But the other did not answer. His eyes were staring wide with horror. As if in answer to the pistol-shot a fire had been lit against the side of the house. It was no ordinary fire, either, but a great pile of hay. The flames shot up with terrible swiftness, licking up the side of the red pine house with lightning rapidity. Lablache understood. The house was to be demolished, and Retief had given the signal. He leapt up from his seat, forgetful of his bound feet, and made as though to seize the Breed by the throat. He got no further, however, for Retief gripped him by the shoulder, and, notwithstanding his great bulk, hurled him back on to the barrel, at the same time pressing the muzzle of his pistol into his face.
"Set down, you scum," he thundered. "Another move like that an' I'll let the atmosphere into yer." Then with a Sudden return to his grim pastime, as the other remained quiet, "Say, red pine makes powerful fine kindlin'. I reckon they'll see that light at the settlement. You don't seem pleased, man. Ain't it a beaut. Look, they've started it the other side. Now the smoke stack's caught. Burn, burn, you beauty. Look, Lablache, a sixty thousand dollar fire, an' all yours. Ain't you proud to think that it's all yours?"
Lablache was speechless with horror. Words failed to express his feelings. The Breed watched him as a tiger might contemplate its helpless prey. He understood something of the agony the great man was suffering. He wanted him to suffer—he meant him to suffer. But he had only just begun the torture he had so carefully prepared for his victim.
Presently the roof of the building crashed in, and, for the moment, the blaze leapt high. Then, soon, it began to die down. Retief seemed to tire of watching the dying blaze. He turned again to his prisoner.
"Not 'nough, eh? Not 'nough. We can't stop here all night. Let's have the rest. The sight'll warm your heart." And he laughed at his own grim pleasantry. "The boys have cleared out your stud 'plugs.' And, I guess, yer barns are chocked full of yer wheel gearing and implements. Say, I guess we'll have 'em next."
He turned from his silent captive without waiting for reply, and rapidly discharged the remaining five barrels of his pistol. For answer another five bonfires were lighted round the barns and corals. Almost instantly the whole place became a gorgeous blaze of light. The entire ranch, with the exception of one little shack was now burning as only pine wood can burn. It was a terrible, never-to-be-forgotten sight, and Lablache groaned audibly as he saw the pride of his wealth rapidly gutted. If ever a man suffered the money-lender suffered that night Retief showed a great understanding of his prisoner—far too great an understanding for a man who was supposed to be a stranger to Lablache—in the way he set about to torture his victim. No bodily pain could have equaled the mental agony to which the usurer was submitted. The sight of the demolishing of his beautiful ranch—probably the most beautiful in the country—was a cruelly exquisite torture to the money-loving man. That dread conflagration represented the loss to him of a fortune, for, with grasping pusillanimity, Lablache had refused to insure his property. Had Retief known this he could not have served his own purpose better. Possibly he did know, and possibly that was the inducement which prompted his action. Truly was the money-lender paying dearly for past misdeeds. With the theft of his cattle and the burning of his ranch his loss was terrible, and, in his moment of anguish, he dared not attempt to calculate the extent of the catastrophe.
When the fire was at its height Retief again addressed his taunting language to the man beside him, and Lablache writhed under the lash of that scathing tongue.
"I've heerd tell you wer' mighty proud of this place of yours. Spent piles o' bills on it. Nothin' like circulatin' cash, I guess. Say now, how long did it take you to fix them shacks up?"
No answer. Lablache was beyond mere words.
"A sight longer than it takes a bit of kindlin' to fetch 'em down, I take it," he went on placidly. "When d'ye think you'll start re-building? I wonder," thoughtfully, "why they don't fire that shed yonder," pointing to the only building left untouched. "Ah, I was forgettin', that's whar your hands are enjoyin' themselves. It's thoughtful o' the boys. I guess they're good lads. They don't cotton to killin' prairie hands. But they ain't so particular over useless lumps o' flesh, I guess," with a glance at the stricken man beside him.