the
usual method of dealing with men who cheated at cards in those Western
wilds. Each man carried his own law in his holster. He had realized
instantly that Lablache was not a case for the usual treatment. Pistol
law would have defeated its own ends. Such means would not recover the
terrible losses of "Poker" John, neither would he recover thereby his
own lost property. No, he congratulated himself upon the restraint he
had exercised when he had checked his natural impulse to expose the
money-lender. Now, however, the case looked more complicated, and, for
the moment, he could see no possible means of solving the difficulty.
Lablache must be made to disgorge--but how? John Allandale must be
stopped playing and further contributing to Lablache's ill-gotten gains.
Again--but how?

Bill was roused out of his usual apathetic indifference. The moment had
arrived when he must set aside the old indolent carelessness. He was
stirred to the core. A duty had been suddenly forced upon him. A duty to
himself and also a duty to those he loved. Lablache had consistently
robbed him, and also the uncle of the girl he loved. Now, how to
restore that property and prevent the villain's further depredations?

Again and again he asked himself the question as he allowed his horse to
mouche, with slovenly step, over the sodden prairie; but no answer
presented itself. His thin, eagle face was puckered with perplexity. The
sleepy eyes gleamed vengefully from between his half-closed eyelids as
he gazed across the sunlit prairie. His aquiline nose, always bearing a
resemblance to an eagle's beak, was rendered even more like that
aristocratic proboscis by reason of the down-drawn tip, consequent upon
the odd pursing of his tightly-compressed lips. For the moment "Lord"
Bill was at a loss. And, oddly enough, he began to wonder if, after all,
silence had been his best course.

He was still struggling in the direst perplexity when he drew up at the
veranda of the ranch. Dismounting, he hitched his picket rope to the
tying-post and entered the sitting-room by the open French window. Tea
was set upon the table and Jacky was seated before the stove.

"Late, Bill, late! Guess that 'plug' of yours is a rapid beast, judging
by the pace you came up the hill."

For the moment Bunning-Ford's face had resumed its wonted air of lazy
good-nature.

"Glad you took the trouble to watch for me, Jacky," he retorted quickly,
with an attempt at his usual lightn