all 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