"There'll be what?"
whispered the other; but Marchand made no reply, save to make a warning
gesture, for Barbazon, the landlord, had entered behind the bar.
"They're coming back, Barbazon," Marchand said to the landlord, jerking
his head towards the front door. The noise of the crowd was increasing,
the raucous shouts were so loud that the three had to raise their voices.
"You'll do a land-office business to-night," he declared.
Barbazon had an evil face. There were rumours that he had been in gaol in
Quebec for robbery, and that after he had served his time he had dug up
the money he had stolen and come West. He had started the first saloon at
Manitou, and had grown with the place in more senses than one. He was
heavy and thick-set, with huge shoulders, big hands, and beady eyes that
looked out of a stolid face where long hours, greed and vices other than
drink had left their mark. He never drank spirits, and was therefore
ready to take advantage of those who did drink. More than one horse and
canoe and cow and ox, and acre of land, in the days when land was cheap,
had come to him across the bar-counter. He could be bought, could
Barbazon, and he sold more than wine and spirits. He had a wife who had
left him twice because of his misdemeanours, but had returned and
straightened out his house and affairs once again; and even when she went
off with Lick Baldwin, a cattle-dealer, she was welcomed back without
reproaches by Barbazon, chiefly because he had no morals, and her
abilities were of more value to him than her virtue.
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