When all, men and women alike, had partaken of an “eye-opener,” Baptiste gave the signal, and the fiddler struck up his plaintive wail.  The reedy strings of his instrument shrieked out the long-drawn measure of a miserable waltz, the company paired off, and the dance began.

Whatever else may be the failings of the Breeds they can dance.  Dancing is as much a part of their nature as is the turning of a dog twice before he lies down, a feature of the canine race.  Those who were physically incapable of dancing lined the walls and adorned the manger seats.  For the rest, they occupied the sanded floor, and danced until the dust clouded the air and added to the choking foulness of the atmosphere.

The shrieking fiddle lured this savage people, and its dreadful tone was music of the sweetest to their listening ears.  This was a people who would dance.  They would dance so long as they could stand.

More drink followed the first dance.  Baptiste had not yet recognized the pitch of enthusiasm which must promise a successful evening.  The quantities of liquor thus devoured were appalling.  The zest increased.  The faces wearing an habitual frown displayed a budding smile.  The natural smiler grinned broadly.  All warmed to the evening’s amusement.

Now came the festive barn dance.  The moccasined feet pounded the filthy floor, and the dust gathered thick round the gums of the hard-breathing dancers.  The noise of coarse laughter and ribald shoutings increased.  All were pleased with themselves, but more pleased still with the fiery liquid served out by Baptiste.  The scene grew more wild as time crept on, and the effect of the liquor made itself apparent.  The fiddler labored cruelly at his wretched instrument.  His task was no light one, but he spared himself no pains.  His measure must be even, his tone almost unending to satisfy his countrymen.  He understood them, as did Baptiste.  To fail in his work would mean angry protests from those he served, and angry protests amongst the Breeds generally took the form of a shower of leaden bullets.  So he scraped away with aching limbs, and with heavy foot pounding out the time upon the crazy dais.  He must play until long after daylight, until his fingers cramped, and his old eyes would remain open no longer.

Peter Retief had not as yet put in an appearance.  Horrocks was at his post viewing the scene from outside one of the broken windows.  His men were hard by, concealed at certain points in the shelter of some straggling bush which surrounded the stable.  Horrocks, with characteristic energy and disregard for danger, had set himself the task of spying out the land.  He had a waiting game to play, but the result he hoped would justify his action.

The scene he beheld was not new to him, his duties so often carried him within the precincts of a half-breed camp.  No one knew the Breeds better than did this police officer.

Time passed.  Again and again the fiddle ceased its ear-maddening screams as refreshment was partaken of by the dancers.  Wilder and wilder grew the scene as the potent liquor took hold of its victims.  They danced with more and more reckless abandon as each time they returned to step it to the fiddler’s patient measure.  Midnight approached and still no sign of Retief.  Horrocks grew restless and impatient.