Fingie Whalen, after he had seen his drops take effect on the victim, went out of the saloon, and reëstablished himself on the bench against the wall, where once again he gave himself over to an unremitting survey of the main street, down which any one coming from the ranch must pass. He smoked with nervous rapidity, which increased as minute after minute passed, and there was still no sight of those for whom he watched. At the end of an hour, the gambler's impatience had become anxiety. He began to fear failure at the last, when success had seemed assured. It might well be that, in spite of Jess's note, Dan McGrew had been unable to persuade Lou Maxwell into accompanying him. Or—as would be equally disastrous—they might come too late. Fingie had been as liberal as he dared in the drugging of the beer, but there is a great difference in the reactive powers of various men against such poison. He had not been minded to run any risk of murder. Therefore, he could not tell with precision when Jim Maxwell would recover consciousness. As the minutes hurried on, Fingie's fear mounted by leaps and bounds. From time to time, he left the bench, and peered in through the window, to reassure himself as to the continued unconsciousness of the drugged man.
Then, at last, as he turned from one of these glimpses through the window, Fingie Whalen saw in the distance the forms of two riders coming at a furious gallop. For a second, he stood staring, to make sure that there was no mistake, that these were in fact those for whom he had waited with such anxiety. In another moment, he became certain that one of the two who approached was Dan McGrew. The flapping of a divided skirt proved that the other rider was a woman. He could no longer doubt that McGrew had succeeded. There needed now only to set the stage for the final scene. For the second time that day, Fingie whirled and darted into the saloon. He caught up from the bar a glass of brandy, which he had left under the barkeeper's charge, since he had not deemed it safe on the table within Jess's reach. He moved now without undue haste, in order to avoid attracting attention to himself and the others concerned. When he had reached the table at which Jess and their victim were seated, he put the glass down, with a nod to the woman to indicate that the end of the play was now at hand. Jess shoved her chair close to that in which Jim slouched. At the same time, Fingie seized the unconscious man by the shoulders, and lifted the heavy form upright in the chair. Jim yielded limply to the procedure—a dead weight in the other's grasp. He was still unconscious. His face was hot and flushed, the face of one under the influence of liquor. His breath still came noisily. Fingie, straining under the weight, tilted the flaccid body over a little way, until it rested against the shoulder of Jess, who braced herself to sustain it. Fingie raised Jim's left arm, as the unconscious man reposed thus against the woman at his right, and laid it about her neck. Thus the two remained in an embrace, which bore every evidence of fondness that knew no shame in this public and disreputable place. Jim's head sagged, until it rested upon the woman's bosom. Her right arm was wreathed about him, holding him tenaciously, with all her strength, lest he lurch away from her. With her left hand, she took up the glass of brandy, which Fingie had brought, and held it close to the lips of the unconscious man.
JIM'S HEAD SAGGED UNTIL IT RESTED UPON THE WOMAN'S BOSOM.
Such was the business of the piece, as it had been arranged beforehand in each detail by the conspirators. Jess cast a look of inquiry toward the gambler, to learn whether or not the situation met all the requirements of the plot. He gave a brief nod, and grunted approval. He heard the clatter of hoofs in the street outside—a clatter of hoofs of horses ridden in haste. It ceased just without the door of the saloon. Fingie walked quietly to the bar. A quick glance about showed that the attention of none had been attracted to his movements. He grinned evilly in anticipation.... From the time when he had first sighted the riders, not more than a half-minute had elapsed. He leaned against the bar, and stared furtively toward the window that gave on the street.
Dan McGrew drew close alongside Lou, as the pair pounded down the main street of the town.
"Stop at the corner, this side of the bank," he called to her. "At Murphy's saloon."
The woman shivered as her ears caught the words. She knew the character of the notorious place, which catered to the most depraved tastes of the community. Was it to a resort so ignoble that she must go to refute the slander against her husband? To refute it! Or—she broke off her thought, appalled by the terrible alternative. Then, in the following instant, she found herself already abreast of the saloon. She heard her companion's brisk command:
"Stop here!"
She obeyed, though, almost, the dread that beat upon her forced her to flee on, and on—anywhere away from the horror that menaced. She pulled her mare to a standstill, and got down from the saddle, and let the bridle-reins trail. She moved as one in a dream—rather, as one in a nightmare. Yet, now the crisis was upon her, she did not suffer quite so cruelly. Her feeling was numbed, somehow. It was with a certain listlessness in her voice that she addressed Dan McGrew, as he stepped to her side.