The first shock of the trooper's news began to pass. Lablache's mind began to balance itself again. Such a state of nerves as was his could not last and the man remain sane. Possibly the thought that he was still a rich man came to his aid. Possibly the thought of hundreds of thousands of dollars sunk in perfect securities, in various European centers, toned down the grievousness of his losses. Whatever it was he grew calmer, and with calmness his scheming nature reasserted itself.
He moved from his seat and helped himself liberally to the whisky which was in his cabinet. He needed the generous spirit, and drank it off at a gulp. His chair behind him creaked. He started. His ashen face became more ghastly in its hue. He looked round fearfully. Then he understood, and he wheezed heavily. Once more he sat himself down, and the warming spirit steadily did its work.
Suddenly his mind leapt forward, as it were, from its stagnatory condition of abject fear. It traveled swiftly, urged by a pursuing dread over plans for the future. The guiding star of his thought was safety. At all costs he must find safety for his property and himself. So long as Retief was at large there could be no safety for him in Foss River. He must get away. He must get away, bearing with him the fruits which yet remained to him of his life's toil. He had contemplated retiring before. His retirement from business would mean ruin to many of those who had borrowed from him he knew, and to those on whose property he held mortgages as security. But that could not be helped. He was not going to allow himself to suffer through what he considered any humanitarian weakness. Yes, he would retire—get away from the reach of Retief and his companions, and—ah!
His thoughts merged into another channel—a channel which, under the stress of his terrors, had for the moment been obscured. He suddenly thought of the Allandales. Here for the instant was a stumbling block. Or should he renounce his passion for Jacky? He drummed thoughtfully with his finger-tips upon the arms of his chair.
No, why should he give her up? Something of his old nerve was returning. He held all the cards. He knew he could, by foreclosing, ruin "Poker" John. Why should he give the girl up, and see her calmly secured by that cursed Bunning-Ford? His bilious eyes half closed and his sparse eyebrows drew together in a deep concentration of thought. Then presently his forehead smoothed, and his lashless eyes gleamed wickedly. He rose heavily to his feet and labored to and fro across the floor, with his beefy hands clasped behind his back.
"Excellent—excellent," he muttered. "The devil could not have designed it better." There was a grim, evil smile about his mouth. "Yes, a game—a game. It will tickle old John, and will carry out my purpose. The mortgages which I hold on his property are nothing to me. Most are gambling debts. For the rest the interest has covered the principal. I have seen to that. But he is in arrears now. Good—good. Their abandonment represents no loss to me—ha, ha." He chuckled mirthlessly. "A little game—a gentle flutter, friend John, and the stakes all in my favor. But I do not intend to lose. Oh, no. The girl might outwit me if I lost. I shall win, and on my wedding day I shall be magnanimous—good." He unclasped his hands and rubbed them together gleefully.
"The uncle's consent—his persuasion. She will do as he wishes or—ruin. It is capital—a flawless scheme. And then to leave Foss River forever. God, but I shall be glad," with a return to his nervous dread. He looked about him; eagerly, his great paunchy figure pictured grotesquely beneath the pasty, fearful face.
"Now to see John," he went on, after a moment's pause. "How—how? I wish I could get him here. It would be better here. There would be no chance of listening ears. Besides, there is the whisky." He paused again thinking. "Yes," he muttered presently. "Delay would be bad. I must not give my enemy time. At once—at once. Nothing like doing things at once. I must go to John. But—" and he looked dubiously at the darkened window—"when I return it will be dark." He picked up his other revolver and slipped it into his breast pocket. "Yes, yes, I am getting foolish—old. Come along, my friend, we will go."
He seized his hat and went to the office door. He paused with his hand upon the lock, and gave one final look round, then he turned the spring with a great show of determination and passed out.
It was a different man who left the little office on that evening to the man who had for so many years governed the destinies of the smaller ranching world of the Foss River district. He had truly said that he was getting old—but he did not quite realize how old. His enemies had done their work only too well. The terrible consequences of the night of terror were to have far-reaching results.