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.

“Ah, John, better late than never,” he exclaimed gutturally.  “Come in and have a smoke.”

“Yes, I thought I’d just come right down and—­see if you’d got any news.”

“None—­none, old friend.  Nothing at all.  Horrocks is a fool, I’m thinking.  Take that chair,” pointing to the basket chair.  “You’re not looking up to the mark.  Have a nip of Glenlivet.”

He passed the white-labeled bottle over to his companion, and watched the rancher curiously as he shakily helped himself to a liberal “four fingers.”  “Poker” John was rapidly breaking up.  Lablache fully realized this.

“No news—­no news,” murmured John, as he smacked his lips over his “tot” of whisky.  “It’s bad, man, very bad.  We’re not safe in this place whilst that man’s about.  Dear, dear, dear.”

The senility of the rancher was painfully apparent.  Doubtless it was the result of his recent libations and excesses.  The money-lender was quite aware that John had not come to him to discuss the “hustler.”  He had come to suggest a game of cards, but for reasons of his own the former wished to postpone the request.  He had not expected that “Poker” John would have come this evening; therefore, certain plans of his were not to have been put into execution until the following day.  Now, however, it was different.  John’s coming, and his condition, offered him a chance which was too good to be missed, and Lablache was never a man to miss opportunities.

CHAPTER XVII

THE NIGHT OF THE PUSKY

Presently the old man drew himself up a little.  The spirit had a bracing effect upon him.  The dull leering eyes assumed a momentary brightness, and he almost grew cheerful.  The change was not lost upon Lablache.  It was a veritable game of the cat and the mouse.

“This is the first time your stock has been touched,” said John, meaninglessly.  His thoughts were running upon the game of cards he had promised himself.  An unaccountable lack of something like moral courage prevented him talking of it.  Possibly it was the iron influence of his companion which forbade the suggestion of cards.  “Poker” John was inwardly chafing at his own weakness.

“Yes,” responded the other, “I have not been touched before.”  Then, suddenly, he leant forward, and, for the moment, the money-lender’s face lit up with something akin to kindliness.  It was an unusual sight, and one not to be relied upon.  “How many years is it, John, that we have struggled side by side in this benighted land?”