The Story of the Foss River Ranch Part 27

"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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sured 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. 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 pa.s.s 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 circ.u.mstances. 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.