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Then Lablache's hand flew to his pocket. He had heard the click of a cocking revolver. For the moment the rancher's old spirit rose superior to his senile debility. "God in heaven! And this is how you've robbed me, you you bastard!" "Poker" John's seared face was at that moment the face of a maniac. He literally hurled his fury at the money-lender, who was now standing confronting him.
He dashed a quantity of raw spirit into his glass and drank it off. Lablache looked on with intense satisfaction. John rose unsteadily, and, supporting himself against the furniture as he went, moved over to the French window and closed it. Then he lurched heavily back into his chair again. His eyes half closed. But he roused at the sound of Lablache's guttural tones. "John, old friend."
Lablache's store stands in the center of the settlement, facing on to the market-place the latter a vague, undefined space of waste ground on which vendors of produce are wont to draw up their wagons. The store is a massive building of great extent.
John Allandale's face was serious. The nervous twitching of the cheek was still, but the drawn lines around his mouth were in no way hidden by his gray mustache, nor did the eager light which burned luridly in his eyes for one moment deceive the onlooker as to the anxiety of mind which his features masked. Now it was Lablache's deal. "Lord" Bill concentrated his attention upon the dealer.
Lablache must be made to disgorge but how? John Allandale must be stopped playing and further contributing to Lablache's ill-gotten gains. Again but how? Bill was roused out of his usual apathetic indifference. The moment had arrived when he must set aside the old indolent carelessness. He was stirred to the core. A duty had been suddenly forced upon him.
In his rough, exaggerated way he told himself that he was selling this girl as surely as did the old slave owners sell their slaves in bygone days. He endeavored to persuade himself that what he was doing was for the best, and certainly that it was forced upon him. He would not admit that his mania for poker was the main factor in his acceptance of Lablache's terms.
What else was there of his Lablache's that the Breed could attack? His store yes yes; his store! That was all that was left of his property in Foss River. And then what then? There was nothing after that, except, perhaps except his life. Lablache stirred in his seat and wheezed heavily as he arrived at this conclusion.
Lablache's cold eyes fixed him with their icy stare. "Very well, John," said Lablache, with a contemptuous shrug. "You know the inevitable result of such a hasty decision. It means ruin to you beggary to that poor child." His teeth snapped viciously. Then he smiled with his mouth. "I can only put your de refusal down to utter, unworthy selfishness." "Not selfishness, Lablache not that.
At three in the morning, failing your return or news of you, I set out with my ranch hands to find you. And woe betide those black devils if you have come to harm. By the way, what about your men?" "They assemble here at ten. We leave our horses at Lablache's stables. We are going to walk to the settlement." "I think you are wise," said the doctor.
He stood now gazing malevolently at the tall figure of the Hon. Bunning-Ford, who was leisurely making his way towards the village. For the time being the channel of Lablache's thoughts had changed its direction. He had hoped, in foreclosing his mortgages on the Englishman's property, to have rid Foss River of the latter's, to him, hateful presence.
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