“I’ve brought the boy up to feed,” said old John.  “I guess we’ll get right to it.  I’ve got a ‘twist’ on me that’ll take considerable to satisfy.”

The meal passed pleasantly enough.  The conversation naturally was chiefly confined to the events of the night.  But somehow the others did not respond very eagerly to the old rancher’s evident interest and concern.  Most of the talking—­most of the theorizing—­most of the suggestions for the stamping out of the scourge, Retief, came from him, the others merely contenting themselves with agreeing to his suggestions with a lack of interest which, had the old man been perfectly sober, he could not have failed to observe.  However, he was especially obtuse this morning, and was too absorbed in his own impracticable theories and suggestions to notice the others’ lack of interest.

At the conclusion of the meal the rancher took himself off down to the settlement again.  He must endeavor to draw Lablache, he said.  He would not wait for him to come to the ranch.

Jacky and Bill went out on to the veranda, and watched the old man as he set out with unsteady gait for the settlement.

“Bill,” said the girl, as soon as her uncle was out of earshot, “what news?”

“Two items of interest One, the very best, and the other—­the very worst.”

“Which means?”

“No one has the least suspicion of us; and Horrocks, the madman, intends to attempt the passage of the keg.”

“Lord” Bill jaws shut with a snap as he ceased speaking.  The look which accompanied his last announcement was one of utter dejection.  Jacky did not reply for an instant, her great eyes had taken on a look of deep anxiety as she gazed towards the muskeg.

“Bill, can nothing be done to stop him?” She gazed appealingly up into the face of the tall figure beside her.  “He is a brave man, if foolish.”

“That’s just it, dear.  He’s headstrong and means to see this thing through.  Had I thought that he would ever dream of contemplating such a suicidal feat as attempting that path, I’d never have let him see the cattle cross last night.  My God! it turns me sick to think of it.”

“Hush, Bill, don’t talk so loud.  Do you think any one could dissuade him?  Lablache, or—­or uncle, for instance.”

Bunning-Ford shook his head.  His look was troubled.

“Horrocks is not the man to be turned from his purpose,” he replied.  “And besides, Lablache would not attempt such a thing.  He is too keen to capture—­Relief,” with a bitter laugh.  “A life more or less would not upset that scoundrel’s resolve.  As for your uncle,” with a shrug, “I don’t think he’s the man for the task.  No, Jacky,” he went on, with a sigh, “we must let things take their course now.  We have embarked on this business.  We mustn’t weaken.  His blood be upon his own head.”

They relapsed into silence for some moments.  “Lord” Bill lit a cigarette, and leant himself against one of the veranda posts.  He was worried at the turn events had taken.  He had no grudge against Horrocks; the man was but doing his duty.  But his meditated attempt he considered to be an exaggerated sense of that duty.  Presently he spoke again.