CHAPTER XXVI

IN WHICH MATTERS REACH A CLIMAX

Foss River Settlement was, at the time, a very small place, and of practically no importance.  It was brought into existence by the neighborhood of one or two large ranches; these ranches employed considerable labor.  Foss River might be visited by an earthquake, and, provided the earthquake was not felt elsewhere, the world would not be likely to hear of it for weeks.  The newspapers of the Western cities were in their infancy, and contented themselves with the news of their own towns and feverish criticisms of politics which were beyond the understanding of their editors.  Progress in the West was very slow—­almost at a standstill.

After the death of Horrocks the police had withdrawn to report and to receive augmentation.  No one felt alarm at their absence.  The inhabitants of Foss River were a self-reliant people—­accustomed to look to themselves for the remedy of a grievance.  Besides, Horrocks, they said, had shown himself to be a duffer—­merely a tracker, a prairie-man and not the man to bring Retief to justice.  Already the younger members of the settlement and district were forming themselves into a vigilance committee.  The elders—­those to whom the younger looked for a lead in such matters—­had chosen to go to the police; now the younger of the settlement decided to act for themselves.

This was the condition and feeling in Foss River at the time of the death of Horrocks; this was the state of affairs when the insouciant Bill leisurely strolled into the sitting-room at the Foss River Ranch, about the time that Joaquina Allandale had finished her tea.  With the familiarity of the West, Bill entered by the French window.  His lazy smile was undisturbed.  He might have been paying an ordinary call instead of answering a summons which he knew must be a matter of emergency, for it was understood between these two that private meetings were tabooed, except when necessity demanded them.

Jacky’s greeting was not reassuring, but her lover’s expression remained unchanged, except that his weary eyelids further unclosed.

“Guess we’re side-tracked, Bill,” she said meaningly.  “The line’s blocked.  Signals dead against us.”

Bill looked into her eyes; then he turned and closed the window, latching it securely.  The door was closed.  His keen eyes noted this.

“What do you mean?”

The girl shrugged.

“The next twelve hours must finish our game.”

“Ah!”

“Yes,” the girl went on, “it is Lablache’s doing.  We must settle our reckoning with him to-night.”

Bill flung himself into a chair.

“Will you explain?—­I don’t understand.  May I smoke?”

Jacky smiled.  The request was so unnecessary.  She always liked Bill’s nonchalance.  It conveyed such a suggestion of latent power.