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Updated: June 24, 2025
Then he would nibble at the whisky bottle, having "earned his tonic," as he would say, until the potent spirit had warmed his courage and he would hurry off to the saloon for "half an hour's flutter," which generally terminated in the small hours of the morning. Such was the state of affairs at the Foss River Ranch when Lablache put into execution his threats against the Hon. Bunning-Ford.
Now they were humbly doing one girl's bidding with a zest unsurpassed by the devotion to their recent gamble. She treated them indiscriminately. Old or young, there was no difference. Bunning-Ford she liked Dr. Abbot she liked Lablache she hated and despised, still she allotted them their tasks with perfect impartiality. Only her old uncle she treated differently.
It was the fire which is unquenchable the fire of a lasting hate, vengeful, terrible. Then her tone dropped to a contemplative soliloquy. "But how?" she murmured, looking away towards the stream in the heart of the valley, as though in search of inspiration. Bunning-Ford smiled as he heard the half-whispered question. But his smile was not pleasant to look upon.
Bunning-Ford shook his head. His look was troubled. "Horrocks is not the man to be turned from his purpose," he replied. "And besides, Lablache would not attempt such a thing. He is too keen to capture Relief," with a bitter laugh. "A life more or less would not upset that scoundrel's resolve. As for your uncle," with a shrug, "I don't think he's the man for the task.
The doctor and Bunning-Ford were the most to be considered. Their resources were very limited. The old man knew that the doctor was one of those careful players who was not likely to allow himself to suffer by the height of the stakes. There was no bluffing the doctor. "Lord" Bill was able to take care of himself. "That's good enough for me," said Bunning-Ford. "Let it go at that."
He smiled softly as he turned his attention to the future which lay before him, and his smile was not in keeping with the expression of a broken man. In these last days of waning prosperity Bunning-Ford had noticeably changed. With loss of property he had lost much of that curious veneer of indolence, utter disregard of consequences, which had always been his.
Bunning-Ford, approached where he had been standing. Mrs. Abbot glanced admiringly up into Jacky's face. "A successful evening, Joaquina?" she interrogated kindly. "Lovely, Aunt Margaret, thanks." She always called the doctor's wife "Aunt." Mrs. Abbot nodded. "I believe you have danced every dance. You must be tired, child. Come and sit down."
He rode towards them. "Hallo, Bill, whither bound?" said the old rancher, as the younger man came up. "Going to join us in the parlor of Smith's fragrant hostelry? The spider is already there weaving the web in which he hopes to ensnare us." Bunning-Ford shook his head. "Who's the spider Lablache?" "Yes, we're going to play. It's the first time for some days.
The figures of this account were very large, totalling into six figures. The balance against the rancher was enormous. Lablache gave a satisfied grunt as he turned over to another account. "Safe safe enough. Safe as the Day of Doom," he said slowly. His mouth worked with a cruel smile. He paused at the account of Bunning-Ford. "Twenty thousand dollars um," the look of satisfaction was changed.
The choking grip of the running noose quieted Golden Eagle into perfect docility. Bunning-Ford was off his horse in a moment. Approaching the primitive dwelling he forced open the crazy door. It was a patchwork affair and swung back on a pair of hinges which lamented loudly as the accumulation of rust were disturbed.
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