When the fire was at its height Retief again addressed his taunting language to the man beside him, and Lablache writhed under the lash of that scathing tongue.

“I’ve heerd tell you wer’ mighty proud of this place of yours.  Spent piles o’ bills on it.  Nothin’ like circulatin’ cash, I guess.  Say now, how long did it take you to fix them shacks up?”

No answer.  Lablache was beyond mere words.

“A sight longer than it takes a bit of kindlin’ to fetch ’em down, I take it,” he went on placidly.  “When d’ye think you’ll start re-building?  I wonder,” thoughtfully, “why they don’t fire that shed yonder,” pointing to the only building left untouched.  “Ah, I was forgettin’, that’s whar your hands are enjoyin’ themselves.  It’s thoughtful o’ the boys.  I guess they’re good lads.  They don’t cotton to killin’ prairie hands.  But they ain’t so particular over useless lumps o’ flesh, I guess,” with a glance at the stricken man beside him.

Lablache was gasping heavily.  The mental strain was almost more than he could bear, and his crushed and hopeless attitude brought a satanic smile on the cruel face beside him.

“You don’t seem to fancy things much,” Retief went on.  “Guess you ain’t enjoyin’ yerself.  Brace up, pard; you won’t git another sight like this fur some time.  Why, wot’s ailing yer?” as the barrel on which they were seated moved and Lablache nearly rolled over backwards.  “I hadn’t a notion yer wouldn’t enjoy yerself.  Say, jest look right thar.  Them barns,” he added, pointing, towards the fire, “was built mighty solid.  They’re on’y jest cavin’.”

Lablache remained silent.  Words, he felt, would be useless.  In fact it is doubtful if he would have been equal to expression.  His spirit was crushed and he feared the man beside him as he had never feared any human being before.  Such was the nervous strain put upon him that the sense of his loss was rapidly absorbed in a dread for his own personal safety.  The conflagration had lost its fascination for him, and at every move—­every word—­of his captor he dreaded the coming of his own end.  It was a physical and mental collapse, and bordered closely on frenzied terror.  It was no mental effort of his own that kept him from hurling himself upon the other and biting and tearing in a vain effort to rend the life out of him.  The thought—­the fever, desire, craving—­was there, but the will, the personality, of the Breed held him spellbound, an inert mass of flesh incapable of physical effort—­incapable almost of thought, but a prey to an overwhelming terror.

The watching half-breed at length rose from his seat and shrugged his thin, stooping shoulders.  He had had enough of his pastime, and time was getting on.  He had other work to do before daylight.  He put his hand to his mouth and imitated the cry of the coyote.  An instant later answering cries came from various directions, and presently the Breeds gathered round their chief.