At a few minutes past ten he went into his bedroom and carefully locked the door.  Then he drew from beneath his bed a small chest; it was an ammunition chest of very powerful make.  The small sliding lid was securely padlocked.  This he opened and drew from within several articles of apparel and a small cardboard box.

Next he divested himself of his own tweed clothes and donned the things he had taken from the box.  These consisted of a pair of moleskin trousers, a pair of chaps, a buckskin shirt and a battered Stetson hat.  From the cardboard box he took out a tin of greasy-looking stuff and a long black wig made of horse hair.  Stepping to a glass he smeared his face with the grease, covering his own white flesh carefully right down to the chest and shoulders, also his hands.  It was a brownish ocher and turned his skin to the copperish hue of the Indian.  The wig was carefully adjusted and secured by sprigs to his own fair hair.  This, with the hat well jammed down upon his head, completed the transformation, and out from the looking-glass peered the strong, eagle face of the redoubtable half-breed, Retief.

He then filled the chest with his own clothes and relocked it.  Suddenly his quick ear caught the sound of some one approaching.  He looked at his watch; it wanted two minutes to half-past ten.  He waited.

Presently he heard the rattle of a stick down the featheredged boarding of the outer walls of the hut.  He picked up his revolver belt and secured it about his waist, and then, putting out the light, unlocked the back door which opened out of his bedroom.

A horse was standing outside, and a man held the bridle reins looped upon his arm.

“That you, Baptiste?”

“Yup.”

“Good, you are punctual.”

“It’s as well.”

“Yes.”

“I go to join the boys,” the half-breed said slowly.  “And you?”

“I—­oh, I go to settle a last account with Lablache,” replied Bill, with a mirthless laugh.

“Where?”

Bill looked sharply at the man.  He understood the native distrust of the Breed.  Then he nodded vaguely in the direction of the Foss River Ranch.

“Yonder.  In old John’s fifty-acre pasture.  Lablache and John meet at the tool-shed there to-night.  Why?”

“And you go not to the fire?” Baptiste’s voice had a surprised ring in it.

“Not until later.  I must be at the meeting soon after eleven.”

The half-breed was silent for a minute.  He seemed to be calculating.  At length he spoke.  His words conveyed resolve.

“It is good.  Guess you may need assistance.  I’ll be there—­and some of the boys.  We ain’t goin’ ter interfere—­if things goes smooth.”

Bill shrugged.

“You need not come.”

“No?  Nuthin’ more?”

“Nothing.  Keep the boys steady.  Don’t burn the clerks in the store.”

“No.”

“S’long.”