“Nonsense, man,” said the doctor sharply.  “Your opinion’s warped.  Besides, you’re in a blue funk.  Come on over to ‘old man’ Smith’s and have a ‘freshener.’  You want bucking-up.  Coming, Bill?” he went on, turning to Bunning-Ford.  “I want an ‘eye-opener’ myself.  What say to a ’Collins’?”

The three moved away from the crowd, which they left horrified at what it had heard, and eagerly discussing and enlarging upon the sanguinary stories of Thompson.

“Poker” John was already at the saloon when the three reached the door of “old man” Smith’s reeking den.  The proprietor was sweeping the bar, in a vain effort to clear the atmosphere of the nauseating stench of stale tobacco and drink.  John was propped against the bar mopping up his fourth “Collins.”  He usually had a thirst that took considerable quenching in the mornings now.  His over-night potations were deep and strong.  Morning “nibbling” had consequently become a disease with him.  “Old man” Smith, with a keen eye to business, systematically mixed the rancher’s morning drinks good and strong.

Bill and the doctor were not slow to detect the condition of their old friend, and each felt deeply on the subject.  Their cheery greetings, however, were none the less hearty.  Smith desisted in his dusty occupation and proceeded to serve his customers.

“We’re having lively times, John,” said the doctor, after emptying his “long sleever.”  “Guess Retief’s making things ‘hum’ in Foss River.”

“Hum?  Shout is more like it,” drawled Bill.  “You’ve heard all the news, John?”

“I’ve enough news of my own,” growled the rancher.

“Been up all night.  I see you’ve got Thompson with you.  What did Horrocks do after you told him about Lablache?” he went on, turning to the clerk.

Bill and the doctor exchanged meaning glances.  The clerk having found a fresh audience again repeated his story.  “Poker” John listened carefully.  At the close of the narrative he snorted disdainfully and looked from the clerk to his two friends.  Then he laughed loudly.  The clerk became angry.

“Excuse me, Mr. Allandale, but if you doubt my word—­”

“Doubt your word, boy?” he said, when his mirth had subsided.  “I don’t doubt your word.  Only I’ve spent most of the night up at the Breed camp myself.”

“And were you there, sir, when Horrocks was captured?”

“No, I was not.  After you came to my place and went on to the camp, I was very uneasy.  So, after a bit, I got my ‘hands’ together and prepared to follow you up there.  Just as I was about to set out,” he went on, turning to the doctor and Bill, “I met Jacky coming in.  Bless you if she hadn’t been to see the pusky herself.  You know,” with a slight frown, “that child is much too fond of those skulking Breeds.  Well, anyway, she said everything was quiet enough while she was there and,” turning again to Thompson, “she had seen nothing of Retief or Horrocks or any of the latter’s men.  We just put our heads together, and she convinced me that I was right, after what had occurred at the store, and had better go up.  So up I went.  We searched the whole camp.  I guess we were there for nigh on three hours.  The place was quiet enough.  They were still dancing and drinking, but not a blessed sign of Horrocks could we find.”