"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.