fortune favoring, a cent, per cent, interest in each case.  The laws of the prairie, in those days always uncertain, were more often governed by human passions than the calm equity of unbiased jurymen.  And who shall say that their idea of justice was wrong?  Two “wrongs,” it has been said, do not make one “right.”  But surely it is not a human policy when smote upon one cheek to turn the other for a similar chastisement.

“Then we leave Golden Eagle where he is,” said Jacky, as she remounted her horse and they prepared to return home.

“Yes.  I will see to him,” Bill replied, urging his horse into a canter towards the winding ascent which was to take them home.

The ducks frolicking in their watery playground chattered and flapped their heavy wings.  The frogs in their reedy beds croaked and chirruped without ceasing.  And who shall say how much they had heard, or had seen, or knew of that compact sealed in Bad Man’s Hollow?

CHAPTER IX

Lablache’s “Coup”

Lablache was seated in a comfortable basket chair in his little back office.  He preferred a basket chair—­he knew its value.  He had tried other chairs of a less yielding nature, but they were useless to support his weight; he had broken too many, and they were expensive—­there is nothing more durable than a strong basket chair.  Lablache appreciated strength combined with durability, especially when the initial outlay was reduced to a minimum.

His slippered feet were posted on the lower part of the self-feeding stove and he gazed down, deep in thought, at the lurid glow of the fire shining through the mica sides of the firebox.

A clock was ticking away with that peculiar, vibrating aggressiveness which characterizes the cheap American “alarm.”  The bare wood of the desk aggravated the sound, and, in the stillness of the little room, the noise pounded exasperatingly on the ear-drums.  From time to time he turned his great head, and his lashless eyes peered over at the paper dial of the clock.  Once or twice he stirred with a suggestion of impatience.  At times his heavy breathing became louder and shorter, and he seemed about to give expression to some irritable thought.

At last his bulk heaved and he removed his feet from the stove.  Then he slowly raised himself from the depths of the yielding chair.  His slippered feet shuffled over the floor as he moved towards the window.  The blind was down, but he drew it aside and wiped the steam from the glass pane with his soft, fat hand.  The night was black—­he could see nothing of the outside world.  It was nearly an hour since he had left the saloon where he had been playing poker with John Allandale.  He appeared to be waiting for some one, and he wanted to go to bed.

Once more he returned to his complaining chair and lowered himself into it.  The minutes slipped by.  Lablache did not want to smoke; he felt that he must do something to soothe his impatience, so he chewed at the quicks of his finger-nails.