfied him as to the fellow's identity. He was a repulsive specimen of the Breed; the dark, lowering face had something utterly cruel in its expression. The cast was brutal in the extreme; sensual, criminal. The shifty black eyes looked anywhere but into the policeman's face.

"That you, Gustave?" said Horrocks, pleasantly enough. He wished to inspire confidence. "I'm looking for Gautier. I've got a nice little job for him. Do you know where he is?"

"Ugh!" grunted Gustave, heavily, but with a decided air of relief. He entertained a wholesome dread of Sergeant Horrocks. Now he became more communicative. Horrocks had not come to arrest anybody. "I see," he went on, gazing out across the prairie, "this is not a warrant business, eh? Guess Gautier is back there," with a jerk of a thumb in a vague direction behind him. "He's in his shack. Gautier's just hooked up with another squaw."

"Another?" Horrocks whistled softly. "Why, that's the sixth to my knowledge. He's very much a marrying man. How much did he pay the neche this time?"

"Two steers and a sheep," said the man, with an oily grin.

"Ah! I wonder how he acquired 'em. Well, I'll go and find him. Gautier is smart, but he'll land himself in the penitentiary if he goes on marrying squaws at that price. Say, which is his shack did you say?"

"Back thar. You'll see it. He's just limed the outside of it. Guess white's the color his new squaw fancies most. S'long."

The man was glad to be rid of his visitor. In spite of the sergeant's assurance, Gustave never felt comfortable in the officer's presence. Horrocks moved off in search of the white hut, while the Breed, with furtive eyes, watched his progress.

There was no difficulty in locating the shack in that colony of grime. Even in the darkness the gleaming white of the ex-spy's abode stood out prominently. The dogs and children now tacitly acknowledged the right of the police-officer's presence in their camp, and allowed him to move about apparently unnoticed. He wound his way amongst the huts and tents, ever watchful and alert, always aiming for Gautier's hut. He knew that in this place at night his life was not worth much. A quick aim, and a shot from behind, and no one would ever know who had dropped him. But the Canadian police are accustomed to take desperate chances in their work, and think less of it than do our police patrols in the slums of London.

He found Gautier sitting at his hut door waiting for him. Another might have been surprised at the Breed's cognizance of the police-officer's intentions, but Horrocks knew the habits of these people, and was fully alive to the fact that while he had been talking to Gustave a messenger was dispatched to warn Gautier that he was sought.

"Well, sergeant, what's your best news?" Gautier asked civilly. He was a bright, intelligent-looking, dusky man, of perhaps forty years. His face was less brutal than that of the other Breed, but it was none the less cunning. He was short and massively built.

"That's just what I've come to ask you, Gautier. I think you can tell me all I want to know—if you've a notion to. Say," with a keen look round, "can we talk here?"

There was not a soul visible but an occasional playing child. It was curious how quiet the camp became. Horrocks was not deceived, however. He knew that a hundred pairs of eyes were watching him from the reeking recesses of the huts.

"No talk here." Gautier was serious, and his words conveyed a lot. "It's bad medicine your coming to-night. But there," with a return to his cunning look, "I don't know that I've got anything to tell."

Horrocks laughed softly.

"Yes—yes, I know. You needn't be afraid." Then lowering his voice: "I've got a roll of bills in my pocket."

"Ah, then don't stay here talking. There's lots to tell, but they'd kill me if they suspected. Where can I see you—quiet-like? They won't lose sight of me if they can help it, but I reckon I'm good for the best of 'em."

The man's attempt to look sincere was almost ludicrous. His cunning eyes twinkled with cupidity. Horrocks kept his voice down.

"Right. I shall be at Lablache's store in an hour's time. You must see me to-night." Then aloud, for the benefit of listening ears, "You be careful what you are doing. This promiscuous buying of wives, with cattle which you may have difficulty in accounting for your possession of, will lead you into trouble. Mind, I've warned you. Just look to it."

His last sentences were called out as he moved away, and Gautier quite understood.

Horrocks did not return the way he had come, but took a circuitous route through the camp. He was a man who never lost a chance in his work, and now, while he was in the midst of that criminal haunt, he thought it as well to take a look round. He hardly knew what he expected to find out—if anything. But he required information of Retief, and he was fully alive to the fact that all that individual's movements would be known here. He trusted to luck to help him to discover something.

The smartest of men have to work against overwhelming odds in the detection of crime. Many and devious are the ways of men whose hand is against the law. Surely is the best detective a mere babe in the hands of a clever criminal. In this instance the very thing that Horrocks was in search of was about to be forced upon him. For underlying that information was a deep-laid scheme.

Never can reliance be placed in a true half-breed. The heathen Chinee is the ideal of truth and honesty when his wiles are compared with the dark ways of the Breed. Horrocks, with all his experience, was no match for the dusky-visaged outcast of the plains. Gautier had been deputied to convey certain information to Lablache by the patriarchs of the camp. And with his native cunning he had decided, on the appearance of Sergeant Horrocks, to extort a price for that which it was his duty to tell. Besides this, as matters had turned out, Horrocks was to receive gratis that for which he would shortly pay Gautier.

He had made an almost complete circuit of the camp. Accustomed as he was to such places, the stench of it almost made him sick. He came to a stand close beside one of the outlying teepees. He was just preparing to fill his pipe and indulge in a sort of disinfecting smoke when he became aware of voices talking loudly close by. The sound proceeded from the teepees. From force of habit he listened. The tones were gruff, and almost Indian-like in the brevity of expression. The language was the bastard jargon of the French half-breed. For a moment he was doubtful. Then his attention became riveted.

"Yes," said one voice, "he is a good man, is Peter. When he has plenty he spends it. He does not rob the poor Breed. Only the gross white man. Peter is clever. Very."

Then another voice, deep-toned and full, took up the eulogy.

"Peter knows how to spend his money. He spends it among his friends. It is good. How much whisky will he buy, think you?"

Another voice chipped in at this point, and Horrocks strained his ears to catch the words, for the voice was the voice of a female and her utterance was indistinct.

"He said he would pay for everything—all we could eat and drink—and that the pusky should be held the night after to-morrow. He will come himself and dance the Red River jig. Peter is a great dancer and will dance all others down."

Then the first speaker laughed.

"Peter must have a long stocking if he would pay for all. A barrel of rye would not go far, and as for food, he must bring several of the steers which he took from old Lablache if he would feed us. But Peter is always as good as his word. He said he would pay. And he will pay. When does he come to prepare?"

"He does not come. He has left the money with Baptiste, who will see to everything. Peter will not give 'the Ferret' a chance."

"But how? The dance will be a danger to him," said the woman's voice. "What if 'the Ferret' hears?"

"He will not hear, and, besides, Peter will be prepared if the damned police come. Have no fear for Peter. He is bold."

The voices ceased and Horrocks waited a little longer. But presently, when the voices again became audible, the subject of conversation had changed, and he realized that he was not likely to hear more that would help him. So, with great caution, he stole quickly away to where his horse was tied. He mounted hastily and rode off, glad to be away from that reeking camp, and greatly elated with the success of the visit.

He had learned a lot. And he was to hear more yet from Gautier. He felt that the renowned "hustler" was already in his clutches. His spurs went sharply into his broncho's flanks and he raced over the prairie towards the settlement. Possibly he should have known better than to trust to the overhearing of that conversation. His knowledge of the Breeds should have warned him to put little faith in what he had heard. But he was eager. His reputation was largely at stake over this affair, and that must be the excuse for the rashness of his faith. However, the penalty of his folly was to be his, therefore blame can well be spared.

"Sit down and let me hear the—worst."

Lablache's voice rasped harshly as he delivered his mandate. Horrocks had just arrived at the money-lender's store after his visit to the half-breed camp. The police-officer looked weary. And the dejected expression on his face had drawn from his companion the hesitating superlative.

"Have you got anything to eat?" Horrocks retorted quickly, ignoring the other's commands. "I am famished. Had nothing since I set out from Stormy Cloud. I can't talk on an empty stomach."

Lablache struck a table bell sharply, and one of his clerks, all of whom were still working in the store, entered. The money-lender's clerks always worked early and late. It was part of the great man's creed to sweat his employees.

"Just go over to the saloon, Markham, and tell them to send supper for one—something substantial," he called out after the man, who hastened to obey with the customary precipitance of all who served the flinty financier.

The man disappeared in a twinkling and Lablache turned to his visitor again.

"They'll send it over at once. There's some whisky in that bottle," pointing to a small cabinet, through the glass door of which gleamed the white label of "special Glenlivet." "Help yourself. It'll buck you up."

Horrocks obeyed with alacrity, and the genial spirit considerably refreshed him. He then reseated himself opposite to his host, who had faced round from his desk.

"My news is not the—worst, as you seem to anticipate; although, perhaps, it might have been better," the officer began. "In fact, I am fairly well pleased with the result of my day's work."

"Which means, I take it, that you have discovered a clew."

Lablache's heavy eyes gleamed.

"Rather more than a clew," Horrocks went on reflectively. "My information relates more to the man than to the beasts. We shall, I think, lay our hands on this—Retief."

"Good—good," murmured the money-lender, inclining his heavy jowled head. "Find the man and we shall recover the cattle."

"I am not so sure of that," put in the other. "However, we shall see."

Lablache looked slightly disappointed. The capture of Retief seemed to him synonymous with the recovery of his stock. However, he waited for his visitor to proceed. The money-lender was essentially a man to draw his own conclusions after hearing the facts, and no opinion of another was likely to influence him when once those conclusions were arrived at. Lablache was a strong man mentally and physically. And few cared to combat his decisions or opinions.

For a moment further talk was interrupted by the entry of a man with Horrocks's supper. When the fellow had withdrawn the police-officer began his repast and the narration of his story at the same time. Lablache watched and listened with an undisturbed concentration. He lost no point, however small, in the facts as stated by the officer. He refrained from interruption, excepting where the significance of certain points in the story escaped him, and, at the conclusion, he was as conversant with the situation as though he had been present at the investigation. The great man was profoundly impressed with what he heard. Not so much with the shrewdness of the officer as with the simple significance of the loss of further trace of the cattle at the edge of the muskeg. Up to this point of the story he felt assured that Horrocks was to be perfectly relied upon, but, for the rest, he was not so sure. He felt that though this man was the finest tracker in the country the delicate science of deduction was not necessarily an accompaniment to his prairie abilities. Therefore, for the moment, he concentrated his thoughts upon the features surrounding the great keg.

"It is a curious thing," he said retrospectively, as the policeman ceased speaking, "that in all previous raids of this Retief we have invariably tracked the lost stock down to this point. Of course, as you say, there is not the slightest doubt that the beasts have been herded over the keg. Everything seems to me to hinge on the discovery of that path. That is the problem which confronts us chiefly. How are we to find the secret of the crossing?"

"It cannot be done," said Horrocks, simply but with decision.

"Nonsense," exclaimed the other, with a heavy gasp of breath. "Retief knows it, and the others with him. Those cattle could not have been herded over single-handed. Now to me it seems plain that the crossing is a very open secret amongst the Breeds."

"And I presume you consider that we should work chiefly on that hypothesis?"

"Exactly."

"And you do not consider the possible capture of Retief as being the most important feature of the case?"

"Important—certainly. But, for the moment, of minor consideration. Once we discover the means by which he secretes his stock—and the hiding-place—we can stop his depredations and turn all our energies to his capture. You follow me? At first I was inclined to think with you that the capture of the man would be the best thing. But now it seems to me that the easiest method of procedure will be the discovery of that path."

The rasping tone in which Lablache spoke conveyed to the other his unalterable conviction. The prairie man, however, remained unconvinced.

"Well," he replied, after a moment's deliberation, "I cannot say I agree with you. Open secret or not, I've a notion that we'd stand a better chance of discovering the profoundest of state secrets than elicit information, even supposing them to possess it, of this description from the Breeds. I expect Gautier here in a few minutes; we shall hear what he has to say."

"I trust he may have something to say."

Lablache snapped his reply out in that peculiar tone of his which spoke volumes. It never failed to anger him to have his opinions gainsaid. Then his manner changed slightly, and his mood seemed to become contemplative. Horrocks observed the change and wondered what was coming. The money-lender cleared his throat and spat into the stove. Then he spoke with that slow deliberation which was his when thinking deeply.

"Two years ago, when Retief did what he liked in this part of the country, there were many stories going about as to his relationship with a certain lady in this settlement."

"Miss Allandale—yes, I have heard."

"Just so; some said that she—er—was very partial to him. Some, that they were distantly connected. All were of opinion that she knew a great deal of the man if she only chose to tell. These stories were gossip—merely. These small places are given to gossip. But I must confess to a belief that gossip is often—always, in fact—founded on a certain amount of fact."

There was no niceness of feeling about this mountain of obesity in matters of business. He spoke as callously of the girl, for whom he entertained his unholy passion, as he would speak of a stranger. He experienced no compunction in linking her name with that of an outlaw. His gross nature was of too low an order to hold anything sacred where his money-bags were affected.

"Perhaps you—er—do not know," he pursued, carefully lighting his pipe and pressing the charred tobacco down with the tip of his little finger, "that this girl is the daughter of a Breed mother?"

"Guess I hadn't a notion."

Horrocks's keen eyes flashed with interest. He too lit his pipe as he lounged back in his chair.

"She is a quarter-breed, and, moreover, the esteem in which she is held by the skulking inhabitants of the camp inclines me to the belief that—er—judicious—er—handling—"

"You mean that through her we might obtain the information we require?"

Horrocks punctuated the other's deliberate utterances with hasty eagerness. Lablache permitted a vague smile about the corners of his mouth, his eyes remained gleaming coldly.

"You anticipate me. The matter would need delicate handling. What Miss Allandale has done in the past will not be easy to find out. Granting, of course, that gossip has not wronged her," he went on doubtfully. "On second thoughts, perhaps you had better leave that source of information to me."

He relapsed apparently into deep thought. His pensive deliberation was full of guile. He had a purpose to achieve which necessitated the suggestion which he had made to this representative of the law. He wished to impress upon his companion a certain connivance on the part of, at least, one member of the house of Allandale with the doings of the raider. He merely wished to establish a suspicion in the mind of the officer. Time and necessity might develop it, if it suited Lablache's schemes that such should occur. In the meantime he knew he could direct this man's actions as he chose.

The calm superiority of the money-lender was not lost upon his companion. Horrocks was nettled, and showed it.

"But you'll pardon me, Mr. Lablache. You have offered me a source of information which, as a police-officer, it is my duty to sound. As you yourself admit, the old stories of a secret love affair may have some foundation in fact. Accept that and what possibilities are not opened up? Had I been employed on the affairs of Retief, during his previous raids, I should certainly have worked upon so important a clew."

"Tut, tut, man," retorted the other, sharply. "I understood you to be a keen man at your business. A single ill-timed move in the direction we are discussing and the fat will be in the fire. The girl is as smart as paint; at the first inkling of your purpose she'll curl up—shut up like a rat trap. The Breeds will be warned and we shall be further off success than ever. No, no, when it comes to handling Jacky Allandale you leave it to me—Ah!"

Lablache's ejaculation was the result of the sudden apparition of a dark face peering in at his window. He swung round with lightning rapidity, and before Horrocks could realize what he was doing his fat hand was grasping the butt of a revolver. Then, with a grunt of annoyance, he turned back to his guest.

"That's your Breed, I take it. For the moment I thought it was some one else; it's always best in these parts to shoot first and inquire afterwards. I occasionally get some strange visitors."

The policeman laughed as he went to the door. His irritation at the money-lender's manner was forgotten. The strangeness of the sight of Lablache's twenty stone of flesh moving with lightning rapidity astonished him beyond measure. Had he not seen it nothing would have convinced him of the man's marvelous agility when roused by emergency. It was something worth remembering.

Sure enough, the face on the other side of the window belonged to Gautier, and, as Horrocks opened the door, the Breed pushed his way stealthily in.

"It's all right, boss," said the man, with some show of anxiety, "I've slipped 'em. I'm watched pretty closely, but—good evening, sir," he went on, turning to Lablache with obsequious politeness. "This is bad medicine—this business we're on."

Lablache cleared his throat and spat, but deigned no reply. He intended to take no part in the ensuing conversation. He only wished to observe.

Horrocks at once became the officer to the subordinate. He turned sharply on the Breed.

"Cut the cackle and come to business. Have you anything to tell us about this Retief? Out with it sharp."

"That depends, boss," said the man, with a cunning smile. "As you sez. Cut the cackle and come to business. Business means a deal, and a deal means 'cash pappy.' Wot's the figger?"

There was no obsequious politeness about the fellow now. He was about as bad a specimen of the Breed as could well be found. Hence his late employment by the authorities. "The worse the Breed the better the spy," was the motto of those whose duty it was to investigate crime. Gautier was an excellent spy, thoroughly unscruplous and rapacious. His information was always a saleable commodity, and he generally found his market a liberal one. But with business instincts worthy of Lablache himself he was accustomed to bargain first and impart after.

"See here," retorted Horrocks, "I don't go about blind-folded. Neither am I going to fling bills around without getting value for 'em. What's your news? Can you lay hands on Retief, or tell us where the stock is hidden?"

"Guess you're looking fer somethin' now," said the man, impudently. "Ef I could supply that information right off some 'un 'ud hev to dip deep in his pocket fur it. I ken put you on to a good even trail, an' fifty dollars 'ud be small pay for the trouble an' the danger I'm put to. Wot say? Fifty o' the best greenbacks?"

"Mr. Lablache can pay you if he chooses, but until I know that your information's worth it I don't part with fifty cents. Now then, we've had dealings before, Gautier—dealings which have not always been to your credit. You can trust me to part liberally if you've anything worth telling, but mind this, you don't get anything beforehand, and if you don't tell us all you know, in you go to Calford and a diet of skilly'll be your lot for some time to come."

The man's face lowered considerably at this. He knew Horrocks well, and was perfectly aware that he would be as good as his word. There was nothing to be gained by holding out. Therefore he accepted the inevitable with as bad a grace as possible. Lablache kept silence, but he was reading the Breed as he would a book.

"See hyar, sergeant," said Gautier, sulkily, "you're mighty hard on the Breeds, an' you know it. It'll come back on you, sure, one o' these days. Guess I'm going to play the game square. It ain't fur me to bluff men o' your kidney, only I like to know that you're going to treat me right. Well, this is what I've got to say, an' it's worth fifty as you'll 'low."

Horrocks propped himself upon the corner of the money-lender's desk and prepared to listen. Lablache's lashless eyes were fixed with a steady, unblinking stare upon the half-breed's face. Not a muscle of his own pasty, cruel face moved. Gautier was talking to, at least, one man who was more cunning and devilish than himself.

The dusky ruffian gave a preliminary cough and then launched upon his story with all the flowery embellishments of which his inventive fancy was capable. What he had to tell was practically the same as Horrocks had overheard. There were a few items of importance which came fresh to the police-officer's ears. It stuck Lablache that the man spoke in the manner of a lesson well learned, and, in consequence, his keen interest soon relaxed. Horrocks, however, judged differently, and saw in the man's story a sound corroboration of his own information. As the story progressed his interest deepened, and at its conclusion he questioned the half-breed closely.

"This pusky. I suppose it will be the usual drunken orgie?"

"I guess," was the laconic rejoinder.

"Any of the Breeds from the other settlements coming over?"

"Can't say, boss. Like enough, I take it."

"And what is Retief's object in defraying all expenses—in giving the treat, when he knows that the white men are after him red-hot?"

"Mebbe it's bluff—cheek. Peter's a bold man. He snaps his fingers at the police," replied Gautier, illustrating his words with much appreciation. He felt he was getting a smack at the sergeant.

"Then Peter's a fool."

"Guess you're wrong thar. Peter's the slickest 'bad man' I've heerd tell of."

"We'll see. Now what about the keg? Of course the cattle have crossed it. A secret path?"

"Yup."

"Who knows the secret of it?"

"Peter."

"Only?"

The Breed hesitated. His furtive eyes shifted from one face to the other of his auditors. Then encountering the fixed stare of both men he glanced away towards the window. He seemed uncomfortable under the mute inquiry. Then he went on doubtfully.

"I guess thar's others. It's an old secret among the Breeds. An' I've heerd tell as some whites knows it."

A swift exchange of meaning glances passed between the two listeners.

"Who?"

"Can't say."

"Won't—you mean?"

"No, boss. Ef I knew it 'ud pay me well to tell. Guess I don't know. I've tried to find out."

"Now look you. Retief has always been supposed to have been drowned in the keg. Where's he been all the time?"

The half-breed grinned. Then his face became suddenly serious. He began to think the cross-questioning was becoming too hot He decided to draw on his imagination.

"Peter was no more drowned than I was. He tricked you—us all—into that belief. Gee!—but he's slick. Peter went to Montana. When the States got too sultry fur 'im he jest came right back hyar. He's been at the camp fur two weeks an' more."

Horrocks was silent after this. Then he turned to Lablache.

"Anything you'd like to ask him?"

The money-lender shook his head and Horrocks turned back to his man.

"I guess that's all. Here's your fifty," he went on, taking a roll of bills from his pocket and counting out the coveted greenbacks. "See and don't get mad drunk and get to shooting. Off you go. If you learn anything more I'm ready to pay for it."

Gautier took the bills and hastily crammed them into his pocket as if he feared he might be called upon to return them. Then he made for the door. He hesitated before he passed out.

"Say, sergeant, you ain't goin' fur to try an' take 'im at the pusky?" he asked, with an appearance of anxiety.

"That's my business. Why?"

The Breed shrugged.

"Ye'll feed the coyotes, sure as—kingdom come. Say they'll jest flay the pelt off yer."

"Git!"

The rascal "got" without further delay or evil prophecy. He knew Horrocks.

When the door closed, and the officer had assured himself of the man's departure, he turned to his host.

"Well?"

"Well?" retorted Lablache.

"What do you make of it?"

"An excellent waste of fifty dollars."

Lablache's face was expressive of indifference mixed with incredulity.

"He told you what you already knew," he pursued, "and drew on his imagination for the rest. I'll swear that Retief has not been seen at the Breed camp for the last fortnight. Moreover, that man was reciting a carefully-thought-out tale. I fancy you have something yet to learn in your business, Horrocks. You have not the gift of reading men."

The police-officer's face was a study. As he listened to the masterful tone of his companion his color came and went. His dark skin flushed and then rapidly paled. A blaze of anger leapt into his keen, flashing eyes. Lablache had flicked him sorely. He struggled to keep cool.

"Unfortunately my position will not allow me to fall out with you," he said, with scarcely-suppressed heat, "otherwise I should call you sharply to account for your insulting remarks. For the moment we will pass them over. In the meantime, Mr. Lablache, let me tell you, my experience leads me to trust largely to the story of that man. Gautier has sold me a good deal of excellent information in the past, and I am convinced that what I have now heard is not the least of his efforts in the law's behalf. Rascal—scoundrel—as he is, he would not dare to set me on a false scent—"

"Not if backed by a man like Retief—and all the half-breed camp? You surprise me."

Horrocks gritted his teeth but spoke sharply. Lablache's supercilious tone of mockery drove him to the verge of madness.

"Not even under these circumstances. I shall attend that pusky and effect the arrest. I understand these people better than you give me credit for. I presume your discretion will not permit you to be present at the capture?"

It was Horrocks's turn to sneer now. Lablache remained unmoved. He merely permitted the ghost of a smile.

"My discretion will not permit me to be present at the pusky. There will be no capture, I fear."

"Then I'll bid you good-night. There is no need to further intrude upon your time."

"None whatever."

The money-lender did not attempt to show the policeman any consideration. He had decided that Horrocks was a fool, and when Lablache formed such an opinion of a man he rarely attempted to conceal it, especially when the man stood in a subordinate position.

After seeing the officer off the premises, Lablache moved heavily back to his desk. The alarm clock indicated ten minutes to nine. He stood for some moments gazing with introspective eyes at the timepiece. He was thinking hard. He was convinced that what he had just heard was a mere fabrication, invented to cover some ulterior motive. That motive puzzled him. He had no fear for Horrocks's life. Horrocks wore the uniform of the Government. Lawless and all as the Breeds were, he knew they would not resist the police—unless, of course, Retief were there. Having decided in his mind that Retief would not be there he had no misgivings. He failed to fathom the trend of affairs at all. In spite of his outward calm he felt uneasy, and he started as though he had been shot when he heard a loud knocking at his private door.

The money-lender's hand dropped on to the revolver lying upon the desk, and he carried the weapon with him when he went to answer the summons. His alarm was needless. His late visitor was "Poker" John.

The old rancher came in sheepishly enough. There was no mistaking the meaning of his peculiar crouching gait, the leering upward glance of his bloodshot eyes. To any one who did not know him, his appearance might have been that of a drink-soaked tramp, so dishevelled and bleared he looked. Lablache took in the old man's condition in one swift glance from his pouched and fishy eyes. His greeting was cordial—too cordial. Any other but the good-hearted, simple old man would have been suspicious of it. Cordiality was not Lablache's nature.

"Ah, John, better late than never," he exclaimed gutturally. "Come in and have a smoke."

"Yes, I thought I'd just come right down and—see if you'd got any news."

"None—none, old friend. Nothing at all. Horrocks is a fool, I'm thinking. Take that chair," pointing to the basket chair. "You're not looking up to the mark. Have a nip of Glenlivet."

He passed the white-labeled bottle over to his companion, and watched the rancher curiously as he shakily helped himself to a liberal "four fingers." "Poker" John was rapidly breaking up. Lablache fully realized this.

"No news—no news," murmured John, as he smacked his lips over his "tot" of whisky. "It's bad, man, very bad. We're not safe in this place whilst that man's about. Dear, dear, dear."

The senility of the rancher was painfully apparent. Doubtless it was the result of his recent libations and excesses. The money-lender was quite aware that John had not come to him to discuss the "hustler." He had come to suggest a game of cards, but for reasons of his own the former wished to postpone the request. He had not expected that "Poker" John would have come this evening; therefore, certain plans of his were not to have been put into execution until the following day. Now, however, it was different. John's coming, and his condition, offered him a chance which was too good to be missed, and Lablache was never a man to miss opportunities.

Presently the old man drew himself up a little. The spirit had a bracing effect upon him. The dull leering eyes assumed a momentary brightness, and he almost grew cheerful. The change was not lost upon Lablache. It was a veritable game of the cat and the mouse.

"This is the first time your stock has been touched," said John, meaninglessly. His thoughts were running upon the game of cards he had promised himself. An unaccountable lack of something like moral courage prevented him talking of it. Possibly it was the iron influence of his companion which forbade the suggestion of cards. "Poker" John was inwardly chafing at his own weakness.

"Yes," responded the other, "I have not been touched before." Then, suddenly, he leant forward, and, for the moment, the money-lender's face lit up with something akin to kindliness. It was an unusual sight, and one not to be relied upon. "How many years is it, John, that we have struggled side by side in this benighted land?"

The rancher looked at the other, then his eyes dropped. He scarcely comprehended. He was startled at the expression of that leathery, puffed face. He shifted uneasily with the curious weakly restlessness of a shattered nerve.

"More years, I guess, than I care to think of," he murmured at last.

"Yes, yes, you're right, John—quite right. It doesn't do to look back too far. We're getting on. But we're not old men yet. We're rich, John, rich in land and experience. No, not so old. We can still give the youngsters points, John. Ha, ha!"

Lablache laughed hollowly at his own pleasantry. His companion joined in the laugh, but without mirth. Poker—he could think of nothing but poker. The money-lender insinuatingly pushed the whisky bottle closer to the senile rancher. Almost unconsciously the old man helped himself.

"I wonder what it would be like living a private, idle life?" Lablache went on, as though speaking to himself. Then directly to his companion, "Do you know, old friend, I'm seriously thinking of selling out all my interests and retiring. I've worked very hard—very hard. I'm getting tired of it all. Sometimes I feel that rest would be good. I have amassed a very large fortune, John—as you know."

The confidences of the money-lender were so unusual that "Poker" John, in a dazed way, mildly wondered. The whisky had roused him a good deal now, and he felt that it was good to talk like this. He felt that the money-lender was a good fellow, and much better than he had thought. He even experienced compunction for the opinions which, at times, he had expressed of this old companion. Drink plays strange pranks with one's better judgment at times. Lablache noted the effect of his words carefully.

"Yes," said John, "you have worked hard—we have both worked hard. Our lives have not been altogether without pleasure. The occasional game of cards we have had together has always helped to relieve monotony, eh, Lablache? Yes—yes. No one can say we have not earned rest. But there—yes, you have been more fortunate than I. I could not retire."

Lablache raised his sparse eyebrows. Then he helped himself to some whisky and pushed the bottle over to the other. When John had again replenished his glass the money-lender solemnly raised his and waved it towards the gray-headed old man. John responded unsteadily.

"How!"

"How!" replied the rancher.

Both men drank the old Indian toast. Simple honesty was in one heart, while duplicity and low cunning filled the other.

"You could not retire?" said Lablache, when they had set their empty glasses upon the desk.

"No—no," answered the other, shaking his head with ludicrous mournfulness, "not retire; I have responsibilities—debts. You should know. I must pay them off. I must leave Jacky provided for."

"Yes, of course. You must pay them off. Jacky should be your first consideration."

Lablache pursed his sensual lips. His expression was one of deep concern. Then he apparently fell into a reverie, during which John was wondering how best to propose the longed-for game of cards. The other roused himself before the desired means suggested itself to the old gambler. And his efforts were cut short abruptly.

"Jacky ought to marry," Lablache said without preamble. "One never knows what may happen. A good husband—a man with money and business capacity, would be a great help to you, and would assure her future."

Lablache had touched upon the one strong point which remained in John Allandale's character. His love for Jacky rivaled his passion for poker, and in its pure honesty was perhaps nearly as strong as that feverish zest. The gambler suddenly became electrified into a different being. The signs of decay—the atmosphere of drink, as it were, fell from him in the flashing of a second, and the old vigorous rancher, like the last dying flame of a fire, shot up into being.

"Jacky shall marry when she chooses, and whatever man she prefers. I will never profit by that dear child's matrimonial affairs," he said simply.

Lablache bit his lips. He had been slightly premature. He acquiesced with a heavy nod of the head and poured himself out some more whisky. The example was natural and his companion followed it.

"You are quite right, John. I merely spoke from a worldly point of view. But your decision affects me closely."

The other looked curiously at the money-lender, who thus found himself forced to proceed. Hitherto he had chosen his own gait. Now he felt himself being drawn. The process was new to him, but it suited his purpose.

"How?"

Lablache sighed. It was like the breathing of an adipose pig.

"I have known that niece of yours, John, ever since she came into this world. I have watched her grow. I understand her nature as well as you do yourself. She is a clever, bright, winsome girl. But she needs the guiding hand of a good husband."

"Just so. You are right. I am too old to take proper care of her. When she chooses she shall marry."

John's tone was decisive. His words were non-committing and open to no argument. Lablache went on.

"Supposing now a rich man, a very rich man, proposed marriage for her. Presuming he was a man against whom there was no doubtful record—who, from a worldly point of view, there could be no objection to—should you object to him as a husband for Jacky?"

The rancher was still unsuspecting.

"What I have stated should answer your question. If Jacky were willing I should have no objection."

"Supposing," the money-lender went on, "she were unwilling, but was content to abide by your decision. What then?"

There was a passing gleam of angry protest in the rancher's eyes as he answered.

"What I have said still holds good," he retorted a little hotly. "I will not influence the child."

"I am sorry. I wish to marry your girl."

There was an impressive silence after this announcement. "Poker" John stared in blank wonderment at his companion. The expectation of such a contingency could not have been farther from his thought. Lablache—to many his niece—it was preposterous—ludicrous. He would not take it seriously—he could not. It was a joke—and not a nice one.

He laughed—and in his laugh there was a ring of anger.

"Of course you are joking, Lablache," he said at last. "Why, man, you are old enough to be the girl's father."

"I was never more serious in my life. And as for age," with a shrug, "at least you will admit my intellect is unimpaired. Her interests will be in safe keeping."

Having recovered from his surprise the old man solemnly shook his head. Some inner feeling made him shrink from thoughts of Lablache as a husband for his girl. Besides, he had no intention of retreating from the stand he had taken.

"As far as I am concerned the matter is quite impossible. If Jacky comes to me with a request for sanction of her marriage to you, she shall have it. But I will express no wish upon the matter. No, Lablache, I never thought you contemplated such a thing. You must go to her. I will not interfere. Oh, dear! oh, dear!" and the old man laughed again nervously.

Lablache remained perfectly calm. He had expected this result; although he had hoped that it might have been otherwise. Now he felt that he had paved the way to methods much dearer to his heart. This refusal of John's he intended to turn to account. He would force an acceptance from Jacky, and induce her uncle, by certain means, to give his consent.

The money-lender remained silent while he refilled his pipe. "Poker" John seized the opportunity.

"Come, Lablache," he said jocosely, "let us forget this little matter. Have a drink of your own whisky—I'll join you—and let us go down to the saloon for a gentle flutter."

He helped himself to the spirit and poured out a glass for his companion. They silently drank, and then Lablache coughed, spat and lit his pipe. He fumbled his hat on to his head and moved to the door.

"Come on, then," he said gutturally. And John Allandale followed him out.

The two days before the half-breed pusky passed quickly enough for some of those who are interested, and dragged their weary lengths all too slowly for others. At last, however, in due course the day dawned, and with it hopes and fears matured in the hearts of not a few of the denizens of Foss River and the surrounding neighborhood.

To all appearance the most unconcerned man was the Hon. Bunning-Ford, who still moved about the settlement in his cheery, débonnaire fashion, ever gentlemanly and always indolent. He had taken up his residence in one of the many disused shacks which dotted round the market-place, and there, apparently, sought to beguile the hours and eke out the few remaining dollars which were his. For Lablache, in his sweeping process, had still been forced to hand over some money, over and above his due, as a result of the sale of the young rancher's property. The trifling amount, however, was less than enough to keep body and soul together for six months.

Lablache, too, staunch to his opinions, did not trouble himself in the least. For the rest, all who knew of the meditated coup of Horrocks were agitated to a degree. All hoped for success, but all agreed in a feeling of pessimism which was more or less the outcome of previous experiences of Retief. Did not they know, only too well, of the traps which had been laid and which had failed to ensnare the daring desperado in days gone by? Horrocks they fondly believed to be a very smart man, but had not some of the best in the Canadian police been sent before to bring to justice this scourge of the district?

Amongst those who shared these pessimistic views Mrs. Abbot was one of the most skeptical. She had learnt all the details of the intended arrest in the way she learned everything that was going on. A few judicious questions to the doctor and careful observations never left her long in the dark. She had a natural gift for absorbing information. She was a sort of social amalgam which never failed to glean the golden particles of news which remained after the "panning up" of daily events in Foss River. Nothing ever escaped this dear old soul, from the details of a political crisis in a distant part of the continent down to the number of drinks absorbed by some worthless half-breed in "old man" Smith's saloon. She had one of those keen, active brains which refuses to become dull and torpid in an atmosphere of humdrum monotony. Luckily her nature never allowed her to become a mischievous busybody. She was too kindly for that—too clever, tactful.

After duly weighing the point at issue she found Horrocks's plans wanting, hence her unbelief, but, at the same time, her old heart palpitated with nervous excitement as might the heart of any younger and more hopeful of those in the know.

As for the Allandales, it would be hard to say what they thought. Jacky went about her duties with a placidity that was almost worthy of the great money-lender himself. She showed no outward sign, and very little interest. Her thoughts she kept severely to herself. But she had thoughts on the subject, thoughts which teemed through her brain night and day. She was in reality aglow with excitement, but the Breed nature in her allowed no sign of emotion to appear. "Poker" John was beyond a keen interest. Whisky and cards had done for him what morphine and opium does for the drug fiend. He had no thoughts beyond them. In lucid intervals, as it were, he thought, perhaps, as well as his poor dulled brain would permit him, but the result of his mental effort would scarcely be worth recording.

And so the time drew near.

Horrocks, since his difference of opinion with Lablache, had made the ranch his headquarters, leaving the money-lender as much as possible out of his consultations. He had been heartily welcomed by old John and his niece, the latter in particular being very gracious to him. Horrocks was not a lady's man, but he appreciated comfort when he could get it, and Jacky spared no trouble to make him comfortable now. Had he known the smiling thought behind her beautiful face his appreciation might have lessened.

As the summer day drew to a close signs of coming events began to show themselves. First of all Aunt Margaret made her appearance at the Allandales' house. She was hot and excited. She had come up for a gossip, she said, and promptly sat down with no intention of moving until she had heard all she wanted to know. Then came "Lord" Bill, cheerily monosyllabic. He always considered that long speeches were a disgusting waste of time. Following closely upon his heels came the doctor and Pat Nabob, with another rancher from an outlying ranch. Quite why they had come up they would have hesitated to say. Possibly it was curiosity—possibly natural interest in affairs which nearly affected them. Horrocks, they knew, was at the ranch. Perhaps the magnetism which surrounds persons about to embark on hazardous undertakings had attracted them thither.

As the hour for supper drew near the gathering in the sitting-room became considerable, and as each newcomer presented himself, Jacky, with thoughtful hospitality, caused another place to be set at her bountiful table. No one was ever allowed to pass a meal hour at the ranch without partaking of refreshment. It was one of the principal items provided for in the prairie creed, and the greatest insult to be offered at such time would have been to leave the house before the repast.

At eight o'clock the girl announced the meal with characteristic heartiness.

"Come right along and feed," she said. "Who knows what to-night may bring forth? I guess we can't do better than drink success to our friend, Sergeant Horrocks. Whatever the result of his work to-night we all allow his nerve's right. Say, good people, there's liquor on the table—and glasses; a bumper to Sergeant Horrocks."

The wording of the girl's remarks was significant. Truly Horrocks might have been the leader of a forlorn hope. Many of those present certainly considered him to be such. However, they were none the less hearty in their toast, and Jacky and Bill were the two first to raise their glasses on high.

The toast drunk, tongues were let loose and the supper began. Ten o'clock was the time at which Horrocks was to set out. Therefore there were two hours in which to make merry. Never was a merrier meal taken at the ranch. Spirits were at bursting point, due no doubt to the current of excitement which actuated each member of the gathering.

Jacky was in the best of spirits, and even "Poker" John was enjoying one of his rare lucid intervals. "Lord" Bill sat between Jacky and Mrs. Abbot, and a more charming companion the old lady thought she had never met. It was Jacky who led the talk, Jacky who saw to every one's wants, Jacky whose spirits cheered everybody, by her light badinage, into, even against their better judgment, a feeling of optimism. Even Horrocks felt the influence of her bright, winsome cheeriness.

"Capture this colored scoundrel, Sergeant Horrocks," the girl exclaimed, with a laughing glance, as she helped him to a goodly portion of baked Jack-rabbit, "and we'll present you with the freedom of the settlement, in an illuminated address inclosed in a golden casket. That's the mode, I take it, in civilized countries, and I guess we are civilized hereabout, some. Say, Bill, I opine you're the latest thing from England here to-night. What does 'freedom' mean?"

Bill looked dubious. Everybody waited for his answer.

"Freedom—um. Yes, of course—freedom. Why, freedom means banquets. You know—turtle soup—bile—indigestion. Best champagne in the mayor's cellar. Police can't run you in if you get drunk. All that sort of thing, don'tcherknow."

"An excellent definition," laughed the doctor.

"I wish somebody would present me with 'freedom,'" said Nabob, plaintively.

"It's a good thing we don't go in for that sort of thing extensively in Canada," put in Horrocks, as the representative of the law. "The peaceful pastime of the police would soon be taken from them. Why, the handling of 'drunks' is our only recreation."

"That, and for some of them the process of lowering four per cent. beer," added the doctor, quietly.

Another laugh followed the doctor's sally.

When the mirth had subsided Aunt Margaret shook her head. This levity rather got on her nerves. This Retief business, as she understood it, was a very serious affair, especially for Sergeant Horrocks. She was keenly anxious to hear the details of his preparations. She knew most of them, but she liked her information first hand. With this object in view she suggested, rather than asked, what she wanted to know.

"But I don't quite understand. I take it you are going single-handed into the half-breed camp, where you expect to find this Retief, Sergeant Horrocks?"

Horrocks's face was serious as he looked over at the old lady. There was no laughter in his black, flashing eyes. He was not a man given to suavity. His business effectually crushed any approach to that sort of thing. He was naturally a stern man, too.

"I am not quite mad, madam," he said curtly. "I set some value upon my life."

This crushing rejoinder had no effect upon Aunt Margaret. She still persisted.

"Then, of course, you take your men with you. Four, you have, and smart they look, too. I like to see well-set-up men. I trust you will succeed. They—I mean the Breeds—are a dangerous people."

"Not so dangerous as they're reckoned, I guess," said Horrocks, disdainfully. "I don't anticipate much trouble."

"I hope it will turn out as you think," replied the old lady, doubtfully.

Horrocks shrugged his shoulders; he was not to be drawn.

There was a moment's silence after this, which was at length broken by "Poker" John.

"Of course, Horrocks," he said, "we shall carry out your instructions to the letter. At three in the morning, failing your return or news of you, I set out with my ranch hands to find you. And woe betide those black devils if you have come to harm. By the way, what about your men?"

"They assemble here at ten. We leave our horses at Lablache's stables. We are going to walk to the settlement."

"I think you are wise," said the doctor.

"Guess horses would be an encumbrance," said Jacky.

"An excellent mark for a Breed's gun," added Bill. "Seems to me you'll succeed," he went on politely. His eagle face was calmly sincere. The gray eyes looked steadily into those of the officer's. Jacky was watching her lover keenly. The faintest suspicion of a smile was in her eyes.

"I should like to be there," she said simply, when Bill had finished. "It's mean bad luck being a girl. Say, d'you think I'd be in the way, sergeant?"

Horrocks looked over at her, and in his gaze was a look of admiration. In the way he knew she would be, but he could not tell her so. Such spirit appealed to him.

"There would be much danger for you, Miss Jacky," he said. "My hands would be full, I could not look after you, and besides—" He broke off at the recollection of the old stories about this girl. Suddenly he wondered if he had been indiscreet. What if the stories were true. He ran cold at the thought. These people knew his plans. Then he looked into the girl's beautiful face. No, it must be false. She could have nothing in common with the rascally Breeds.

"And besides—what?" Jacky said, smiling over at the policeman.

Horrocks shrugged.

"When Breeds are drunk they are not responsible."

"That settles it," the girl's uncle said, with a forced laugh. He did not like Jacky's tone. Knowing her, he feared she intended to be there to see the arrest.

Her uncle's laugh nettled the girl a little, and with a slight elevation of her head, she said,—

"I don't know."

Further talk now became impossible, for, at that moment the troopers arrived. Horrocks discovered that it was nearly ten o'clock. The moment for the start had come, and, with one accord, everybody rose from the table. In the bustle and handshaking of departure Jacky slipped away. When, she returned the doctor and Mrs. Abbot were in the hall alone with "Lord" Bill. The latter was just leaving. "Poker" John was on the veranda seeing Horrocks off.