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Updated: June 23, 2025
He moved to Lablache's right. The money-lender was dealing. "Lord" Bill lit a cigarette. The cards were dealt round. Then the draw. Then Lablache laid the pack down. Bunning-Ford had noted these things mechanically. Then something caught his attention. It was his very indifference which caused his sudden attention.
Doubtless the game he was now playing did not need such mask-like impassivity of expression as an ordinary game would. After all, the pot opened, it merely became a question of who held the best hand. There would be no betting. John's eyes lighted up as he glanced at the index numerals. He held two "Jacks." "Can you?" Lablache's husky voice rasped in the stillness. "Yes."
Since that time he had been seized with a mental activity, a craving for action he had never, in all his lazy life, before experienced. This sudden change had been aggravated by Lablache's subsequent conduct, and the flame had been fanned by the right that Jacky had given him to protect her.
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.
No, no, when it comes to handling Jacky Allandale you leave it to me Ah!" Lablache's ejaculation was the result of the sudden apparition of a dark face peering in at his window. He swung round with lightning rapidity, and before Horrocks could realize what he was doing his fat hand was grasping the butt of a revolver. Then, with a grunt of annoyance, he turned back to his guest.
But that ain't all you need. 'Savee's' a mighty fine thing on occasions. Now you need 'Savee. I'll jest give yer a piece of advice right hyar. You go straight off down to Lablache's ranch. You'll find him thar. An' pesky uncomfortable you'll find him. You ken set him free, also his ranch boys, an' when you've done that jest make tracks for Stormy Cloud an' don't draw rein till you git thar.
But it'll take a deal of thought to upset Lablache's last move, without shootin'." "Um shooting's an evil, but sometimes necessary. What's his racket?" The girl told her story quickly. She forgot nothing. She never allowed herself to fall into the womanly mistake of omitting details, however small. Bill fully appreciated her cleverness in this direction. He could trust what she said implicitly.
His red flannel shirt was open at the neck and caught with a black handkerchief. His damaged tile was in permanent crape for the late lamented Poole. "We allow," says Bill, in a tone halfway between Lablache's De profundis and a burglar's bull-dog's snarl, "that we've did our work as good as need to be did. We 'xpect we know our rights.
When the door closed, and the officer had assured himself of the man's departure, he turned to his host. "Well?" "Well?" retorted Lablache. "What do you make of it?" "An excellent waste of fifty dollars." Lablache's face was expressive of indifference mixed with incredulity. "He told you what you already knew," he pursued, "and drew on his imagination for the rest.
He had no hesitation in thus peremptorily dismissing him. "You're in a pesky hurry to get rid of me. See hyar, pard, you'd best be civil. Your dealin's ain't a sight cleaner than mine." "I'm waiting." Lablache's tone was coldly commanding. His lashless eyes gazed steadily into the other's face. Something the Mexican saw in them impelled him towards the door.
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