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Updated: June 26, 2025
His jowl was ponderous, and his little mouth was tightly compressed, while his deep-sunken, bilious eyes peered from between heavy, lashless lids. Such was Verner Lablache, the wealthiest man of the Foss River Settlement. He owned a large store in the place, selling farming machinery to the settlers and ranchers about.
A pair of gray eyes, red-rimmed and lashless, looked forlornly out of a countenance which was flattened something after the fashion of a pumpkin, and surmounted by a Don Quixote nose that rose out of it like a monolith above a plain.
They were Neal Taggart; a tall, lanky, unprepossessing man with a truculent eye rimmed by lashless lids, and with a drooping mustache which almost concealed the cruel curve of his lips, whom he knew as Denver Ed having met him several times in the Durango country; and a medium-sized stranger whom he knew as Garvey. The latter was dark-complexioned, with a hook nose and a loose-lipped mouth.
The lashless eyes watched the deathly fall of the old man. There was no expression in them but that of vengeful coldness. He was accustomed to the unwritten laws of the prairie. He knew that he had saved his life by a hair's-breadth. His right hand was still in his coat pocket. He had fired through the cloth of the coat. Some seconds passed. Still Lablache did not move.
Insolent puppy, lying there and boasting of his seventeen years! Lasse had a good mind to go for him then and there and chance yet one more trial of strength. But he contented himself with sitting and looking at him until his red, lashless eyes grew watery. Then he got up. "Well, well, I see you want young people this evening!" he said bitterly to Karna.
He gazed, blinking his lashless lids, at the heap of letters, and the corner of another envelope presently arrested his attention. It was of the same paper, of the same shape and hue, as that addressed to Miss Chyne. Sir John drew a deep breath, and reached out his hand. The letter had come at last. At last, thank God!
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."
The mullah stood with his back to it and beckoned King nearer. He approached until he could see the pattern on the covering rugs, and the pink rims round the mullah's lashless eyes. "What is thy desire?" the mullah asked as a wolf might ask what a lamb wants. Supposing Yasmini to be jealous of invasion of her realm, King did not doubt she would be glad to have him break down at this point.
Insolent puppy, lying there and boasting of his seventeen years! Lasse had a good mind to go for him then and there and chance yet one more trial of strength. But he contented himself with sitting and looking at him until his red, lashless eyes grew watery. Then he got up. "Well, well, I see you want young people this evening!" he said bitterly to Karna.
He felt that he was about to accomplish the object which had long been his, and, at the same time, outwit the half-breed who had so lately come into his life, with such disastrous results to his, the money-lender's, peaceful enjoyment of his ill-gotten wealth. Lablache turned his lashless eyes in the direction of the window. It was a square aperture of about two feet in extent.
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