“What am I to do?” he retorted savagely.  “What are we to do?  What is all the ranching world of Alberta to do?  Why, fight, man.  Hound this scoundrel to his lair.  Follow him—­track him.  Hunt him from bush to bush until we fall upon him and tear him limb from limb.  Are we going to sit still while he terrorizes the whole country?  While he ‘hustles’ every head of stock from us, and—­and spirits it away?  No, if we spend fortunes upon his capture we must not rest until he swings from a gibbet at the end of his own lariat.”

“Yes, of course—­of course,” the rancher responded, his cheek twitching weakly.  “You are quite right, we must hunt this scoundrel down.  But we know what has gone before—­I mean, before he was supposed to have died.  The man could never be traced.  He seemed to vanish into thin air.  What do you propose?”

“Yes, but that was two years ago,” said Lablache, moodily.  “Things may be different now.  A thousand head of cattle does not vanish so easily.  There is bound to be some trace left behind.  And then, the villain has only got a short start of us.  I sent a messenger over to Stormy Cloud Settlement the first thing this morning.  A sergeant and four men will be sent to work up the case.  I expect them here at any moment.  As justices of the peace it devolves on both of us to set an example to the settlers, and we shall then receive hearty co-operation.  You understand, John,” the money-lender went on, with pompous assertiveness, “although, at present, I am the chief sufferer by this scoundrel’s depredations, it is plainly your duty as much as mine to take this matter up.”

The first rough storm of Lablache’s passion had passed.  He was “yanking” himself up to the proper attitude for the business in hand.  Although he had calmed considerably his lashless eyes gleamed viciously, and his flabby face wore an expression which boded ill for the object of his rage, should that unfortunate ever come within the range of his power.

“Poker” John was struggling hard to bring a once keen intellect to bear upon the affair.  He had listened to the money-lender’s account of the raid with an almost doubtful understanding, the chief shock to which was the re-appearance of the supposed dead Retief, that prince of “hustlers,” who, two years ago, had terrorized the neighborhood by his impudent raids.  At last his mind seemed to clear and he stood up.  And, bending across the desk as though to emphasize his words, he showed something of the old spirit which had, in days gone by, made him a successful rancher.

“I don’t believe it, Lablache.  This is some damned yarn to cover the real culprit.  Why, man, Peter Retief is buried deep in that reeking keg, and no slapsided galoot’s goin’ to pitch such a crazy notion as his resurrection down my throat.  Retief?  Why, I’d as lief hear that Satan himself was abroad duffing cattle.  Bah!  Where’s the ‘hand’ that’s gulled you?”

Lablache eyed the old man curiously.  He was not sure that there might not be some truth in the rancher’s forcible skepticism.  For the moment the old man’s words carried some weight, then, as he remembered the unvarnished tale the cowboy had told, he returned to his conviction.  He shook his massive head.