Murder—­and who was the victim?  Bill wondered, and his heart misgave him.  There was no longer any sound of voices.  The rancher had been silenced.  He thought of the girl behind him.  Then his whole mind suddenly centered itself upon Lablache.  If he had killed the rancher no mercy should be shown to him.

Bill was rapidly nearing the building, and it was wrapped in an ominous silence.

For a second he again came to a stand.  He wanted to make sure.  He could hear Jacky’s speeding footfalls from behind.  And he could hear the stealthy movements of those others.  These were the only sounds that reached him.  He-went on again.  He came to the building.  The window was directly in front of him.  He tried to look into the room but the handkerchief effectually hid the interior.  Suddenly the light went out.  He knew what this meant.  Turning away from the window he crept towards the door.  Jacky had come up.  He motioned her into the shadow.  Then he waited.

The door opened and a great figure came out.  It was Lablache.  Even in the darkness Bill recognized him.  His heavy, asthmatical breathing must have betrayed the money-lender if there had been no other means of identification.

Lablache stepped out on to the prairie utterly unconscious of the figures crouching in the darkness.  He stepped heavily forward.  Four steps—­that was all.  A silent spring—­an iron grip round the money-lender’s throat, from behind.  A short, sharp struggle—­a great gasping for breath.  Then Lablache reeled backwards and fell to the ground with Bill hanging to his throat like some tiger.  In the fall the money-lender’s pistol went off.  There was a sharp report, and the bullet tore up the ground.  But no harm was done.  Bill held on.  Then came the swish of a skirt.  Jacky was at her lover’s side.  She dragged the money-lender’s pistol from his pocket.  Then Bill let go his hold and stood panting over the prostrate man.  The whole thing was done in silence.  No word was spoken.

Lablache sucked in a deep whistling breath.  His eyes rolled and he struggled into a sitting posture.  He was gazing into the muzzle of Bill’s pistol.

“Get up!” The stern voice was unlike Bill’s, but there was nothing of the twang of Retief about it.

The money-lender stared, but did not move—­neither did he speak.  Jacky had darted into the hut.  She had gone to light the lamp and learn the truth.

“Get up!” The chilling command forced the money-lender to rise.  He saw before him the tall, thin figure of his assailant.

“Retief!” he gasped, and then stood speechless.

Now the re-lighted lamp glowed through the doorway.  Bill pointed towards the door.

“Go inside!” The relentless pistol was at Lablache’s head.

“No—­no!  Not inside.”  The words whistled on a gasping breath.

“Go inside!”

Cowed and fearful, Lablache obeyed the mandate.