“Now sign,” said the Breed, when the message was written.

Lablache signed and flung down the pen.

“What’s that for?” he demanded huskily.

“For?” His captor shrugged.  “I guess them gophers of police are snugly trussed by now.  Mebbe, though, one o’ them might ‘a’ got clear away.  When they find you’re gone, they’ll light on that paper.  I jest want ’em to come right along after us.  Savee?  It’ll ’most surprise ’em when they come along.”  Then he turned to his men.  “Now, boys, lash his hands, and cut his feet adrift.  Then, into the buckboard with him.  Guess his carcase is too bulky for any ‘plug’ to carry.  Get a hustle on, lads.  We’ve hung around here long enough.”

The men stepped forward to obey their chief, but, at that moment, Lablache gave another display of that wonderful agility of his of which, at times, he was capable.  His rage got the better of him, and even under the muzzle of his captor’s pistol he was determined to resist.  We have said that the money-lender was no coward; at that moment he was desperate.

The nearest Breed received a terrific buffet in the neck, then, in spite of his bound feet, Lablache seized his heavy swivel chair, and, raising it with all his strength he hurled it at the other.  Still Relief’s pistol was silent.  The money-lender noticed the fact, and he became even more assured.  He turned heavily and aimed a blow at the “hustler.”  But, even as he struck, he felt the weight of Retief’s hand, and struggling to steady himself—­his bound feet impeding him—­he overbalanced and fell heavily to the ground.  In an instant the Breeds were upon him.  His own handkerchief was used to gag him, and his hands were secured.  Then, without a moment’s delay, he was hoisted from the floor—­his great weight bearing his captors down—­and carried bodily out of the office and thrown into his own buckboard, which was waiting at the door.  Retief sprang into the driving seat whilst one of the Breeds held the prisoner down, some other dark figures leapt into the saddles of several waiting horses, and the party dashed off at a breakneck speed.

The gleaming stars gave out more than sufficient light for the desperate teamster.  He swung the well-fed, high-mettled horses of the money-lender round, and headed right through the heart of the settlement.  The audacity of this man was superlative.  He lashed the animals into a gallop which made the saddle horses extend themselves to keep up.  On, on into the night they raced, and almost in a flash the settlement was passed.  The sleepy inhabitants of Foss River heard the mad racing of the horses but paid no heed.  The daring of the raider was his safeguard.

Lablache knew their destination.  They were traveling southward, and he felt that their object was his own ranch.

CHAPTER XX

A NIGHT OF TERROR

That midnight drive was one long nightmare to the unfortunate captive.  He had been thrown, sprawling, into the iron-railed “carryall” platform at the back of the buckboard, and lay on the nut-studded slats, where he was jolted and bumped about like the proverbial pea on a drum.