THE PUSKY

A pusky is a half-breed dance. That is the literal meaning of the word. The practical translation, however, is often different. In reality it is a debauch—a frightful orgie, when all the lower animal instincts—and they are many and strong in the half-breed—are given full sway. When drunkenness and bestial passions rule the actions of these worse than savages. When murder and crimes of all sorts are committed without scruple, without even thought. Latterly things have changed, and these orgies are less frequent among the Breeds, or, at least, conducted with more regard for decorum. But we are talking of some years ago, at a time when the Breeds had to learn the meaning of civilization—before good order and government were thoroughly established in this great Western country; in the days when Indian "Sun" dances, and other barbarous functions were held. In the days of the Red River Jig, when a good fiddler of the same was held to be a man of importance; when the method of tuning the fiddle to the necessary pitch for the playing of that curious dance was a secret known only to a privileged few. Some might call them the "good" old days. "Bad" is the adjective which best describes that period.

When Horrocks and his men set out for the Breed camp they had discarded their police clothes and were clad in the uncouth garb of the half-breeds. They had even gone to the length of staining their faces to the coppery hue of the Indians. They were a ragged party, these hardy riders of the plains, as they embarked on their meditated capture of the desperate raider. All of the five were "tough" men, who regarded their own lives lightly enough—men who had seen many stirring times, and whose hairbreadth escapes from "tight" corners would have formed a lengthy narrative in themselves. They were going to they knew not what now, but they did not shrink from the undertaking. Their leader was a man whose daring often outweighed his caution, but, as they well knew, he was endowed with a reckless man's luck, and they would sooner follow such as he—for they were sure of a busy time—than work with one of his more prudent colleagues.

At the half-breed camp was considerable bustle and excitement. The activity of the Breed is not proverbial; they are at best a lazy lot, but now men and women came and went bristling with energy to their finger tips. Preparations were nearing completion. The chief item of importance was the whisky supply, and this the treasurer, Baptiste, had made his personal care. A barrel of the vilest "rot-gut" that was ever smuggled into prohibition territory had been procured and carefully secreted. This formed the chief refreshment, and, doubtless, the "bluestone" with which its fiery contents were strengthened, would work the passionate natures, on which it was to play, up to the proper crime-committing pitch.

The orgie was to be held in a barn of considerable dimensions. It was a ramshackle affair, reeking of old age and horses. The roof was decidedly porous in places, being so lame and disjointed that the starry resplendence of the summer sky was plainly visible from beneath it.

This, however, was a trifling matter, and of much less consequence than the question of space. What few horse stalls had once occupied the building had been removed, and the mangers alone remained, with the odor of horse, to remind the guests of the original purpose of their ballroom. A careful manipulation of dingy Turkey red, and material which had once been white, struggled vainly to hide these mangers from view, while coarse, rough boards which had at one time floored some of the stalls, served to cover in the tops and convert them into seats. The result was a triumph of characteristic ingenuity. The barn was converted into a place of the necessary requirements, but rendered hideous in the process.

Next came the disguising of the rafters and "collar-ties" of the building. This was a process which lent itself to the curiously warped artistic sense of the benighted people. Print—I mean cotton rags—was the chief idea of decoration. They understood these stuffs. They were cheap—or, at least, as cheap as anything sold at Lablache's store. Besides, print decorated the persons of the buxom Breed women, therefore what more appropriate than such stuff to cover the nakedness of the building. Festoons of print, flags of print, rosettes of print: these did duty for the occasion. The staring patterns gleamed on every beam, or hung in bald draping almost down to the height of an ordinary man's head. The effect was strangely reminiscent of a second-hand clothes shop, and helped to foster the nauseating scent of the place.

A row of reeking oil lamps, swinging in crazy wire swings, were suspended down the center from the moldering beams, and in the diamond window spaces were set a number of black bottles, the neck of each being stuffed with a tallow candle.

One corner of the room was set apart for the fiddler, and here a daïs of rough boarding, also draped in print stuff, was erected to meet the requirements of that honored personage. Such was the uncouth place where the Breeds proposed to hold their orgie. And of its class it was an excellent example.

At ten o'clock the barn was lit up, and strangely bizarre was the result. The draught through the broken windows set the candles a-guttering, until rivers of yellow fat decorated the black bottles in which they were set. The stench from these, and from the badly-trimmed coal oil lamps down the center, blended disgustingly with the native odor of the place, until the atmosphere became heavy, pungent, revolting in the nostrils, and breathing became a labor after the sweet fresh air of the prairie outside.

Soon after this the dancers began to arrive. They came in their strange deckings of glaring colors, and many and varied were the types which soon filled the room. There were old men and there were young men. There were girls in their early teens, and toothless hags, decrepit and faltering. Faces which, in wild loveliness, might have vied with the white beauty of the daughters of the East. Faces seared and crumpled with weight of years and nights of debauchery. Men were there of superb physique, whilst others crouched huddled, with shuffling gait towards the manger seats, to seek rest for their rotting bones, and ease for their cramping muscles.

Many of the faces were marred by disease; small-pox was a prevalent scourge amongst these people. The effect of the pure air of the prairie was lost upon the germ-laden atmosphere which surrounded these dreadful camps. Crime, too, was stamped on many of the faces of those gathering in the reeking ballroom. The small bullet head with low, receding forehead; the square set jaws and sagging lips; the shifty, twinkling little eyes, narrow-set and of jetty hue; such faces were plentiful. Nor were these features confined to the male sex alone. Truly it was a motley gathering, and not pleasant to look upon.

All, as they came, were merry with anticipation; even the hags and the rheumatism-ridden male fossils croaked out their quips and coarse pleasantries to each other with gleeful unctuousness, inspired by thoughts of the generous contents of the secreted barrel. Their watery eyes watered the more, as, on entering the room, they glanced round seeking to discover the fiery store of liquor, which they hoped to help to dispose of. It was a loathsome sight to behold these miserable wretches gathering together with no thought in their beast-like brains but of the ample food and drink which they intended should fall to their share. Crabbed old age seeking rejuvenation in gut-burning spirit.

The room quickly filled, and the chattering of many and strange tongues lent an apish tone to the function. The French half-breed predominated, and these spoke their bastard lingo with that rapidity and bristling elevation of tone which characterizes their Gallic relatives. It seemed as though each were trying to talk his neighbor down, and the process entailed excited shriekings which made the old barn ring again.

Baptiste, with a perfect understanding of the people, served out the spirit in pannikins with a lavish hand. It was as well to inspire these folk with the potent liquor from the start, that their energies might be fully aroused for the dance.

When all, men and women alike, had partaken of an "eye-opener," Baptiste gave the signal, and the fiddler struck up his plaintive wail. The reedy strings of his instrument shrieked out the long-drawn measure of a miserable waltz, the company paired off, and the dance began.

Whatever else may be the failings of the Breeds they can dance. Dancing is as much a part of their nature as is the turning of a dog twice before he lies down, a feature of the canine race. Those who were physically incapable of dancing lined the walls and adorned the manger seats. For the rest, they occupied the sanded floor, and danced until the dust clouded the air and added to the choking foulness of the atmosphere.

The shrieking fiddle lured this savage people, and its dreadful tone was music of the sweetest to their listening ears. This was a people who would dance. They would dance so long as they could stand.

More drink followed the first dance. Baptiste had not yet recognized the pitch of enthusiasm which must promise a successful evening. The quantities of liquor thus devoured were appalling. The zest increased. The faces wearing an habitual frown displayed a budding smile. The natural smiler grinned broadly. All warmed to the evening's amusement.

Now came the festive barn dance. The moccasined feet pounded the filthy floor, and the dust gathered thick round the gums of the hard-breathing dancers. The noise of coarse laughter and ribald shoutings increased. All were pleased with themselves, but more pleased still with the fiery liquid served out by Baptiste. The scene grew more wild as time crept on, and the effect of the liquor made itself apparent. The fiddler labored cruelly at his wretched instrument. His task was no light one, but he spared himself no pains. His measure must be even, his tone almost unending to satisfy his countrymen. He understood them, as did Baptiste. To fail in his work would mean angry protests from those he served, and angry protests amongst the Breeds generally took the form of a shower of leaden bullets. So he scraped away with aching limbs, and with heavy foot pounding out the time upon the crazy daïs. He must play until long after daylight, until his fingers cramped, and his old eyes would remain open no longer.

Peter Retief had not as yet put in an appearance. Horrocks was at his post viewing the scene from outside one of the broken windows. His men were hard by, concealed at certain points in the shelter of some straggling bush which surrounded the stable. Horrocks, with characteristic energy and disregard for danger, had set himself the task of spying out the land. He had a waiting game to play, but the result he hoped would justify his action.

The scene he beheld was not new to him, his duties so often carried him within the precincts of a half-breed camp. No one knew the Breeds better than did this police officer.

Time passed. Again and again the fiddle ceased its ear-maddening screams as refreshment was partaken of by the dancers. Wilder and wilder grew the scene as the potent liquor took hold of its victims. They danced with more and more reckless abandon as each time they returned to step it to the fiddler's patient measure. Midnight approached and still no sign of Retief. Horrocks grew restless and impatient.

Once the fiddle ceased, and the officer watching saw all eyes turn to the principal entrance to the barn. His heart leapt in anticipation as he gazed in the direction. Surely this sudden cessation could only herald the coming of Retief.

He saw the door open as he craned forward to look. For the moment he could not see who entered; a crowd obscured his view. He heard a cheer and a clapping of hands, and he rejoiced. Then the crowd parted and he saw the slim figure of a girl pass down the center of the reeking den. She was clad in buckskin shirt and dungaree skirt. At the sight he muttered a curse. The newcomer was Jacky Allandale.

He watched her closely as she moved amongst her uncouth surroundings. Her beautiful face and graceful figure was like to an oasis of stately flora in a desert of trailing, vicious brambles, and he marveled at the familiarity with which she came among these people. Moreover, he became beset with misgivings as he remembered the old stories which linked this girl's name with that of Retief. He struggled to fathom the meaning of what he saw, but the real significance of her coming escaped him.

The Breeds once more returned to their dancing, and all went on as before. Horrocks followed Jacky's movements with his eyes. He saw her standing beside a toothless old woman, who wagged her cunning, aged head as she talked in answer to the girl's questions. Jacky seemed to be looking and inquiring for some one, and the officer wondered if the object of her solicitude was Retief. He would have been surprised had he known that she was inquiring and looking for himself. Presently she seated herself and appeared to be absorbed in the dance.

The drink was flowing freely now, and a constant demand was being made upon Baptiste. Whilst the fiery spirit scorched down the hardened throats, strange, weird groans came from the fiddler's woeful instrument. The old man was tuning it down for the plaintive requirements of the Red River Jig.

The dance of the evening was about to begin. Men and women primed themselves for the effort. Each was eager to outdo his or her neighbor in variety of steps and power of endurance. All were prepared to do or die. The mad jig was a national contest, and the one who lasted the longest would be held the champion dancer of the district—a coveted distinction amongst this strange people.

At last the music began again, and now the familiar "Ragtime" beat fascinatingly upon the air. Those who lined the walls took up the measure, and, with foot and clapping hands, marked the time for the dancers. Those who competed leapt to the fray, and soon the reeking room became stifling with dust.

The fiddler's time, slow at the commencement, soon grew faster, and the dancers shook their limbs in delighted anticipation. Faster and faster they shuffled and jigged, now opposite to partners, now round each other, now passing from one partner to another, now alone, for the admiration of the onlookers. Nor was there pause or hesitation. An instant's pause meant dropping out of that mad and old time "hoe-down," and each coveted the distinction of champion. Faster and more wildly they footed it, and soon the speed caused some of the less agile to drop out. It was a giddy sight to watch, and the strange clapping of the spectators was not the least curious feature of the scene.

The crowd of dancers grew thinner as the fiddler, with a marvelous display of latent energy, kept ever-increasing his speed.

In spite of himself Horrocks became fascinated. There was something so barbarous—heathenish—in what he beheld. The minutes flew by, and the dance was rapidly nearing its height. More couples fell out, dead beat and gasping, but still there remained a number who would fight it out to the bitter end. The streaming faces and gaping lips of those yet remaining told of the dreadful strain. Another couple dropped out, the woman actually falling with exhaustion. She was dragged aside and left unnoticed in the wild excitement. Now were only three pairs left in the center of the floor.

The police-officer found himself speculating as to which would be the winner of the contest.

"That brown-faced wench, with the flaming red dress, 'll do 'em all," he said to himself. The woman he was watching had a young Breed of great agility for her vis-à-vis. "She or her partner 'll do it," he went on, almost audibly. "Good," he was becoming enthusiastic, "there's another couple done," as two more suddenly departed, and flung themselves on the ground exhausted. "Yes, they'll do it—crums, but there goes her partner! Keep it up, girl—keep it up. The others won't be long. Stay with—"

He broke off in alarm as he felt his arm suddenly clutched from behind. Simultaneously he felt heavy breathing blowing upon his cheek. Quick as a flash his revolver was whipped out and he swung round.

"Easy, sergeant," said the voice of one of his troopers. "For Gawd's sake don't shoot. Say, Retief's down at the settlement. A messenger's jest come up to say he's 'hustled' all our horses from Lablache's stable, and the old man himself's in trouble. Come over to that bluff yonder, the messenger's there. He's one of Lablache's clerks."

The police-officer was dumbfounded, and permitted himself to be conducted to the bluff without a word. He was wondering if he were dreaming, so sudden and unexpected was the announcement of the disaster.

When he halted at the bluff, the clerk was still discussing the affair with one of the troopers. As yet the other two were in their places of concealment, and were in ignorance of what had happened.

"It's dead right," the clerk said, in answer to Horrocks's sharply-put inquiry. "I'd been in bed sometime when I was awakened by a terrible racket going on in the office. It's just under the room I sleep in. Well, I hopped out of bed and slipped on some clothes, and went downstairs, thinking the governor had been taken with a fit or something. When I got down the office was in darkness, and quiet as death. I went cautiously to work, for I was a bit scared. Striking a light I made my way in, expecting to find the governor laid out, but, instead, I found the furniture all chucked about and the room empty. It wasn't two shakes before I lit upon this sheet of paper. It was lying on the desk. The governor's writing is unmistakable. You can see for yourself; here it is—"

Horrocks took the sheet, and, by the light of a match read the scrawl upon it. The writing had evidently been done in haste, but its meaning was clear.

"Retief is here," it ran. "I am a prisoner. Follow up with all speed. LABLACHE."

After reading, Horrocks turned to the clerk, who immediately went on with his story.

"Well, I just bolted out to the stables intending to take a horse and go over to 'Poker' John's. But when I got there I found the doors open, an' every blessed horse gone. Yes, your horses as well—and the governor's buckboard too. I jest had a look round, saw that the team harness had gone with the rest, then I ran as hard as I could pelt to the Foss River Ranch. I found old John up, but he'd been drinking, so, after a bit of talk, I learned from him where you were and came right along. That's all, sergeant, and bad enough it is too. I'm afraid they'll string the governor up. He ain't too popular, you know."

The clerk finished up his breathless narrative in a way that left no doubt in the mind of his hearers as to his sincerity. He was trembling with nervous excitement still. And even in the starlight the look upon his face spoke of real concern for his master.

For some seconds the officer did not reply. He was thinking rapidly. To say that he was chagrined would hardly convey his feelings. He had been done—outwitted—and he knew it. Done—like the veriest tenderfoot. He, an officer of wide experience and of considerable reputation. And worst of all he remembered Lablache's warning. He, the money-lender, had been more far-seeing—had understood something of the trap which he, Horrocks, had plunged headlong into. The thought was as worm-wood to the prairie man, and helped to cloud his judgment as he now sought for the best course to adopt. He saw now with bitter, mental self-reviling, how the story that Gautier had told him—and for which he had paid—and which had been corroborated by the conversation he had heard in the camp, had been carefully prepared by the wily Retief; and how he, like a hungry, simple fish, had deliberately risen and devoured the bait. He was maddened by the thought, too, that the money-lender had been right and he wrong, and took but slight solace from the fact that the chief disaster had overtaken that great man.

However, it was plain that something must be done at once to assist Lablache, and he cast about in his mind for the best means to secure the money-lender's release. In his dilemma a recollection came to him of the presence of Jacky Allandale in the barn, and a feeling nearly akin to revenge came to him. He felt that in some way this girl was connected with, and knew of, the doings of Retief.

With a hurried order to remain where they were to his men he returned to his station at the window of the barn. He looked in, searching for the familiar figure of the girl. Dancing had ceased, and the howling Breeds were drinking heavily. Jacky was no longer to be seen, and, with bitter disappointment, he turned again to rejoin his companions. There was nothing left to do but to hasten to the settlement and procure fresh horses.

He had hardly turned from the window when several shots rang out on the night air. They came from the direction in which he was moving. Instantly he comprehended that an attack was being made upon his troopers. He drew his pistol and dashed forward at a run. Three paces sufficed to terminate his race. Silence had followed the firing of the shots he had heard. Suddenly his quick ears detected the hiss of a lariat whistling through the air. He spread out his arms to ward it off. He felt something fall upon them. He tried to throw it off, and, the next instant the rope jerked tight round his throat, and he was hurled, choking, backwards upon the ground.

Lablache was alone in his office. He was more alone than he had ever been in his life; or, at least, he felt more alone—which amounted to much the same thing. Possibly, had he been questioned on the subject, he would have pooh-poohed the idea, but, nevertheless, in his secret heart he felt that, in spite of his vast wealth, he was a lonely man. He knew that he had not a single friend in Foss River; and in Calford, another center of his great wealth, things were no better. His methods of business, whilst they brought him many familiar acquaintances—a large circle of people who were willing to trade, repelled all approach to friendship. Besides, his personality was against him. His flinty disposition and unscrupulous love of power were all detrimental to human affection.

As a rule, metaphorically speaking, he snapped his fingers at these things. Moreover, he was glad that such was the case; he could the more freely indulge his passion for grab. Hated, he could work out his peculiar schemes without qualms of conscience; loved, it would have been otherwise. Yes, Lablache preferred this social ostracism.

But the great money-lender had his moments of weakness—moments when he rebelled against his solitary lot. He knew that his isolated position had been brought about by himself—fostered by himself, and he knew he preferred that it should be so. But, nevertheless, at times he felt very lonely, and in these moments of weakness he wondered if he obtained full consolation in his great wealth for his marooned position. Generally the result of these reflections brought him satisfaction. How? is a question. Possibly he forced himself, by that headstrong power with which he bent others who came into contact with him to his will, to such a conclusion. Lablache was certainly a triumph of relentless purpose over flesh and feelings.

Lablache was nearly fifty, and had lived alone since he was in his teens. Now he pined as all who live a solitary life must some day pine, for a companion to share his loneliness. He craved not for the society of his own sex. With the instinct in us all he wanted a mate to share with him his golden nest. But this mass of iron nerve and obesity was not as other men. He did not weakly crave, and then, with his wealth, set out to secure a wife who could raise him in the social scale, or add to the bags which he had watched grow in bulk from flattened folds of sacking, to the distended proportions of miniature balloons. No, he desired a girl, the only relation of a man whom he had helped to ruin—a girl who could bring him no social distinction, and who could not add one penny piece to his already enormous wealth. Moreover, strangely enough, he had conceived for her a passion which was absolutely unholy in its intensity. It is needless, then, to add, when, speaking of such a man, that, willing or not, he intended that Jacky Allandale should be his.

Thoughts of this wild, quarter-breed girl filled his brain as he sat solitary in his little office on the night of the pusky. He sat in his favorite chair, in his favorite position. He was lounging back with his slippered feet resting on the burnished steel foot-rests of the stove. There was no fire in the stove, of course, but from force of habit he gazed thoughtfully at the mica sides which surrounded the firebox. Probably in this position he had thought out some of his most dastardly financial schemes and therefore most suitable it seemed now as he calculated his chances of capturing the wild prairie girl for his mate.

He had given up all thoughts of ever obtaining her willing consent, and, although his vanity had been hurt by her rejection of his advances, still he was not the man to be easily thwarted. His fertile brain had evolved a means by which to achieve his end, and, to his scheme-loving nature, the process was anything but distasteful. He had always, from the first moment he had decided to make Jacky Allandale his wife, been prepared for such a contingency as her refusal, and had never missed an opportunity of ensnaring her uncle in his financial toils. He had understood the old man's weakness, and, with satanic cunning, had set himself to the task of wholesale robbery, with crushing results to his victim. This had given him the necessary power to further prosecute his suit. As yet he had not displayed his hand. He felt that the time was barely ripe. Before putting the screw on the Allandales it had been his object to rid the place, and his path, of his only stumbling block. In this he had not quite succeeded as we have seen. He quite understood that the Hon. Bunning-Ford must be removed from Foss River first. Whilst he was on hand Jacky would be difficult to coerce. Instinctively he knew that "Lord" Bill was her lover, and, with him at hand to advise her, Jacky would hold out to the last. However, he believed that in the end he must conquer. Bunning-Ford's resources were very limited he knew, and soon his hated rival must leave the settlement and seek pastures new. Lablache was but a clever scheming mortal. He did not credit others with brains of equal caliber, much less cleverer and more resourceful than his own. It had been better for him had his own success in life been less assured, for then he would have been more doubtful of his own ability to do as he wished, and he would have given his adversaries credit for a cleverness which he now considered as only his.

After some time spent in surveying and considering his plans his thoughts reverted to other matters. This was the night of the half-breed pusky. His great face contorted into a sarcastic smile as he thought of Sergeant Horrocks. He remembered with vivid acuteness every incident of his interview with the officer two nights ago. He bore the man no malice now for the contradiction of himself, for the reason that he was sure his own beliefs on the subject of Retief would be amply realized. His lashless eyes quivered as his thoughts invoked an inward mirth. No one realized more fully than did this man the duplicity and cunning of the Breed. He anticipated a great triumph over Horrocks the next time he saw him.

As the time passed on he became more himself. His loneliness did not strike him so keenly. He felt that after all there was great satisfaction to be drawn from a watcher's observance of men. Isolated as he was he was enabled to look on men and things more critically than he otherwise would be.

He reached over to his tobacco jar, which stood upon his desk, and leisurely proceeded to fill his pipe. It was rarely he indulged himself in an idle evening, but to-night he somehow felt that idleness would be good. He was beginning to feel the weight of his years.

He lit his heavy briar and proceeded to envelop himself in a cloud of smoke. He gasped out a great sigh of satisfaction, and his leathery eyelids half closed. Presently a gentle tap came at the glass door, which partitioned off the office from the store. Lablache called out a guttural "Come in," at the same time glancing at the loud ticking "alarm" on the desk. He knew who his visitor was.

One of the clerks opened the door.

"It is past ten, sir, shall I close up?" he asked.

"Yes, close up. Whose evening off is it?"

"Rodgers, sir. He is still out. He'll be in before midnight, sir."

"Ah, down at the saloon, I expect," said Lablache, drily. "Well, bolt the front door. Just leave it on the spring latch. I shall be up until he comes in. What are you two boys going to do?"

"Going to bed, sir."

"All right; good-night."

"Good-night, sir."

The door closed quietly after the clerk, and Lablache heard his two assistants close up the store and then go upstairs to their rooms. The money-lender was served well. His employees in the store had been with him for years. They were worked very hard and their pay was not great, but their money was sure, and their employment was all the year round. So many billets upon the prairie depended upon the seasons—opulence one month and idleness the next. On the ranches it was often worse. There is but little labor needed in the winter. And those who have the good fortune to be employed all the year round generally experience a reduction in wages at the end of the fall round-up, and find themselves doing the "chores" when winter comes on.

After the departure of the clerk Lablache re-settled himself and went on smoking placidly. The minutes ticked slowly away. An occasional groan from the long-suffering basket chair, and the wreathing clouds of smoke were the only appreciable indication of life in that little room. By-and-by the great man reached a memorandum tablet from his desk and dotted down a few hurried figures. Then he breathed a great sigh, and his face wore a look of satisfaction. There could be no doubt as to the tenor of his thoughts. Money, money. It was as life to him.

The distant rattle of the spring lock of the store front door being snapped-to disturbed the quiet of the office. Lablache heard the sound. Then followed the bolting of the door. The money-lender turned again to his figures. It was the return of Rodgers, he thought, which had disturbed him. He soon became buried in further calculations. While figuring he unconsciously listened for the sound of the clerk's footsteps on the stairs as he made his way up to his room. The sound did not come. The room was clouded with tobacco smoke, and still Lablache belched out fresh clouds to augment the reek of the atmosphere. Suddenly the glass door opened. The money-lender heard the handle move.

"Eh, what is it, Rodgers?" he said, in a displeased tone. As he spoke he peered through the smoke.

"What d'you want?" he exclaimed angrily. Then he rubbed his eyes and craned forward only to fall back again with a muttered curse. He had stared into the muzzle of a heavy six-shooter.

He moved his hand as though to throw his memorandum pad on the desk, but instantly a stern voice ordered him to desist and the threatening revolver came closer.

"Jest stay right thar, pard." The words were spoken in an exaggerated Western drawl. "My barker's mighty light in the trigger. I guess it don't take a hundred-weight to loose it. And I don't cotton to mucking up this floor with yer vitals."

Lablache remained still. He saw before him the tall thin figure of a half-breed. He had black lank hair which hung loosely down almost on to his shoulders. His face was the color of mud, and he was possessed of a pair of keen gray eyes and a thin-hooked nose. His face wore a lofty look of command, and was stamped by an expression of the unmost resolution. He spoke easily and showed not the smallest haste.

"Guess we ain't met before, boss—not familiar-like, leastways. My name's Retief—Peter Retief, an' I take it yours is Lablache. Now I've jest come right along to do biz with you—how does that fit your bowels?"

The compelling ring of metal faced the astonished money-lender. For the moment he remained speechless.

"Wal?" drawled the other, with elaborate significance.

Lablache struggled for words. His astonishment—dismay made the effort a difficult one.

"You've got the drop on me you—you damned scoundrel," he at last burst out, his face for the moment purpling with rage. "I'm forced to listen to you now," he went on more gutturally, as the paroxysm having found vent began to pass, "but watch yourself that you make no bad reckoning, or you'll regret this business until the rope's round your neck. You'll get nothing out of me—but what you take. Now then, be sharp. What are you going to do?"

The half-breed grinned.

"You're mighty raw oh the hide jest now, I guess. But see hyar, my reckonin's are nigh as slick as yours. An' jest slant yer tongue some. 'Damned scoundrel' sliden' from yer flannel face is like a coyote roundin' on a timber wolf, an' a coyote ain't as low down as a skunk. I opine I want a deal from you," Retief went on, with a hollow laugh, "and wot I want I mostly git, in these parts."

Lablache was no coward. And even now he had not the smallest fear for his life. But the thought of being bluffed by the very man he was willing to pay so much for the capture of riled him almost beyond endurance. The Breed noted the effect of his words and pushed his pistol almost to within arm's reach of the money-lender's face.

The half-breed's face suddenly became stem.

"That's a dandy ranch of yours down south. Me an' my pards 'ave taken a notion to it. Say, you're comin' right along with us. Savee? Guess we'll show you the slickest round up this side o' the border. Now jest sit right thar while I let my mates in."

Retief took no chances. Lablache, under pistol compulsion, was forced to remain motionless in his chair. The swarthy Breed backed cautiously to the door until his hand rested upon the spring catch. This, with deft fingers, he turned and then forced back, and the next moment he was joined by two companions as dark as himself and likewise dressed in the picturesque garb of the prairie "hustler." The money-lender, in spite of his predicament, was keenly alert, and lost no detail of the new-comers' appearance. He took a careful mental photograph of each of the men, trusting that he might find the same useful in the future. He wondered what the next move would be. He eyed the Breed's pistol furtively, and thought of his own weapon lying on his desk at the corner farthest from him. He knew there was no possible chance of reaching it. The slightest unbidden move on his part would mean instant death. He understood, only too well, how lightly human, life was held by these people. Implicit obedience alone could save him. In those few thrilling moments he had still time to realize the clever way in which both he and Horrocks had been duped. He had never for a moment believed in Gautier's story, but had still less dreamed of such a daring outrage as was now being perpetrated. He had not long to wait for developments. Directly the two men were inside, and the door was again closed, Retief pointed to the money-lender.

"Hustle, boys—the rope. Lash his feet."

One of the men produced an old lariat In a trice the great man's feet were fast.

"His hands?" said one of the men.

"Guess not. He's goin' to write, some."

Lablache instantly thought of his cheque-book. But Retief had no fancy for what he considered was useless paper.

The hustler stepped over to the desk. His keen eyes spotted the money-lender's pistol lying upon the far corner of it. He had also noted his prisoner casting furtive glances in the direction of it. To prevent any mischance he picked the gleaming weapon up and slipped it into his hip pocket. After that he drew a sheet of foolscap from the stationery case and laid it on the blotting pad. Then he turned to his comrades.

"Jest help old money-bags over," he said quietly. He was thoroughly alert, and as calmly indifferent to the danger of discovery as if he were engaged on the most righteous work.

When Lablache had been hoisted and pushed into position at the desk the raider took up a pen and held it out towards him.

"Write," he said laconically.

Lablache hesitated. He looked from the pen to the man's leveled pistol. Then he reluctantly took the pen. The half-breed promptly dictated, and the other wrote. The compulsion was exasperating, and the great man scrawled with all the pettishness of a child.

The message read—

"Retief is here. I am a prisoner. Follow up with all speed."

"Now sign," said the Breed, when the message was written.

Lablache signed and flung down the pen.

"What's that for?" he demanded huskily.

"For?" His captor shrugged. "I guess them gophers of police are snugly trussed by now. Mebbe, though, one o' them might 'a' got clear away. When they find you're gone, they'll light on that paper. I jest want 'em to come right along after us. Savee? It'll 'most surprise 'em when they come along." Then he turned to his men. "Now, boys, lash his hands, and cut his feet adrift. Then, into the buckboard with him. Guess his carcase is too bulky for any 'plug' to carry. Get a hustle on, lads. We've hung around here long enough."

The men stepped forward to obey their chief, but, at that moment, Lablache gave another display of that wonderful agility of his of which, at times, he was capable. His rage got the better of him, and even under the muzzle of his captor's pistol he was determined to resist. We have said that the money-lender was no coward; at that moment he was desperate.

The nearest Breed received a terrific buffet in the neck, then, in spite of his bound feet, Lablache seized his heavy swivel chair, and, raising it with all his strength he hurled it at the other. Still Relief's pistol was silent. The money-lender noticed the fact, and he became even more assured. He turned heavily and aimed a blow at the "hustler." But, even as he struck, he felt the weight of Retief's hand, and struggling to steady himself—his bound feet impeding him—he overbalanced and fell heavily to the ground. In an instant the Breeds were upon him. His own handkerchief was used to gag him, and his hands were secured. Then, without a moment's delay, he was hoisted from the floor—his great weight bearing his captors down—and carried bodily out of the office and thrown into his own buckboard, which was waiting at the door. Retief sprang into the driving seat whilst one of the Breeds held the prisoner down, some other dark figures leapt into the saddles of several waiting horses, and the party dashed off at a breakneck speed.

The gleaming stars gave out more than sufficient light for the desperate teamster. He swung the well-fed, high-mettled horses of the money-lender round, and headed right through the heart of the settlement. The audacity of this man was superlative. He lashed the animals into a gallop which made the saddle horses extend themselves to keep up. On, on into the night they raced, and almost in a flash the settlement was passed. The sleepy inhabitants of Foss River heard the mad racing of the horses but paid no heed. The daring of the raider was his safeguard.

Lablache knew their destination. They were traveling southward, and he felt that their object was his own ranch.

That midnight drive was one long nightmare to the unfortunate captive. He had been thrown, sprawling, into the iron-railed "carryall" platform at the back of the buckboard, and lay on the nut-studded slats, where he was jolted and bumped about like the proverbial pea on a drum.

When the raider changed his direction, and turned off the trail on to the open prairie, the horrors of the prisoner's position were intensified a hundredfold. Alone, there was insufficient room for the suffering man in the limited space of the "carryall," but beside him sat, or rather crouched, a burly Breed, ready at a moment's notice to quash any attempt at escape on the part of the wretched money-lender.

Thus he was borne along, mile after mile, southward towards his own ranch. Sometimes during that terrible ride Lablache found time to wonder what was the object of these people in thus kidnapping him. Surely if they only meant to carry off his cattle, such a task could have been done without bringing him along with them. It seemed to him that there could be only one interpretation put upon the matter, and, in spite of his present agonies, the great man shuddered as he thought.

Courageous as he was, he endured a period of mental agony which took all the heart out of him. He understood the methods of the prairie so well that he feared the very worst. A tree—a lariat—and he saw, in fancy, a crowd of carrion swarming round his swinging body. He could conceive no other object, and his nerves became racked almost to breaking pitch.

The real truth of the situation was beyond his wildest dreams. The significance of the fact that this second attack was made against him was lost upon the wretched man. He only seemed to realize with natural dread that Retief—the terror of the countryside—was in this, therefore the outcome must surely be the very worst.

At length the horses drew up at Lablache's lonely ranch. His nearest neighbor was not within ten miles of him. With that love of power and self aggrandisement which always characterized him, the money-lender had purchased from the Government a vast tract of country, and retained every acre of it for his own stock. It might have stood him in good stead now had he let portions of his grazing, and so settled up the district. As it was, his ranch was characteristic of himself—isolated; and he knew that Retief could here work his will with little chance of interference.

As Lablache was hoisted from the buckboard and set upon his feet, and the gag was removed from his mouth, the first thing he noticed was the absolute quiescence of the place. He wondered if his foreman and the hands were yet sleeping.

He was not long left in doubt. Retief gave a few rapid orders to his men, and as he did so Lablache observed, for the first time, that the Breeds numbered at least half-a-dozen. He felt sure that not more than four besides their chief had traveled with them, and yet now the number had increased.

The obvious conclusion was that the others were already here at the time of the arrival of the buckboard, doubtless with the purpose of carrying out Retief's plans.

The Breeds moved off in various directions, and their chief and the money-lender were left alone. As soon as the others were out of earshot the raider approached his captive. His face seemed to have undergone some subtle change. The lofty air of command had been replaced by a look of bitter hatred and terrible cruelty.

"Now, Lablache," he said coldly, "I guess you're goin' to see some fun. I ain't mostly hard on people. I like to do the thing han'some. Say I'll jest roll this bar'l 'long so as you ken set. An' see hyar, ef you're mighty quiet I'll loose them hands o' yours."

Lablache deigned no reply, but the other was as good as his word.

"Sulky, some, I guess," the half-breed went on. "Wal, I'm not goin' back on my word," he added as he rolled the barrel up to his prisoner and scotched it securely. "Thar, set."

The money-lender didn't move.

"Set!" This time the word conveyed a command and the other sat down on the barrel.

"Guess I can't stand cantankerous cusses. Now, let's have a look at yer bracelets."

He sat beside his captive and proceeded to loosen the rope which bound his wrists. Then he quietly drew his pistol and rested it on his knee. Lablache enjoyed his freedom, but wondered what was coming next.

There was a moment of silence while the two men gazed at the corrals and buildings set out before them. Away to the right, on a rising ground, stood a magnificent house built of red pine lumber. Lablache had built this as a dwelling for himself. For the prairie it was palatial, and there was nothing in the country to equal it. This building alone had cost sixty thousand dollars. On a lower level there were the great barns. Four or five of these stood linked up by smaller buildings and quarters for the ranch hands. Then there was a stretch of low buildings which were the boxes built for the great man's thoroughbred stud horses. He was possessed of six such animals, and their aggregate cost ran into thousands of pounds, each one having been imported from England.

Then there were the corrals with their great ten-foot walls, all built of the finest pine logs cut from the mountain forests. These corrals covered acres of ground and were capable of sheltering five thousand head of cattle without their capacity being taxed. It was an ideal place and represented a considerable fortune. Lablache noticed that the corrals were entirely empty. He longed to ask his captor for explanation, but would not give that swarthy individual the satisfaction of imparting unpleasant information.

However, Retief did not intend to let the money-lender off lightly. The cruel expression of his face deepened as he followed the direction of Lablache's gaze.

"Fine place, this," he said, with a comprehensive nod. "Cost a pile o' dollars, I take it."

No answer.

"You ain't got much stock. Guess the boys 'ave helped themselves liberal."

Lablache turned his face towards his companion. He was fast being drawn.

"Heard 'em gassin' about twenty thousand head some days back. Guess they've borrowed 'em," he went on indifferently.

"You villain!" the exasperated prisoner hissed at last.

If ever a look conveyed a lust for murder Lablache's lashless eyes expressed it.

"Eh? What? Guess you ain't well." The icy tones mocked at the distraught captive.

The money-lender checked his wrath and struggled to keep cool.

"My cattle are on the range. You could never have driven off twenty thousand head. It would have been impossible without my hearing of it. It is more than one night's work."

"That's so," replied the half-breed, smiling sardonically. "Say, your hands and foreman are shut up in their shack. They've bin taking things easy fur a day or two. Jest to give my boys a free hand. Guess we've been at work here these three days."

The money-lender groaned inwardly. He understood the Breed's meaning only too well. At last his bottled-up rage broke out again.

"Are you man or devil that you spirit away great herds like this. Across the keg, I know, but how—how? Twenty thousand! My God, you'll swing for this night's work," he went on impotently. "The whole countryside will be after you. I am not the man to sit down quietly under such handling. If I spend every cent I'm possessed of, you shall be hounded down until you dare not show your face on this side of the border."

"Easy, boss," the Breed retorted imperturbably. "Ef you want to see that precious store o' yours again a civil tongue 'll help you best. I'm mostly a patient man—easy goin'-like. Now jest keep calm an' I'll let you see the fun. Now that's a neat shack o' yours," he went on, pointing to the money-lender's mansion. "Wonder ef I could put a dose o' lead into one o' the windows from here."

Lablache began to think he was dealing with a madman. He remained silent, and the Breed leveled his pistol in the direction of the house and fired. A moment's silence followed the sharp report. Then Retief turned to his captive.

"Guess I didn't hear any glass smash. Likely I missed it," and he chuckled fiendishly. Lablache sat gazing moodily at the building. Then the half-breed's voice roused him. "Hello, wot's that?" He was pointing at the house. "Why, some galoot's lightin' a bonfire! Say, that's dangerous Lablache. They might fire your place."

But the other did not answer. His eyes were staring wide with horror. As if in answer to the pistol-shot a fire had been lit against the side of the house. It was no ordinary fire, either, but a great pile of hay. The flames shot up with terrible swiftness, licking up the side of the red pine house with lightning rapidity. Lablache understood. The house was to be demolished, and Retief had given the signal. He leapt up from his seat, forgetful of his bound feet, and made as though to seize the Breed by the throat. He got no further, however, for Retief gripped him by the shoulder, and, notwithstanding his great bulk, hurled him back on to the barrel, at the same time pressing the muzzle of his pistol into his face.

"Set down, you scum," he thundered. "Another move like that an' I'll let the atmosphere into yer." Then with a Sudden return to his grim pastime, as the other remained quiet, "Say, red pine makes powerful fine kindlin'. I reckon they'll see that light at the settlement. You don't seem pleased, man. Ain't it a beaut. Look, they've started it the other side. Now the smoke stack's caught. Burn, burn, you beauty. Look, Lablache, a sixty thousand dollar fire, an' all yours. Ain't you proud to think that it's all yours?"

Lablache was speechless with horror. Words failed to express his feelings. The Breed watched him as a tiger might contemplate its helpless prey. He understood something of the agony the great man was suffering. He wanted him to suffer—he meant him to suffer. But he had only just begun the torture he had so carefully prepared for his victim.

Presently the roof of the building crashed in, and, for the moment, the blaze leapt high. Then, soon, it began to die down. Retief seemed to tire of watching the dying blaze. He turned again to his prisoner.

"Not 'nough, eh? Not 'nough. We can't stop here all night. Let's have the rest. The sight'll warm your heart." And he laughed at his own grim pleasantry. "The boys have cleared out your stud 'plugs.' And, I guess, yer barns are chocked full of yer wheel gearing and implements. Say, I guess we'll have 'em next."

He turned from his silent captive without waiting for reply, and rapidly discharged the remaining five barrels of his pistol. For answer another five bonfires were lighted round the barns and corals. Almost instantly the whole place became a gorgeous blaze of light. The entire ranch, with the exception of one little shack was now burning as only pine wood can burn. It was a terrible, never-to-be-forgotten sight, and Lablache groaned audibly as he saw the pride of his wealth rapidly gutted. If ever a man suffered the money-lender suffered that night Retief showed a great understanding of his prisoner—far too great an understanding for a man who was supposed to be a stranger to Lablache—in the way he set about to torture his victim. No bodily pain could have equaled the mental agony to which the usurer was submitted. The sight of the demolishing of his beautiful ranch—probably the most beautiful in the country—was a cruelly exquisite torture to the money-loving man. That dread conflagration represented the loss to him of a fortune, for, with grasping pusillanimity, Lablache had refused to insure his property. Had Retief known this he could not have served his own purpose better. Possibly he did know, and possibly that was the inducement which prompted his action. Truly was the money-lender paying dearly for past misdeeds. With the theft of his cattle and the burning of his ranch his loss was terrible, and, in his moment of anguish, he dared not attempt to calculate the extent of the catastrophe.

When the fire was at its height Retief again addressed his taunting language to the man beside him, and Lablache writhed under the lash of that scathing tongue.

"I've heerd tell you wer' mighty proud of this place of yours. Spent piles o' bills on it. Nothin' like circulatin' cash, I guess. Say now, how long did it take you to fix them shacks up?"

No answer. Lablache was beyond mere words.

"A sight longer than it takes a bit of kindlin' to fetch 'em down, I take it," he went on placidly. "When d'ye think you'll start re-building? I wonder," thoughtfully, "why they don't fire that shed yonder," pointing to the only building left untouched. "Ah, I was forgettin', that's whar your hands are enjoyin' themselves. It's thoughtful o' the boys. I guess they're good lads. They don't cotton to killin' prairie hands. But they ain't so particular over useless lumps o' flesh, I guess," with a glance at the stricken man beside him.

Lablache was gasping heavily. The mental strain was almost more than he could bear, and his crushed and hopeless attitude brought a satanic smile on the cruel face beside him.

"You don't seem to fancy things much," Retief went on. "Guess you ain't enjoyin' yerself. Brace up, pard; you won't git another sight like this fur some time. Why, wot's ailing yer?" as the barrel on which they were seated moved and Lablache nearly rolled over backwards. "I hadn't a notion yer wouldn't enjoy yerself. Say, jest look right thar. Them barns," he added, pointing, towards the fire, "was built mighty solid. They're on'y jest cavin'."

Lablache remained silent. Words, he felt, would be useless. In fact it is doubtful if he would have been equal to expression. His spirit was crushed and he feared the man beside him as he had never feared any human being before. Such was the nervous strain put upon him that the sense of his loss was rapidly absorbed in a dread for his own personal safety. The conflagration had lost its fascination for him, and at every move—every word—of his captor he dreaded the coming of his own end. It was a physical and mental collapse, and bordered closely on frenzied terror. It was no mental effort of his own that kept him from hurling himself upon the other and biting and tearing in a vain effort to rend the life out of him. The thought—the fever, desire, craving—was there, but the will, the personality, of the Breed held him spellbound, an inert mass of flesh incapable of physical effort—incapable almost of thought, but a prey to an overwhelming terror.

The watching half-breed at length rose from his seat and shrugged his thin, stooping shoulders. He had had enough of his pastime, and time was getting on. He had other work to do before daylight. He put his hand to his mouth and imitated the cry of the coyote. An instant later answering cries came from various directions, and presently the Breeds gathered round their chief.

"Say, bring up the 'plugs,' lads. The old boy's had his bellyfull. I guess we'll git on." Then he turned upon the broken money-lender and spoke while he re-charged the chambers of his pistol.

"See hyar, Lablache, this night's work is on'y a beginning. So long as you live in Foss River Settlement so long will I hunt you out an' hustle yer stock. You talked of houndin' me, but I guess the shoe's on the other foot. I ain't finished by a sight, an' you'll hear from me agin'. I don't fancy yer life," he went on with a grin. "Et's too easy, I guess. Et's yer bills I'm after. Ye've got plenty an' to spare. But bills is all-fired awk'ud to handle when they pass thro' your dirty hands. So I'll wait till you've turned 'em into stock. Savee? I'm jest goin' right on now. Thar's a bunch o' yer steers waitin' to be taken off. Happen I'm goin' to see to 'em right away. One o' these lads'll jest set some bracelets on yer hands, and leave yer tucked up and comfortable so you can't do any harm, and you can set right thar an' wait till some 'un comes along an' looses yer. So long, pard, an' remember, Foss River's the hottest place outside o' hell fur you, jest now."

Some of the half-breeds had brought up the horses whilst Retief was talking, and, as he finished speaking, the hustler vaulted on to the back of the great chestnut, Golden Eagle, and prepared to ride away. Whilst the others were getting into their saddles he took one look at the wretched captive whose hands had been again secured. There was a swift exchange of glances—malevolent and murderous on the part of the money-lender, and derisive on the part of the half-breed—then Retief swung his charger round, and, at the head of his men, galloped away out into the starry night.

The rope which brought Horrocks to the ground came near to strangling him. He struggled wildly as he fell, and, as he struggled, the grip of the rope tightened. He felt that the blood was ready to burst from his temples and eyes. Then everything seemed to swim about him and he believed consciousness was leaving him. Everything was done in a moment and yet he seemed to be passing through an eternity of time.

The lariat is a handy weapon, but to truly appreciate its merits one must be a prairie man. The Breeds are prairie men. They understand fully the uses to which a "rope" may be put. For criminal purposes they appreciate its silent merits, and the dexterity with which they can use it makes its value equal to, and even surpass, the noisier and more tell-tale pistol.

The next thing that the policeman knew was that he was stretched on his back upon the ground, disarmed, and with a great bandanna secured about his eyes and mouth, and his hands tied behind his back. Then a gruff voice bade him rise, and, as he silently obeyed, he was glad to feel that the gripping lariat was removed from his throat. Truly had the officer's pride gone before a fall. And his feelings were now of the deepest chagrin. He stood turning his head from side to side, blindly seeking to penetrate the bandage about his eyes. He knew where he was, of course, but he would have given half his year's salary for a sight of his assailants.

He was not given long for his futile efforts. The same rough voice which had bade him rise now ordered him to walk, and he found himself forced forward by the aid of a heavy hand which gripped one of his arms. The feeling of a blindfold walk is not a happy one, and the officer experienced a strange sensation of falling as he was urged he knew not whither. After a few steps he was again halted, and then he felt himself seized from behind and lifted bodily into a conveyance.

He quickly realized that he was in a buckboard. The slats which formed the body of it, as his feet lit upon them, told him this. Then two men jumped in after him and he found himself seated between them. And so he was driven off.

In justice to Horrocks it must be said that he experienced no fear. True, his chagrin was very great. He saw only too plainly what want of discretion he had displayed in trusting to the Breed's story, but he felt that his previous association with the rascal warranted his credulity, and the outcome must be regarded as the fortune of war. He only wondered what strange experience this blindfold journey was to forerun. There was not the least doubt in his mind as to whose was the devising of this well-laid and well-carried-out plot. Retief, he knew, must be answerable for the plan, and the method displayed in its execution plainly showed him that every detail had been carefully thought out, and administered by only too willing hands. That there was more than ordinary purpose in this blindfold journey he felt assured, and he racked his brains to discover the desperado's object. He even found time to speculate as to how it had fared with his men, only here he was even more at a loss than in the case of his own ultimate fate.

In less than half an hour from the time of his capture the buckboard drew up beside some bush. Horrocks knew it was a bluff. He could hear the rustle of the leaves as they fluttered in the gentle night air. Then he was unceremoniously hustled to the ground, and, equally unceremoniously, urged forward until his feet trod upon the stubbly, breaking undergrowth. Next he was brought to a stand and swung round, face about, his bonds were removed, and four powerful hands gripped his arms. By these he was drawn backwards until he bumped against a tree-trunk. His hands were then again made fast, but this time his arms embraced the tree behind him. In this manner he was securely trussed.

Now from behind—his captors were well behind him—a hand reached over, and, by a swift movement, removed the bandage from before his eyes. Then, before he had time to turn his head, he heard a scrambling through the bush, and, a moment later, the sound of the creaking buckboard rapidly receding. He was left alone; and, after one swift, comprehensive survey, to his surprise, he found himself facing the wire-spreading muskeg, at the very spot where he had given up further pursuit of the cattle whose "spur" he had traced down to the brink of the viscid mire.

His astonishment rendered him oblivious to all else. He merely gazed out across that deceptive flat and wondered. Why—why had this thing been done, and what strange freak had induced the "hustler" to conceive such a form of imprisonment for his captive? Horrocks struggled with his confusion, but he failed to fathom the mystery, and never was a man's confusion worse confounded than was his.

Presently he bethought him of his bonds, and he cautiously tried them. They were quite unyielding, and, at each turn of his arms, they caused him considerable pain. The Breeds had done their work well, and he realized that he must wait the raider's pleasure. He was certain of one thing, however, which brought him a slight amount of comfort. He had been brought here for a definite purpose. Moreover, he did not believe that he was to be left here alone for long. So, with resignation induced by necessity, he possessed himself of what patience he best could summon.

How long that solitary vigil lasted Horrocks had no idea. Time, in that predicament, was to him of little account. He merely wondered and waited. He considered himself more than fortunate that his captors had seen fit to remove the bandage from his eyes. In spite of his painful captivity he felt less helpless from the fact that he could see what might be about him.

From a general survey his attention soon became riveted upon the muskeg spread out before him, and, before long, his thoughts turned to the secret path which he knew, at some point near by, bridged the silent horror. All about him was lit by the starry splendor of the sky. The scent of the redolent grass of the great keg hung heavily upon the air and smelt sweet in his nostrils. He could see the ghostly outline of the distant peaks of the mountains, he could hear the haunting cries of nightfowl and coyote; but these things failed to interest him. Familiarity with the prairie made them, to him, commonplace. The path—the secret of the great keg. That was the absorbing thought which occupied his waiting moments. He felt that its discovery would more than compensate for any blunders he had made. He strained his keen eyes as he gazed at the tall waving grass of the mire, as though to tear from the bosom of the awful swamp the secret it so jealously guarded. He slowly surveyed its dark surface, almost inch by inch, in the hopes of discovering the smallest indication or difference which might lead to the desired end.

There was nothing in what he saw to guide him, nothing which offered the least suggestion of a path. In the darkness the tall waving grass took a nondescript hue which reached unbroken for miles around. Occasionally the greensward seemed to ripple in the breeze, like water swayed by a soft summer zephyr, but beyond this the outlook was uniform—darkly mysterious—inscrutable.

His arms cramped under the pressure of the restraining bonds and he moved uneasily. Now and again the rustling of the leaves overhead caused him to listen keenly. Gradually his fancy became slightly distorted, and, as time passed, the sounds which had struck so familiarly upon his ears, and which had hitherto passed unheeded, began to get upon his nerves.

By-and-by he found himself listening eagerly for the monotonous repetition of the prairie scavenger's dismal howl, and as the cries recurred they seemed to grow in power and become more plaintively horrible. Now, too, the sighing of the breeze drew more keen attention from the imprisoned man, and fancy magnified it into the sound of many approaching feet. These matters were the effect of solitude. At such times nerves play curious pranks.

In spite of his position, in spite of his anxiety of mind, the police-officer began to grow drowsy. The long night's vigil was telling, and nature rebelled, as she always will rebel when sleep is refused and bodily rest is unobtainable. A man may pace his bedroom for hours with the unmitigated pain of toothache. Even while the pain is almost unendurable his eyes will close and he will continue his peregrinations with tottering gait, awake, but with most of his faculties drowsily faltering. Horrocks found his head drooping forward, and, even against his will, his eyes would close. Time and again he pulled himself together, only the next instant to catch himself dozing off again.

Suddenly, however, he was electrified into life. He was awake now, and all drowsiness had vanished. A sound—distant, rumbling, but distinct—had fallen upon his, for the moment, dulled ears. For awhile it likened to the far-off growl of thunder, blending with a steady rush of wind. But it was not passing. The sound remained and grew steadily louder. A minute passed—then another and then another. Horrocks stared in the direction, listening with almost painful intensity. As the rumbling grew, and the sound became more distinct, a light of intelligence crept into the prisoner's face. He heard and recognized.

"Cattle!" he muttered, and in that pronouncement was an inflection of joy. "Cattle—and moving at a great pace."

He was alert now, as alert as he had ever been in his life. Was he at last going to discover the coveted secret? Cattle traveling fast at this time of night, and in the vicinity of the great keg. What could it mean? To his mind there could only be one construction which he could reasonably put upon the circumstance. The cattle were being "hustled," and the hustler must be the half-breed Retief.

Then, like a douche of cold water, followed the thought that he had been purposely made a prisoner at the edge of the muskeg. Surely he was not to be allowed to see the cattle pass over the mire and then be permitted to go free. Even Retief in his wildest moments of bravado could not meditate so reckless a proceeding. No, there was some subtle purpose underlying this new development—possibly the outcome was to be far more grim than he had supposed. He waited horrified, at his own thoughts, but fascinated in spite of himself.

The sound grew rapidly and Horrocks's face remained turned in the direction from which it proceeded. He fancied, even in the uncertain light, that he could see the distant crowd of beasts silhouetted against the sky-line. His post of imprisonment was upon the outskirts of the bush, and he had a perfect and uninterrupted view of the prairie along the brink of the keg, both to the north and south.

It was his fancy, however, which designed the silhouette, and he soon became aware that the herd was nearer than he had supposed. The noise had become a continuous roar as the driven beasts came on, and he saw them loom towards him a black patch on the dark background of the dimly-lit prairie. The bunch was large, but his straining eyes as yet could make no estimate of its numbers. He could see several herders, but these, too, were as yet beyond recognition.

Yet another surprise was in store for the waiting man. So fixed had his attention been upon the on-coming cattle that he had not once removed his eyes from the direction of their approach. Now, however, a prolonged bellow to the right of him caused him to turn abruptly. To his utter astonishment he saw, not fifty yards from him, a solitary horseman leading a couple of steers by ropes affixed to their horns. He wondered how long this strange apparition had been there. The horse was calmly nibbling at the grass, and the man was quietly resting himself with elbows propped upon the horn of his saddle. He, too, appeared to be gazing in the direction of the on-coming cattle. Horrocks tried hard to distinguish the man's appearance, but the light was too uncertain to give him more than the vaguest idea of his personality.

The horse seemed to be black or very dark brown. And the general outline of the rider was that of a short slight man, with rather long hair which flowed from beneath the brim of his Stetson hat. The most curious distinguishable feature was his slightness. The horse was big and the man, was so small that, as he sat astride of his charger, he looked to be little more than a boy of fifteen or sixteen.

Horrocks's survey was cut short, however, for now the herd of cattle was tearing down upon him at a desperate racing pace. He saw the solitary rider gather up his lines and move his horse further away from the edge of the muskeg. Then the herd of cattle came along. They raced past the bluff where the officer was stationed, accompanied by four swarthy drivers, one of which was mounted upon a great chestnut horse whose magnificent stride and proportions fixed the captive's attention. He had heard of "Golden Eagle," and he had no doubt in his mind that this was he and the rider was the celebrated cattle-thief. The band and its drovers swept by, and Horrocks estimated that the cattle numbered many hundreds.

After awhile he heard the sound of voices. Then the beasts were driven back again over their tracks, only at a more gentle pace. Several times the performance was gone through, and each time, as they passed him, Horrocks noticed that their pace was decreased, until by the sixth time they passed their gait had become a simple mouche, and they leisurely nipped up the grass as they went, with bovine unconcern. It was a masterly display of how cattle can be handled, and Horrocks forgot for a while his other troubles in his interest in the spectacle.

After passing him for the sixth time the cattle came to a halt; and then the strangest part of this strange scene was enacted. The horseman with the led steers, whom, by this time, Horrocks had almost forgotten, came leisurely upon the field of action. No instructions were given. The whole thing was done in almost absolute silence. It seemed as if long practice had perfected the method of procedure.

The horseman advanced to the brink of the muskeg, exactly opposite to the bluff where the captive was tied, and with him the two led steers. Horrocks held his breath—his excitement was intense. The swarthy drivers roused the tired cattle and headed them towards the captive steers. Horrocks saw the boyish rider urge his horse fearlessly on to the treacherous surface of the keg. The now docile and exhausted cattle followed leisurely. There was no undue bustle or haste. It was a veritable "follow my leader." Where it was good enough for the captive leaders to go it was good enough for the weary beasts to follow, and so, as the boy rider moved forward, the great herd followed in twos and threes. The four drivers remained until the end, and then, as the last steer set foot on the dreadful mire, they too joined in the silent procession.

Horrocks exerted all his prairie instinct as he watched the course of that silent band. He was committing to memory, as far as he was capable, the direction of the path across the keg, for, when opportunity offered, he was determined to follow up his discovery and attempt the journey himself. He fancied in his own secret heart that Retief had at last overreached himself, and in thus giving away his secret he was paving the way to his own capture.