“An hour, maybe,” replied Lablache, breathing heavily as a result of his climb out of the buckboard.

“Right Take ’em away, boys.  Remove the harness and give ’em a good rub down.  Don’t water or feed ’em till they’re cool.  They’re spanking ‘plugs,’ Lablache,” he added, as he watched the horses being led down to the barn.  “Come inside.  Had breakfast?” rising and knocking the dust from the seat of his moleskin trousers.

“Yes, I had breakfast before daylight, thanks,” Lablache said, glancing quickly down at the empty corrals, where his horses were about to undergo a rubbing down.  “I came out to have a business chat with you.  Shall we go in-doors?”

“Most certainly.”

There was an expressive curtness in the two words.  Bill permitted himself a brief survey of the great man’s back as the latter turned towards the front door.  And although his half-closed lids hid the expression of his eyes, the pursing of the lips and the fluctuating muscles of his jaw spoke of unpleasant thoughts passing through his mind.  A business talk with Lablache, under the circumstances, could not afford the rancher much pleasure.  He followed the money-lender into the sitting-room.

The apartment was very bare, mannish, and scarcely the acme of neatness.  A desk, a deck chair, a bench and a couple of old-fashioned windsor chairs; a small table, on which breakfast things were set, an old saddle, a rack of guns and rifles, a few trophies of the chase in the shape of skins and antelope heads comprised the furniture and decorations of the room.  And too, in that slightly uncouth collection, something of the character of the proprietor was revealed.

Bunning-Ford was essentially careless of comfort.  And surely he was nothing if not a keen and ardent sportsman.

“Sit down.”  Bill indicated the chairs with a wave of the arm.  Lablache dubiously eyed the deck chair, then selected one of the unyielding Windsor chairs as more safe for the burden of his precious body, tested it, and sat down, emitting a gasp of breath like an escape of steam from a safety-valve.  The younger man propped himself on the corner of his desk.

Lablache looked furtively into his companion’s face.  Then he turned his eyes in the direction of the window.  Bill said nothing, his face was calm.  He intended the money-lender to speak first.  The latter seemed indisposed to do so.  His lashless eyes gazed steadily out at the prairie beyond.  “Lord” Bill’s persistent silence at length forced the other into speech.  His words came slowly and were frequently punctuated with deep breaths.

“Your ranch—­everything you possess is held on first mortgage.”

“Not all.”  Bunning-Ford’s answer came swiftly.  The abruptness of the other’s announcement nettled him.  The tone of the words conveyed a challenge which the younger man was not slow to accept.

Lablache shrugged his shoulders with deliberation until his fleshy jowl creased against the woolen folds of his shirt front.