"Now," said Baptiste, with all the solemnity of a court official, "the execution shall take place. Lead him out!"
At this instant Jacky laid her hand upon the half-breed's arm.
"What—what is it?" she asked. And from her expression something of the stony calmness had gone, leaving in its place a look of wondering not untouched with horror.
"The Devil's Keg!"
CHAPTER XXIX - THE MAW OF THE MUSKEG
Down the sloping shore to the level of the great keg, the party of Breeds—and in their midst the doomed money-lender—made their way. Jacky and "Lord" Bill, on their horses, brought up the rear.
The silent cortège moved slowly on, out on to the oozing path across the mire. Lablache was now beyond human aid.
The right and wrong of their determination troubled the Breeds not one whit. But it was different with the two white people. What thoughts Bill had upon the matter he kept to himself. He certainly felt that he ought to interfere, but he knew how worse than useless his interference would be. Besides, the man should die. The law of Judge Lynch was the only law for such as he. Let that law take its course. Bill would have preferred the stout tree and a raw-hide lariat. But—and he shrugged his shoulders.
Jacky felt more deeply upon the subject. She saw the horror in all its truest lights, and yet she had flouted her lover's suggestion that she should not witness the end. Bad and all as Lablache was—cruel as was his nature, murderer though he be, surely no crime, however heinous, could deserve the fate to which he was going. She had remonstrated—urged Baptiste to forego his wanton cruelty, to deal out justice tempered with a mercy which should hurl the money-lender to oblivion without suffering—with scarce time to realize the happening. Her efforts were unavailing. As well try to turn an ape from its mischief—a man-eater from its mania for human blood. The inherent love of cruelty had been too long fostered in these Breeds of Foss River. Lablache had too long swayed their destinies with his ruthless hand of extortion. All the pent-up hatred, stored in the back cells of memory, was now let loose. For all these years in Foss River they had been forced to look to Lablache as the ruler of their destinies. Was he not the great—the wealthy man of the place? When he held up his finger they must work—and his wage was the wage of a dog. When money was scarce among them, would he not drive them starving from his great store? When their children and women were sick, would he not refuse them drugs—food—nourishment of any sort, unless the money was down? They had not even the privilege of men who owned land. There was no credit for the Breeds—outcasts. Baptiste and his fellows remembered all these things. Their time had come. They would pay Lablache—and their score of interest should be heavy.