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 i
t?"
"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.
* * *
CHAPTER XVII - THE NIGHT OF THE PUSKY
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 fortun
ate 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.
The Story of the Foss River Ranch Page 17
