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Title: The Story of the Foss River Ranch
Author: Ridgwell Cullum
Release Date: December 27, 2004 [EBook #14482]
Language: English
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The Story of the Foss River Ranch
A Tale of the Northwest
By RIDGWELL CULLUM
Author of
"The Law Breakers," "The Way of the Strong,"
"The Watchers of the Plains." Etc.
A.L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York
Published by Arrangement with THE PAGE COMPANY
Published August, 1903
TO MY WIFE
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I THE POLO CLUB BALL 1
II THE BLIZZARD: ITS CONSEQUENCES 12
III A BIG GAME OF POKER 24
IV AT THE FOSS RIVER RANCH 32
V THE "STRAY" BEYOND THE MUSKEG 45
VI "WAYS THAT ARE DARK" 56
VII ACROSS THE GREAT MUSKEG 64
VIII TOLD IN BAD MAN'S HOLLOW 76
IX LABLACHE'S "COUP" 88
X "AUNT" MARGARET REFLECTS 96
XI THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 110
XII LABLACHE FORCES THE FIGHT 120
XIII THE FIRST CHECK 128
XIV THE HUE AND CRY 138
XV AMONG THE HALF-BREEDS 150
XVI GAUTIER CAUSES DISSENSION 163
XVII THE NIGHT OF THE PUSKY 176
XVIII THE PUSKY 188
XIX LABLACHE'S MIDNIGHT VISITOR 200
XX A NIGHT OF TERROR 210
XXI HORROCKS LEARNS THE SECRET OF THE MUSKEG 219
XXII THE DAY AFTER 230
XXIII THE PAW OF THE CAT 243
XXIV "POKER" JOHN ACCEPTS 253
XXV UNCLE AND NIECE 261
XXVI IN WHICH MATTERS REACH A CLIMAX 270
XXVII THE LAST GAMBLE 279
XXVIII SETTLING THE RECKONING 287
XXIX THE MAW OF THE MUSKEG 297
CHAPTER I
THE POLO CLUB BALL
It was a brilliant gathering--brilliant in every sense of the word. The
hall was a great effort of the decorator's art; the people were
faultlessly dressed; the faces were strong, handsome--fair or dark
complexioned as the case might be; those present represented the wealth
and fashion of the Western Canadian ranching world. Intellectually, too,
there was no more fault to find here than is usual in a ballroom in the
West End of London.
It was the annual ball of the Polo Club, and that was a social function
of the first water--in the eyes of the Calford world.
"My dear Mrs. Abbot, it is a matter which is quite out of my province,"
said John Allandale, in answer to a remark from his companion. He was
leaning over the cushioned back of the Chesterfield upon which an old
lady was seated, and gazing smilingly over at a group of young people
standing at the opposite end of the room. "Jacky is one of those young
ladies whose strength of character carries her beyond the control of
mere man. Yes, I know what you would say," as Mrs. Abbot glanced up into
his face with a look of mildly-expressed wonder; "it is true I am her
uncle and guardian, but, nevertheless, I should no more dream of
interfering with her--what shall we say?--love affairs, than suggest
her incapacity to 'boss' a 'round up' worked by a crowd of Mexican
greasers."
"Then all I can say is that your niece is a very unfortunate girl,"
replied the old lady, acidly. "How old is she?"
"Twenty-two."
John Allandale, or "Poker" John as he was more familiarly called by all
who knew him, was still looking over at the group, but an expression had
suddenly crept into his eyes which might, in a less robust-looking man,
have been taken for disquiet--even fear. His companion's words had
brought home to him a partial realization of a responsibility which was
his.
"Twenty-two," she repeated, "and not a relative living except a
good-hearted but thoroughly irresponsible uncle. That child is to be
pitied, John."
The old man sighed. He took no umbrage at his companion's
brusquely-expressed estimation of himself. He was still watching the
group at the other end of the room. His face was clouded, and a keen
observer might have detected a curious twitching of his bronzed right
cheek, just beneath the eye. His eyes followed the movement of a
beautiful girl surrounded by a cluster of men, immaculately dressed,
bronzed--and, for the most part, wholesome-looking. She was dark, almost
Eastern in her type of features. Her hair was black with the blackness
of the raven's wing, and coiled in an ample knot low upon her neck. Her
features, although Eastern, had scarcely the regularity one expects in
such a type, whilst her eyes quashed without mercy any idea of such
extraction for her nationality. They were gray, deeply ringed at the
pupil with black. They were keen eyes--fathomless in their suggestion of
strength--eyes which might easily mask a world of good or evil.
The music began, and the girl passed from amidst her group of admirers
upon the arm of a tall, fair man, and was soon lost in the midst of the
throng of dancers.
"Who is that she is dancing with now?" asked Mrs. Abbot, presently. "I
didn't see her go off; I was watching Mr. Lablache standing alone and
disconsolate over there against the door. He looks as if some one had
done him some terrible injury. See how he is glaring at the dancers."
"Jacky is dancing with 'Lord' Bill. Yes, you are right, Lablache does
not look very amiable. I think this would be a good opportunity to
suggest a little gamble in the smoking-room."
"Nothing of the sort," snapped Mrs. Abbot, with the assurance of an old
friend. "I haven't half finished talking to you yet. It is a most
extraordinary thing that all you people of the prairie love to call each
other by nicknames. Why should the Hon. William Bunning-Ford be dubbed
'Lord' Bill, and why should that sweet niece of yours, who is the
possessor of such a charming name as Joaquina, be hailed by every man
within one hundred miles of Calford as 'Jacky'? I think it is both
absurd and--vulgar."
"Possibly you are right, my dear lady. But you can never alter the ways
of the prairie. You might just as well try to stem the stream of our
Foss River in early spring as try to make the prairie man call people by
their legitimate names. For instance, do you ever hear me spoken of by
any other name than 'Poker' John?"
Mrs. Abbot looked up sharply. A malicious twinkle was in her eyes.
"There is reason in your sobriquet, John. A man who spends his substance
and time in playing that fascinating but degrading game called 'Draw
Poker' deserves no better title."
John Allandale made a "clucking" sound with his tongue. It was his way
of expressing irritation. Then he stood erect, and glanced round the
room in search of some one. He was a tall, well-built man and carried
his fifty odd years fairly well, in spite of his gray hair and the bald
patch at the crown of his head. Thirty years of a rancher's life had in
no way lessened the easy carriage and distinguished bearing acquired
during his upbringing. John Allandale's face and figure were redolent of
the free life of the prairie. And although, possibly, his fifty-five
years might have lain more easily upon him he was a man of commanding
appearance and one not to be passed unnoticed.
Mrs. Abbot was the wife of the doctor of the Foss River Settlement and
had known John Allandale from the first day he had taken up his abode on
the land which afterwards became known as the Foss River Ranch until
now, when he was acknowledged to be a power in the stock-raising world.
She was a woman of sound, practical, common sense; he was a man of
action rather than a thinker; she was a woman whose moral guide was an
invincible sense of duty; he was a man whose sense of responsibility and
duty was entirely governed by an unreliable inclination. Moreover, he
was obstinate without being possessed of great strength of will. They
were characters utterly opposed to one another, and yet they were the
greatest of friends.
The music had ceased again and once more the walls were lined with
heated dancers, breathing hard and fanning themselves. Suddenly John
Allandale saw a face he was looking for. Murmuring an excuse to Mrs.
Abbot, he strode across the room, just as his niece, leaning upon the
arm of the Hon. Bunning-Ford, approached where he had been standing.
Mrs. Abbot glanced admiringly up into Jacky's face.
"A successful evening, Joaquina?" she interrogated kindly.
"Lovely, Aunt Margaret, thanks." She always called the doctor's wife
"Aunt."
Mrs. Abbot nodded.
"I believe you have danced every dance. You must be tired, child. Come
and sit down."
Jacky was intensely fond of this old lady and looked upon her almost as
a mother. Her affection was reciprocated. The girl seated herself and
"Lord" Bill stood over her, fan in hand.
"Say, auntie," exclaimed Jacky, "I've made up my mind to dance every
dance on the program. And I guess I sha'n't Waste time on feeding."
The girl's beautiful face was aglow with excitement. Mrs. Abbot's face
indicated horrified amazement.
"My dear child, don't--don't talk like that. It is really dreadful."
"Lord" Bill smiled.
"I'm so sorry, auntie, I forgot," the girl replied, with an irresistible
smile. "I never can get away from the prairie. Do you know, this evening
old Lablache made me mad, and my hand went round to my hip to get a grip
on my six-shooter, and I was quite disappointed to feel nothing but
smooth silk to my touch. I'm not fit for town life, I guess. I'm a
prairie girl; you can bet your life on it, and nothing will civilize me.
Billy, do stop wagging that fan."
"Lord" Bill smiled a slow, twinkling smile and desisted. He was a tall,
slight man, with a faint stoop at the shoulders. He looked worthy of his
title.
"It is no use trying to treat Jacky to a becoming appreciation of social
requirements," he said, addressing himself with a sort of weary
deliberation to Mrs. Abbot. "I suggested an ice just now. She said she
got plenty on the ranch at this time of year," and he shrugged his
shoulders and laughed pleasantly.
"Well, of course. What does one want ices for?" asked the girl,
disdainfully. "I came here to dance. But, auntie, dear, where has uncle
gone? He dashed off as if he were afraid of us when we came up."
"I think he has set his mind on a game of poker, dear, and--"
"And that means he has gone in search of that detestable man, Lablache,"
Jacky put in sharply.
Her beautiful face flushed with anger as she spoke. But withal there was
a look of anxiety in her eyes.
"If he must play cards I wish he would play with some one else," she
pursued.
"Lord" Bill glanced round the room. He saw that Lablache had
disappeared.
"Well, you see, Lablache has taken a lot of money out of all of us.
Naturally we wish to get it back," he said quietly, as if in defense of
her uncle's doings.
"Yes, I know. And--do you?" The girl's tone was cutting.
"Lord" Bill shrugged. Then,--
"As yet I have not had that pleasure."
"And if I know anything of Lablache you never will," put in Mrs. Abbot,
curtly. "He is not given to parting easily. The qualification most
necessary amongst gentlemen in the days of our grandfathers was keen
gambling. You and John, had you lived in those days, might have aspired
to thrones."
"Yes--or taken to the road. You remember, even then, it was necessary to
be a 'gentleman' of the road."
"Lord" Bill laughed in his lazy fashion. His keen gray eyes were half
veiled with eyelids which, seemed too weary to lift themselves. He was a
handsome man, but his general air of weariness belied the somewhat eagle
cast of countenance which was his. Mrs. Abbot, watching him, thought
that the deplorable lassitude which he always exhibited masked a very
different nature. Jacky possibly had her own estimation of the man.
Whatever it was, her friendship for him was not to be doubted, and, on
his part, he never attempted to disguise his admiration of her.
A woman is often a much keener observer of men than she is given credit
for. A man is frequently disposed to judge another man by his mental
talents and his peculiarities of temper--or blatant self-advertisement.
A woman's first thought is for that vague, but comprehensive trait
"manliness. She drives straight home for the peg upon which to hang her
judgment. That is why in feminine regard the bookworm goes to the wall
to make room for the athlete. Possibly Jacky and Mrs. Abbot had probed
beneath "Lord" Bill's superficial weariness and discovered there a
nature worthy of their regard. They were both, in their several ways,
fond of this scion of a noble house.
"It is all very well for you good people to sit there and lecture--or,
at least, say 'things,'" "Lord" Bill went on. "A man must have
excitement. Life becomes a burden to the man who lives the humdrum
existence of ranch life. For the first few years it is all very well. He
can find a certain excitement in learning the business. The 'round-ups'
and branding and re-branding of cattle, these things are
fascinating--for a time. Breaking the wild and woolly broncho is
thrilling and he needs no other tonic; but when one has gone through all
this and he finds that no Broncho--or, for that matter, any other
horse--ever foaled cannot be ridden, it loses its charm and becomes
boring. On the prairie there are only two things left for him to
do--drink or gamble. The first is impossible. It is low, degrading.
Besides it only appeals to certain senses, and does not give one that
'hair-curling' thrill which makes life tolerable. Consequently the wily
pasteboard is brought forth--and we live again."
"Stuff," remarked Mrs. Abbot, uncompromisingly.
"Bill, you make me laugh," exclaimed Jacky, smiling up into his face.
"Your arguments are so characteristic of you. I believe it is nothing
but sheer indolence that makes you sit down night after night and hand
over your dollars to that--that Lablache. How much have you lost to him
this week?"
"Lord" Bill glanced quizzically down at the girl.
"I have purchased seven evenings' excitement at a fairly reasonable
price."
"Which means?"
The girl leant forward and in her eyes was a look of anxiety. She meant
to have the truth.
"I have enjoyed myself."
"But the price?"
"Ah--here comes your partner for the next dance," "Lord" Bill went on,
still smiling. "The band has struck up."
At that moment a broad-shouldered man, with a complexion speaking loudly
of the prairie, came up to claim the girl.
"Hallo, Pickles," said Bill, quietly turning upon the newcomer and
ignoring Jacky's question. "Thought you said you weren't coming in
to-night?"
"Neither was I," the man addressed as "Pickles" retorted, "but Miss
Jacky promised me two dances," he went on, in strong Irish brogue; "that
settled it. How d'ye do, Mrs. Abbot? Come along, Miss Jacky, we're
losing half our dance."
The girl took the proffered arm and was about to move off. She turned
and spoke to "Lord" Bill over her shoulder.
"How much?"
Bill shrugged his shoulders in a deprecating fashion. The same gentle
smile hovered round his sleepy eyes.
"Three thousand dollars."
Jacky glided off into the already dancing throng.
For a moment the Hon. Bunning-Ford and Mrs. Abbot watched the girl as
she glided in and out amongst the dancers, then, with a sigh, the old
lady turned to her companion. Her kindly wrinkled old face wore a sad
expression and a half tender look was in her eyes as they rested upon
the man's face. When she spoke, however, her tone was purely
conversational.
"Are you not going to dance?"
"No," abstractedly. "I think I've had enough."
"Then come and sit by me and help to cheer an old woman up."
"Lord" Bill smiled as he seated himself upon the lounge.
"I don't think there is much necessity for my cheering influence, Aunt
Margaret. Amongst your many other charming qualities cheerfulness is not
the least. Doesn't Jacky look lovely to-night?"
"To-night?--always."
"Yes, of course--but Jacky always seems to surpass herself under
excitement. One would scarcely expect it, knowing her as we do. But she
is as wildly delighted with dancing as any miss fresh from school."
"And why not? It is little pleasure that comes into her life. An
orphan--barely twenty-two--with the entire responsibility of her uncle's
ranch upon her shoulders. Living in a very hornet's nest of blacklegs
and--and--"
"Gamblers," put in the man, quietly.
"Yes," Aunt Margaret went on defiantly, "gamblers. With the certain
knowledge that the home she struggles for, through no fault of her own,
is passing into the hands of a man she hates and despises--"
"And who by the way is in love with her." "Lord" Bill's mouth was
curiously pursed.
"What pleasure can she have?" exclaimed Mrs. Abbot, vehemently.
"Sometimes, much as I am attached to John, I feel as if I should like
to--to bang him!"
"Poor old John!" Bill's bantering tone nettled the old lady, but she
said no more. Her anger against those she loved could not last long.
"'Poker' John loves his niece," the man went on, as his companion
remained silent. "There is nothing in the world he would not do for her,
if it lay within his power."
"Then let him leave poker alone. His gambling is breaking her heart."
The angry light was again in the old lady's eyes. Her companion did not
answer for a moment. His lips had assumed that curious pursing. When he
spoke it was with, great decision.
"Impossible, my dear lady--utterly impossible. Can the Foss River help
freezing in winter? Can Jacky help talking prairie slang? Can Lablache
help grubbing for money? Can you help caring for all of our worthless
selves who belong to the Foss River Settlement? Nothing can alter these
things. John would play poker on the lid of his own coffin, while the
undertakers were winding his shroud about him--if they'd lend him a pack
of cards."
"I believe you encourage him in it," said the old lady, mollified, but
still sticking to her guns. "There is little to choose between you."
The man shrugged his indolent shoulders. This dear old lady's loyalty to
Jacky, and, for that matter, to all her friends, pleased while it amused
him.
"Maybe." Then abruptly, "Let's talk of something else."
At that moment an elderly man was seen edging his way through the
dancers. He came directly over to Mrs. Abbot.
"It's getting late, Margaret," he said, pausing before her. "I am told
it is rather gusty outside. The weather prophets think we may have a
blizzard on us before morning."
"I shouldn't be at all surprised," put in the Hon. Bunning-Ford. "The
sun-dogs have been showing for the last two days. I'll see what Jacky
says, and then hunt out old John."
"Yes, for goodness' sake don't let us get caught in a blizzard,"
exclaimed Mrs. Abbot, fearfully. "If there is one thing I'm afraid of it
is one of those terrible storms. We have thirty-five miles to go."
The new-comer, Dr. Abbot, smiled at his wife's terrified look, but, as
he turned to urge Bill to hurry, there was a slightly anxious look on
his face.
"Hurry up, old man. I'll go and see about our sleigh." Then in an
undertone, "You can exaggerate a little to persuade them, for the storm
_is_ coming on and we must get away at once."
A moment or two later "Lord" Bill and Jacky were making their way to the
smoking-room. On the stairs they met "Poker" John. He was returning to
the ballroom.
"We were just coming to look for you, uncle," exclaimed Jacky. "They
tell us it is blowing outside."
"Just what I was coming to tell you, my dear. We must be going. Where
are the doctor and Aunt Margaret?"
"Getting ready," said Bill, quietly. "Have a good game?"
The old man smiled. His bronzed face indicated extreme satisfaction.
"Not half bad, boy--not half bad. Relieved Lablache of five hundred
dollars in the last jackpot. Held four deuces. He opened with full on
aces."
"Poker" John seemed to have forgotten the past heavy losses, and spoke
gleefully of the paltry five hundred he had just scooped in.
The girl looked relieved, and even the undemonstrative "Lord" Bill
allowed a scarcely audible sigh to escape him. Jacky returned at once to
the exigencies of the moment.
"Then, uncle, dear, let us hurry up. I guess none of us want to be
caught in a blizzard. Say, Bill, take me to the cloak-room, right
away."
CHAPTER II
THE BLIZZARD: ITS CONSEQUENCES
On the whole, Canada can boast of one of the most perfect health-giving
climates in the world, despite the two extremes of heat and cold of
which it is composed. But even so, the Canadian climate is cursed by an
evil which every now and again breaks loose from the bonds which fetter
it, and rages from east to west, carrying death and destruction in its
wake. I speak of the terrible--the raging Blizzard!
To appreciate the panic-like haste with which the Foss River Settlement
party left the ballroom, one must have lived a winter in the west of
Canada. The reader who sits snugly by his or her fireside, and who has
never experienced a Canadian winter, can have no conception of one of
those dread storms, the very name of which had drawn words of terror
from one who had lived the greater part of her life in the eastern
shadow of the Rockies. Hers was no timid, womanly fear for ordinary
inclemency of weather, but a deep-rooted dread of a life-and-death
struggle in a merciless storm, than which, in no part of the world, can
there be found a more fearful. Whence it comes--and why, surely no one
may say. A meteorological expert may endeavor to account for it, but his
argument is unconvincing and gains no credence from the dweller on the
prairies. And why? Because the storm does not come from above--neither
does it come from a specified direction. And only in the winter does
such a wind blow. The wind buffets from every direction at once. No snow
falls from above and yet a blinding gray wall of snow, swept up from the
white-clothed ground, encompasses the dazed traveller. His arm
outstretched in daylight and he cannot see the tips of his heavy fur
mitts. Bitter cold, a hundred times intensified by the merciless force
of the wind, and he is lost and freezing--slowly freezing to death.
As the sleigh dashed through the outskirts of Calford, on its way to the
south, there was not much doubt in the minds of any of its occupants as
to the prospects of the storm. The gusty, patchy wind, the sudden sweeps
of hissing, cutting snow, as it slithered up in a gray dust in the
moonlight, and lashed, with stinging force, into their faces, was a sure
herald of the coming "blizzard."
Bunning-Ford and Jacky occupied the front seat of the sleigh. The former
was driving the spanking team of blacks of which old "Poker" John was
justly proud. The sleigh was open, as in Canada all such sleighs are.
Mrs. Abbot and the doctor sat in a seat with their backs to Jacky and
her companion, and old John Allandale faced the wind in the back seat,
alone. Thirty-five miles the horses had to cover before the storm
thoroughly established itself, and "Lord" Bill was not a slow driver.
The figures of the travellers were hardly distinguishable so enwrapped
were they in beaver caps, buffalo coats and robes. Jacky, as she sat
silently beside her companion, might have been taken for an inanimate
bundle of furs, so lost was she within the ample folds of her buffalo.
But for the occasional turn of her head, as she measured with her eyes
the rising of the storm, she gave no sign of life.
"Lord" Bill seemed indifferent. His eyes were fixed upon the road ahead
and his hands, encased in fur mitts, were on the "lines" with a
tenacious grip. The horses needed no urging. They were high-mettled and
cold. The gushing quiver of their nostrils, as they drank in the crisp,
night air, had a comforting sound for the occupants of the sleigh.
Weather permitting, those beautiful "blacks" would do the distance in
under three hours.
The sleigh bells jangled musically in response to the high steps of the
horses as they sped over the hard, snow-covered trail. They were
climbing the long slope which was to take them out of the valley
wherein was Calford situate. Presently Jack's face appeared from amidst
the folds of the muffler which kept her storm collar fast round her neck
and ears.
"It's gaining on us, Billy."
"Yes, I know."
He understood her remark. He knew she referred to the storm. His lips
were curiously pursed. A knack he had when stirred out of himself.
"We shan't do it."
The girl spoke with conviction.
"No."
"Guess we'd better hit the trail for Norton's. Soldier Joe'll be glad to
welcome us."
"Lord" Bill did not answer. He merely chirruped at the horses. The
willing beasts increased their pace and the sleigh sped along with that
intoxicating smoothness only to be felt when travelling with double
"bobs" on a perfect trail.
The gray wind of the approaching blizzard was becoming fiercer. The moon
was already enveloped in a dense haze. The snow was driving like fine
sand in the faces of the travellers.
"I think we'll give it an hour, Bill. After that I guess it'll be too
thick," pursued the girl. "What d'you think, can we make Norton's in
that time--it's a good sixteen miles?"
"I'll put 'em at it," was her companion's curt response.
Neither spoke for a minute. Then "Lord" Bill bent his head suddenly
forward. The night was getting blacker and it was with difficulty that
he could keep his eyes from blinking under the lash of the whipping
snow.
"What is it?" asked Jacky, ever on the alert with the instinct of the
prairie.
"Some one just ahead of us. The track is badly broken in places. Sit
tight, I'm going to touch 'em up."
He flicked the whip over the horses' backs, and, a moment later, the
sleigh was flying along at a dangerous pace. The horses had broken into
a gallop.
"Lord" Bill seemed to liven up under the influence of speed. The wind
was howling now, and conversation was impossible, except in short, jerky
sentences. They were on the high level of the prairie and were getting
the full benefit of the open sweep of country.
"Cold?" Bill almost shouted.
"No," came the quiet response.
"Straight, down-hill trail. I'm going to let 'em have their heads."
Both of these people knew every inch of the road they were travelling.
There was no fear in their hearts.
"Put 'em along, then."
The horses raced along. The deadly gray wind had obscured all light. The
lights of the sleigh alone showed the tracks. It was a wild night and
every moment it seemed to become worse. Suddenly the man spoke again.
"I wish we hadn't got the others with us, Jacky."
"Why?"
"Because I could put 'em along faster, as it is--" His sentence remained
unfinished, the sleigh bumped and lifted on to one runner. It was within
an ace of overturning. There was no need to finish his sentence.
"Yes, I understand, Bill. Don't take too many chances. Ease 'em
up--some. They're not as young as we are--not the horses. The others."
"Lord" Bill laughed. Jacky was so cool. The word fear was not in her
vocabulary. This sort of a journey was nothing new to her. She had
experienced it all before. Possibly, however, her total lack of fear was
due to her knowledge of the man who, to use her own way of expressing
things, "was at the business end of the lines." "Lord" Bill was at once
the finest and the most fearless teamster for miles around. Under the
cloak of indolent indifference he concealed a spirit of fearlessness and
even recklessness which few accredited to him.
For some time the two remained silent. The minutes sped rapidly and half
an hour passed. All about was pitch black now. The wind was tearing and
shrieking from every direction at once. The sleigh seemed to be the
center of its attack. The blinding clouds of snow, as they swept up from
the ground, were becoming denser and denser and offered a fierce
resistance to the racing horses. Another few minutes and the two people
on the front seat knew that progress would be impossible. As it was,
"Lord" Bill was driving more by instinct than by what he could see. The
trail was obscured, as were all landmarks. He could no longer see the
horses' heads.
"We've passed the school-house," said Jacky, at last.
"Yes, I know."
A strange knowledge or instinct is that of the prairie man or woman.
Neither had seen the school-house or anything to indicate it. And yet
they knew they had passed it.
"Half a mile to Trout Creek. Two miles to Norton's. Can you do it,
Bill?"
Quietly as the words were spoken, there was a world of meaning in the
question. To lose their way now would be worse, infinitely, than to lose
oneself in one of the sandy deserts of Africa. Death was in that biting
wind and in the blinding snow. Once lost, and, in two or three hours,
all would be over.
"Yes," came the monosyllabic reply. "Lord" Bill's lips were pursed
tightly. Every now and then he dashed the snow and breath icicles from
his eyelashes. The horses were almost hidden from his view.
They were descending a steep gradient and they now knew that they were
upon Trout Creek. At the creek Bill pulled up. It was the first stop
since leaving Calford. Jacky and he jumped down. Each knew what the
other was about to do without speaking. Jacky, reins in hand, went round
the horses; "Lord" Bill was searching for the trail which turned off
from the main road up the creek to Norton's. Presently he came back.
"Animals all right?"
"Fit as fiddles," the girl replied.
"Right--jump up!"
There was no assisting this girl to her seat. No "by your leave" or
European politeness. Simply the word of one man who knows his business
to another. Both were on their "native heath."
Bill checked the horses' impetuosity and walked them slowly until he
came to the turning. Once on the right road, however, he let them have
their heads.
"It's all right, Jacky," as the horses bounded forward.
A few minutes later the sleigh drew up at Norton's, but so dark was it
and so dense the snow fog, that only those two keen watchers on the
front seat were able to discern the outline of the house.
"Poker" John and the doctor assisted the old lady to alight whilst Jacky
and "Lord" Bill unhitched the horses. In spite of the cold the sweat was
pouring from the animals' sides. In answer to a violent summons on the
storm door a light appeared in the window and "soldier" Joe Norton
opened the door.
For an instant he stood in the doorway peering doubtfully out into the
storm. A goodly picture he made as he stood lantern in hand, his rugged
old face gazing inquiringly at his visitors.
"Hurry up, Joe, let us in," exclaimed Allandale. "We are nearly frozen
to death."
"Why, bless my soul!--bless my soul! Come in! Come in!" the old man
exclaimed hastily as he recognized John Allandale's voice. "You out, and
on a night like this. Bless my soul! Come in! Down, Husky, down!" to a
bob-tail sheep-dog which bounded forward and barked savagely.
"Hold on, Joe," said "Poker" John. "Let the ladies go in, we must see to
the horses."
"It's all right, uncle," said Jacky, "we've unhitched 'em. Bill's taken
'em right away to the stables."
The whole party passed into Joe Norton's sitting-room, where the old
farmer at once set about kindling, with the aid of some coal-oil, a fire
in the great box-stove. While his host was busy John took the lantern
and went to "Lord" Bill's assistance in the stables.
The stove lighted, Joe Norton turned to his guests.
"Bless me, and to think of you, Mrs. Abbot, and Miss Jacky, too. I must
fetch the o'd 'ooman. Hi, Molly, Molly, bestir yourself, old girl. Come
on down, an' help the ladies. They've come for shelter out o' the
blizzard--good luck to it."
"Oh, no, don't disturb her, Joe," exclaimed Mrs. Abbot; "it's really too
bad, at this unearthly hour. Besides, we shall be quite comfortable here
by the stove."
"No doubt--no doubt," said the old man, cheerfully, "but that's not my
way--not my way. Any of you froze," he went on ungrammatically, "'cause
if so, out you go and thaw it out in the snow."
"I guess there's no one frozen," said Jacky, smiling into the old man's
face. "We're too old birds for that. Ah, here's Mrs. Norton."
Another warm greeting and the two ladies were hustled off to the only
spare bedroom the Nortons boasted. By this time "Lord" Bill and "Poker"
John had returned from the stables. While the ladies were removing their
furs, which were sodden with the melting snow, the farmer's wife was
preparing a rough but ample meal of warm provender in the kitchen. Such
is hospitality in the Far North-West.
When the supper was prepared the travellers sat down to the substantial
fare. None were hungry--be it remembered that it was three o'clock in
the morning--but each felt that some pretense in that direction must be
made, or the kindly couple would think their welcome was insufficient.
"An' what made you venture on the trail on such a night?" asked old
Norton, as he poured out a joram of hot whiskey for each of the men. "A
moral cert, you wouldn't strike Foss River in such a storm."
"We thought it would have held off longer," said Dr. Abbot. "It was no
use getting cooped up in town for two or three days. You know what these
blizzards are. You may have to do with us yourself during the next
forty-eight hours."
"It's too sharp to last, Doc," put in Jacky, as she helped herself to
some soup. Her face was glowing after her exposure to the elements. She
looked very beautiful and not one whit worse for the drive.
"Sharp enough--sharp enough," murmured old Norton, as if for something
to say.
"Sharp enough to bring some one else to your hospitable abode, Joe,"
interrupted "Lord" Bill, quietly; "I hear sleigh bells. The wind's
howling, but their tone is familiar."
They were all listening now. "Poker" John was the first to speak.
"It's--" and he paused.
Before he could complete his sentence Jacky filled up the missing words.
"Lablache--for a dollar."
There was a moment's silence in that rough homely little kitchen. The
expression of the faces of those around the board indexed a general
thought.
Lablache, if it were he, would not receive the cordial welcome which had
been meted out to the others. Norton broke the silence.
"Dang it! That's what I ses, dang it! You'll pardon me, ladies, but my
feelings get the better of me at times. I don't like him. Lablache--I
hates him," and he strode out of the room, his old face aflame with
annoyance, to discharge the hospitable duties of the prairie.
As the door closed behind him Dr. Abbot laughed constrainedly.
"Lablache doesn't seem popular--here."
No one answered his remark. Then "Poker" John looked over at the other
men.
"We must go and help to put his horses away."
There was no suggestion in his words, merely a statement of plain facts.
"Lord" Bill nodded and the three men rose and went to the door.
As they disappeared Jacky turned to Mrs. Norton and Aunt Margaret.
"If that's Lablache--I'm off to bed."
Her tone was one of uncompromising decision. Mrs. Abbot was less
assured.
"Do you think it polite--wise?"
"Come along, aunt. Never mind about politeness or wisdom. What do you
say, Mrs. Norton?"
"As you like, Miss Jacky. I must stay up, or--"
"Yes--the men can entertain him."
Just then Lablache's voice was heard outside. It was a peculiar,
guttural, gasping voice. Aunt Margaret looked doubtfully from Jacky to
Mrs. Norton. The latter nodded smilingly. Then following Jacky's lead
she passed up the staircase which led from the kitchen to the rooms
above. A moment later the door opened and Lablache and the other men
entered.
"They've gone to bed," said Mrs. Norton, in answer to "Poker" John's
look of inquiry.
"Tired, no doubt," put in Lablache, drily.
"And not without reason, I guess," retorted "Poker" John, sharply. He
had not failed to note the other's tone.
Lablache laughed quietly, but his keen, restless eyes shot an unpleasant
glance at the speaker from beneath their heavy lids.
He was a burly man. In bulk he was of much the same proportions as old
John Allandale. But while John was big with the weight of muscle and
frame, Lablache was flabby with fat. In face he was the antithesis of
the other. Whilst "Poker" John was the picture of florid tanning--While
his face, although perhaps a trifle weak in its lower formation, was
bold, honest, and redounding with kindly nature, Lablache's was
bilious-looking and heavy with obesity. Whatever character was there, it
was lost in the heavy folds of flesh with which it was wreathed. His
jowl was ponderous, and his little mouth was tightly compressed, while
his deep-sunken, bilious eyes peered from between heavy, lashless lids.
Such was Verner Lablache, the wealthiest man of the Foss River
Settlement. He owned a large store in the place, selling farming
machinery to the settlers and ranchers about. His business was always
done on credit, for which he charged exorbitant rates of interest,
accepting only first mortgages upon crops and stock as security. Besides
this he represented several of the Calford private banks, which many
people said were really owned by him, and there was no one more ready to
lend money--on the best of security and the highest rate of
interest--than he. Should the borrower fail to pay, he was always
suavely ready to renew the loan at increased interest--provided the
security was sound. And, in the end, every ounce of his pound of flesh,
plus not less than fifty per cent. interest, would come back to him.
After Verner Lablache had done with him, the unfortunate rancher who
borrowed generally disappeared from the neighborhood. Sometimes this
man's victims were never heard of again. Sometimes they were discovered
doing the "chores" round some obscure farmer's house. Anyway, ranch,
crops, stock--everything the man ever had--would have passed into the
hands of the money-lender, Lablache.
Hard-headed dealer--money-grubber--as Lablache was, he had a weakness.
To look at him--to know him--no one would have thought it, but he had.
And at least two of those present were aware of his secret. He was in
love with Jacky. That is to say, he coveted her--desired her. When
Lablache desired anything in that little world of his, he generally
secured it to himself, but, in this matter, he had hitherto been
thwarted. His desire had increased proportionately. He was annoyed to
think that Jacky had retired at his coming. He was in no way blind to
the reason of her sudden departure, but beyond his first remark he was
not the man to advertise his chagrin. He could afford to wait.
"You'll take a bite o' supper, Mr. Lablache?" said old Norton, in a tone
of inquiry.
"Supper?--no, thanks, Norton. But if you've a drop of something hot I
can do with that."
"We've gener'ly got somethin' o' that about," replied the old man.
"Whiskey or rum?"
"Whisky, man, whisky. I've got liver enough already without touching
rum." Then he turned to "Poker" John.
"It's a devilish night, John, devilish. I started before you. Thought I
could make the river in time. I was completely lost on the other side of
the creek. I fancy the storm worked up from that direction."
He lumped into a chair close beside the stove. The others had already
seated themselves.
"We didn't chance it. Bill drove us straight here," said "Poker" John.
"Guess Bill knew something--he generally does," as an afterthought.
"I know a blizzard when I see it," said Bunning-Ford, indifferently.
Lablache sipped his whisky. A silence fell on that gathering of
refugees. Mrs. Norton had cleared the supper things.
"Well, if you gents'll excuse me I'll go back to bed. Old Joe'll look
after you," she said abruptly. "Good-night to you all."
She disappeared up the staircase. The men remained silent for a moment
or two. They were getting drowsy. Suddenly Lablache set his glass down
and looked at his watch.
"Four o'clock, gentlemen. I suppose, Joe, there are no beds for us." The
old farmer shook his head. "What say, John--Doc--a little game until
breakfast?"
John Allandale's face lit up. His sobriquet was no idle One. He lived
for poker--he loved it. And Lablache knew it. Old John turned to the
others. His right cheek twitched as he waited the decision. "Doc" Abbot
smiled approval; "Lord" Bill shrugged indifferently. The old gambler
rose to his feet.
"That's all right, then. The kitchen table is good enough for us. Come
along, gentlemen."
"I'll slide off to bed, I guess," said Norton, thankful to escape a
night's vigil. "Good-night, gentlemen."
Then the remaining four sat down to play.
The far-reaching consequences of that game were undreamt of by the
players, except, perhaps, by Lablache. His story of the reason of his
return to Norton's farm was only partially true. He had returned in the
hopes of this meeting; he had anticipated this game.
CHAPTER III
A BIG GAME OF POKER
"What about cards?" said Lablache, as the four men sat down to the
table.
"Doc will oblige, no doubt," Bunning-Ford replied quietly. "He generally
carries the 'pernicious pasteboards' about with him."
"The man who travels in the West without them," said Dr. Abbot,
producing a couple of new packs from his pocket, "either does not know
his country or is a victim of superstition."
No one seemed inclined to refuse the doctor's statement, or enter into a
discussion upon the matter. Instead, each drew out a small memorandum
block and pencil--a sure indication of a "big game."
"Limit?" asked the doctor.
Lablache shrugged his shoulders, affectionately shuffling the cards the
while. He kept his eyes averted.
"What do the others say?"
There was a challenge in Lablache's tone. Bunning-Ford flushed slightly
at the cheek-bones. That peculiar pursing was at his lips.
"Anything goes with me. The higher the game the greater the excitement,"
he said, shooting a keen glance at the pasty face of the money-lender.
Old John was irritated. His ruddy face gleamed in the light of the lamp.
The nervous twitching of the cheek indicated his frame of mind. Lablache
smiled to himself behind the wood expression of his face.
"Twenty dollars call for fifty. Limit the bet to three thousand
dollars. Is that big enough for you, Lablache? Let us have a regulation
'ante.' No 'straddling.'"
There was a moment's silence. "Poker" John had proposed the biggest game
they had yet played. He would have suggested no limit, but this he knew
would be all in favor of Lablache, whose resources were vast.
John glanced over from the money-lender to the doctor. The doctor and
Bunning-Ford were the most to be considered. Their resources were very
limited. The old man knew that the doctor was one of those careful
players who was not likely to allow himself to suffer by the height of
the stakes. There was no bluffing the doctor. "Lord" Bill was able to
take care of himself.
"That's good enough for me," said Bunning-Ford. "Let it go at that."
Outwardly Lablache was indifferent; inwardly he experienced a sense of
supreme satisfaction at the height of the stakes.
The four men relapsed into silence as they cut for the deal. It was an
education in the game to observe each man as he, metaphorically
speaking, donned his mask of impassive reserve. As the game progressed
any one of those four men might have been a graven image as far as the
expression of countenance went. No word was spoken beyond "Raise you so
and so"--"See you that." So keen, so ardent was the game that the stake
might have been one of life and death. No money passed. Just slips of
paper; and yet any one of those fragments represented a small fortune.
The first few hands resulted in but desultory betting. Sums of money
changed hands but there was very little in it. Lablache was the
principal loser. Three "pots" in succession were taken by John
Allandale, but their aggregate did not amount to half the limit. A
little luck fell to Bunning-Ford. He once raised Lablache to the limit.
The money-lender "saw" him and lost. Bill promptly scooped in three
thousand dollars. The doctor was cautious. He had lost and won nothing.
Then a change came over the game. To use a card-player's expression, the
cards were beginning to "run."
"Lord" Bill dealt. Lablache was upon his right and next to him the
doctor.
The money-lender picked up his cards, and partially opening them glanced
keenly at the index numerals. His stolid face remained unchanged. The
doctor glanced at his and "came in." "Poker" John "came in." The dealer
remained out. The doctor drew two cards; "Poker" John, one; Lablache
drew one. The veteran rancher held four nines. "Lord" Bill gathered up
the "deadwood," and, propping his face upon his hands, watched the
betting.
It was the doctor's bet; he cautiously dropped out. He had an inkling of
the way things were going. "Poker" John opened the ball with five
hundred dollars. He had a good thing and he did not want to frighten his
opponent by a plunge. He would leave it to Lablache to start raising.
The money-lender raised him one thousand. Old John sniffed with the
appreciation of an old war-horse at the scent of battle. The nervous,
twitching cheek remained unmoved. The old gambler in him rose uppermost.
He leisurely saw the thousand, and raised another five hundred. Lablache
allowed his fishy eyes to flash in the direction of his opponent. A
moment after he raised another thousand. The gamble was becoming
interesting. The two onlookers were consumed with the lust of play. They
forgot that in the result they would not be participants. Old John's
face lost something of its impassivity as he in turn raised to the
limit. Lablache eased his great body in his chair. His little mouth was
very tightly clenched. His breathing, at times stertorous, was like the
breathing of an asthmatical pig. He saw, and again raised to the limit.
There was now over twelve thousand dollars in the pool.
It was old John's turn. The doctor and "Lord" Bill waited anxiously. The
old rancher was reputed very wealthy. They felt assured that he would
not back down after having gone so far. In their hearts they both wished
to see him relieve Lablache of a lot of money.
They need have had no fears. Whatever his faults "Poker" John was a
"dead game sport." He dashed a slip of paper into the pool. The keen
eyes watching read "four thousand dollars" scrawled upon it. He had
again raised to the limit. It was now Lablache's turn to accept or
refuse the challenge. The onlookers were not so sure of the
money-lender. Would he accept or not?
A curious thought was in the mind of that monument of flesh. He knew for
certain that he held the winning cards. How he knew it would be
impossible to say. And yet he hesitated. Perhaps he knew the limits of
John Allandale's resources, perhaps he felt, for the present, there was
sufficient in the pool; perhaps, even, he had ulterior motives. Whatever
the cause, as he passed a slip of paper into the pool merely seeing his
opponent, his face gave no outward sign of what was passing in the brain
behind it.
Old John laid down his hand.
"Four nines," he said quietly.
"Not good enough," retorted Lablache; "four kings." And he spread his
cards out upon the table before him and swept up the pile of papers
which represented his win.
A sigh, as of relief to pent-up feelings, escaped the two men who had
watched the gamble. Old John said not a word and his face betrayed no
thought or regret that might have been in his mind at the loss of such a
large amount of money. He merely glanced over at the money-lender.
"Your deal, Lablache," he said quietly.
Lablache took the cards and a fresh deal went round. Now the game became
one-sided. With that one large pull the money-lender's luck seemed to
have set in. Seemingly he could do no wrong. If he drew to "three of a
kind," he invariably filled; if to a "pair," he generally secured a
third; once, indeed, he drew to jack, queen, king of a suit and
completed a "royal flush." His luck was phenomenal. The other men's
luck seemed "dead out." Bunning-Ford and the doctor could get no hands
at all, and thus they were saved heavy losses. Occasionally, even, the
doctor raked in a few "antes." But John Allandale could do nothing
right. He was always drawing tolerable cards--just good enough to lose
with. Until, by the time daylight came, he had lost so heavily that his
two friends were eagerly seeking an excuse to break up the game.
At last "Lord" Bill effected this purpose, but at considerable loss to
himself. He had a fairly good hand, but not, as he knew, sufficiently
good to win with. Lablache and he were left in. The money-lender had in
one plunge raised the bet to the "limit." Bill knew that he ought to
drop out, but, instead of so doing, he saw his opponent. He lost the
"pot."
"Thank you, gentlemen," he said, quietly rising from the table, "my
losses are sufficient for one night. I have finished. It is daylight and
the storm is 'letting up' somewhat."
He turned as he spoke, and, glancing at the staircase, saw Jacky
standing at the top of it. How long she had been standing there he did
not know. He felt certain, although she gave no sign, that she had heard
what he had just said.
"Poker" John saw her too.
"Why, Jacky, what means this early rising?" said the old man kindly.
"Too tired last night to sleep?"
"No, uncle. Guess I slept all right. The wind's dropping fast. I take it
it'll be blowing great guns again before long. This is our chance to
make the ranch." She had been an observer of the finish of the game. She
had heard Bill's remarks on his loss, and yet not by a single word did
she betray her knowledge. Inwardly she railed at herself for having gone
to bed. She wondered how it had fared with her uncle.
Bunning-Ford left the room. Somehow he felt that he must get away from
the steady gaze of those gray eyes. He knew how Jacky dreaded, for her
uncle's sake, the game they had just been playing. He wondered, as he
went to test the weather, what she would have thought had she known the
stakes, or the extent of her uncle's losses. He hoped she was not aware
of these facts.
"You look tired, Uncle John," said the girl, solicitously, as she came
down the stairs. She purposely ignored Lablache. "Have you had no
sleep?"
"Poker" John laughed a little uneasily.
"Sleep, child? We old birds of the prairie can do with very little of
that. It's only pretty faces that want sleep, and I'm thinking you ought
still to be in your bed."
"Miss Jacky is ever on the alert to take advantage of the elements," put
in Lablache, heavily. "She seems to understand these things better than
any of us."
The girl was forced to notice the money-lender. She did so reluctantly,
however.
"So you, too, sought shelter from the storm beneath old man Norton's
hospitable roof. You are dead right, Mr. Lablache; we who live on the
prairie need to be ever on the alert. One never knows what each hour may
bring forth."
The girl was still in her ball-dress. Lablache's fishy eyes noticed her
charming appearance. The strong, beautiful face sent a thrill of delight
over him as he watched it--the delicate rounded shoulders made him suck
in his heavy breath like one who anticipates a delicate dish. Jacky
turned from him in plainly-expressed disgust.
Her uncle was watching her with a gaze half uneasy and wholly tender.
She was the delight of his old age, the center of all his affections,
this motherless child of his dead brother. His cheek twitched painfully
as he thought of the huge amount of his losings to Lablache. He shivered
perceptibly as he rose from his seat and went over to the cooking stove.
"I believe you people have let the stove out," the girl exclaimed, as
she noted her uncle's movement. She had no intention of mentioning the
game they had been playing. She feared to hear the facts. Instinct told
her that her uncle had lost again. "Yes, I declare you have," as she
knelt before the grate and raked away at the ashes.
Suddenly she turned to the money-lender.
"Here, you, fetch me some wood and coal-oil. Men can never be trusted."
Jacky was no respecter of persons. When she ordered there were few men
on the prairie who would refuse to obey. Lablache heaved his great bulk
from before the table and got on to his feet. His bilious eyes were
struggling to smile. The effect was horrible. Then he moved across the
room to where a stack of kindling stood.
"Hurry up. I guess if we depended much on you we'd freeze."
And Lablache, the hardest, most unscrupulous man for miles around,
endeavored to obey with the alacrity of any sheep-dog.
In spite of himself John Allandale could not refrain from smiling at the
grotesque picture the monumental Lablache made as he lumbered towards
the stack of kindling.
When "Lord" Bill returned Lablache was bending over the stove beside the
girl.
"I've thrown the harness on the horses--watered and fed 'em," he said,
taking in the situation at a glance. "Say, Doc," turning to Abbot,
"better rouse your good lady."
"She'll be down in a tick," said Jacky, over her shoulder. "Here,
doctor, you might get a kettle of water--and Bill, see if you can find
some bacon or stuff. And you, uncle, came and sit by the stove--you're
cold."
Strange is the power and fascination of woman. A look--a glance--a
simple word and we men hasten to minister to her requirements. Half an
hour ago and all these men were playing for fortunes--dealing in
thousands of dollars on the turn of a card, the passion for besting his
neighbor uppermost in each man's mind. Now they were humbly doing one
girl's bidding with a zest unsurpassed by the devotion to their recent
gamble.
She treated them indiscriminately. Old or young, there was no
difference. Bunning-Ford she liked--Dr. Abbot she liked--Lablache she
hated and despised, still she allotted them their tasks with perfect
impartiality. Only her old uncle she treated differently. That dear,
degenerate old man she loved with an affection which knew no bounds. He
was her all in the world. Whatever his sins--whatever his faults, she
loved him.
CHAPTER IV
AT THE FOSS RIVER RANCH
Spring is already upon the prairie. The fur coat has already been
exchanged for the pea-jacket. No longer is the fur cap crushed down upon
the head and drawn over the ears until little more than the oval of the
face is exposed to the elements; it is still worn occasionally, but now
it rests upon the head with the jaunty cant of an ordinary headgear.
The rough coated broncho no longer stands "tucked up" with the cold,
with its hind-quarters towards the wind. Now he stands grazing on the
patches of grass which the melting snow has placed at his disposal. The
cattle, too, hurry to and fro as each day extends their field of fodder.
When spring sets in in the great North-West it is with no show of
reluctance that grim winter yields its claims and makes way for its
gracious and all-conquering foe. Spring is upon everything with all the
characteristic suddenness of the Canadian climate. A week--a little
seven days--and where all before had been cheerless wastes of snow and
ice, we have the promise of summer with us. The snow disappears as with
the sweep of a "chinook" in winter. The brown, saturated grass is tinged
with the bright emerald hue of new-born pasture. The bared trees don
that yellowish tinge which tells of breaking leaves. Rivers begin to
flow. Their icy coatings, melting in the growing warmth of the sun,
quickly returning once more to their natural element.
With the advent of spring comes a rush of duties to those whose interest
are centered in the breeding of cattle. The Foss River Settlement is
already teeming with life. For the settlement is the center of the great
spring "round-up." Here are assembling the "cow-punchers" from all the
outlying ranches, gathering under the command of a captain (generally a
man elected for his vast experience on the prairie) and making their
preparations to scour the prairie east and west, north and south, to the
very limits of the far-reaching plains which spread their rolling
pastures at the eastern base of the Rockies. Every head of cattle which
is found will be brought into the Foss River Settlement and thence will
be distributed to its lawful owners. This is but the beginning of the
work, for the task of branding calves and re-branding cattle whose
brands have become obscured during the long winter months is a process
of no small magnitude for those who number their stocks by tens of
thousands.
At John Allandale's ranch all is orderly bustle. There is no confusion.
Under Jacky's administration the work goes on with a simple directness
which would astonish the uninitiated. There are the corrals to repair
and to be put in order. Sheds and out-buildings to be whitewashed.
Branding apparatus to be set in working order, fencing to be repaired,
preparations for seeding to commence; a thousand and one things to be
seen to; and all of which must be finished before the first "bands" of
cattle are rounded up into the settlement.
It is nearly a month since we saw this daughter of the prairie garbed in
the latest mode, attending the Polo Ball at Calford, and widely
different is her appearance now from what it was at the time of our
introduction to her.
She is returning from an inspection of the wire fencing of the home
pastures. She is riding her favorite horse, Nigger, up the gentle slope
which leads to her uncle's house. There is nothing of the woman of
fashion about her now--and, perhaps, it is a matter not to be regretted.
She sits her horse with the easy grace of a childhood's experience. Her
habit, if such it can be called, is a "dungaree" skirt of a hardly
recognizable blue, so washed out is it, surmounted by a beautifully
beaded buckskin shirt. Loosely encircling her waist, and resting upon
her hips, is a cartridge belt, upon which is slung the holster of a
heavy revolver, a weapon without which she never moves abroad. Her head
is crowned by a Stetson hat, secured in true prairie fashion by a strap
which passes under her hair at the back, while her beautiful hair itself
falls in heavy ringlets over her shoulders, and waves untrammelled in
the fresh spring breeze as her somewhat unruly charger gallops up the
hill towards the ranch.
The great black horse was heading for the stable. Jacky leant over to
one side and swung him sharply towards the house. At the veranda she
pulled him up short. High mettled, headstrong as the animal was, he knew
his mistress. Tricks which he would often attempt to practice upon other
people were useless here--doubtless she had taught him that such was the
case.
The girl sprang, unaided, to the ground and hitched her picket rope to a
tying-post. For a moment she stood on the great veranda which ran down
the whole length of the house front. It was a one-storied,
bungalow-shaped house, built with a high pitch to the roof and entirely
constructed of the finest red pine-wood. Six French windows opened on to
the veranda. The outlook was westerly, and, contrary to the usual
custom, the ranch buildings were not overlooked by it. The corrals and
stables were in the background.
She was about to turn in at one of the windows when she suddenly
observed Nigger's ears cocked, and his head turned away towards the
shimmering peaks of the distant mountains. The movement fixed her
attention instantly. It was the instinct of one who lives in a country
where the eyes and ears of a horse are often keener and more
far-reaching than those of its human masters. The horse was gazing with
statuesque fixedness across a waste of partially-melted snow. A stretch
of ten miles lay flat and smooth as a billiard-table at the foot of the
rise upon which the house was built. And far out across this the beast
was gazing.
Jacky shaded her eyes with her hand and followed the direction of the
horse's gaze. For a moment or two she saw nothing but the dazzling glare
of the snow in the bright spring sunlight. Then her eyes became
accustomed to the brilliancy, and far in the distance, she beheld an
animal peacefully moving along from patch to patch of bare grass,
evidently in search of fodder.
"A horse," she muttered, under her breath. "Whose?"
She could find no answer to her monosyllabic inquiry. She realized at
once that to whomsoever it belonged its owner would never recover it,
for it was grazing on the far side of the great "Muskeg," that mighty
bottomless mire which extends for forty miles north and south and whose
narrowest breadth is a span of ten miles. She was looking across it now,
and innocent enough that level plain of terror appeared at that moment.
And yet it was the curse of the ranching district, for, annually,
hundreds of cattle met an untimely death in its cruel, absorbing bosom.
She turned away for the purpose of fetching a pair of field-glasses. She
was anxious to identify the horse. She passed along the veranda
towards the furthest window. It was the window of her uncle's office.
Just as she was nearing it she heard the sound of voices coming from
within. She paused, and an ominous pucker drew her brows together. Her
beautiful dark face clouded. She had no wish to play the part of an
eavesdropper, but she had recognized the voices of her uncle and
Lablache. She had also heard the mention of her own name. What woman,
or, for that matter, man, can refrain from listening when they hear two
people talking about them. The window was open; Jacky paused--and
listened.
Lablache's thick voice lolled heavily upon the brisk air.
"She is a good girl. But don't you think you are considering her future
from a rather selfish point of view, John?"
"Selfish?" The old man laughed in his hearty manner "Maybe you're right,
though. I never thought of that. You see I'm getting old now. I can't
get around like I used to. Bless me, she's two-an'-twenty.
Three-and-twenty years since my brother Dick--God rest his
soul!--married that half-breed girl, Josie. Yes, I guess you're right,
she's bound to marry soon."
Jacky smiled a curious dark smile. Something told her why Lablache and
her uncle were discussing her future.
"Why, of course she is," said Lablache, "and when that happy event is
accomplished I hope it will not be with any improvident--harum-scarum
man like--like--"
"The Hon. Bunning-Ford I suppose you would say, eh?"
There was a somewhat sharp tone in the old man's voice which Jacky was
not slow to detect.
"Well," went on Lablache, with one of those deep whistling breaths which
made him so like an ancient pug, "since you mention him, for want of a
better specimen of improvidence, his name will do."
"So I thought--so I thought," laughed the old man. But his words rang
strangely. "Most people think," he went on, "that when I die Jacky will
be rich. But she won't."
"No," replied Lablache, emphatically.
There was a world of meaning in his tone.
"However, I guess we can let her hunt around for herself when she wants
a husband. Jacky's a girl with a head. A sight better head than I've got
on my old shoulders. When she chooses a husband, and comes and tells me
of it, she shall have my blessing and anything else I have to give. I'm
not going to interfere with that girl's matrimonial affairs, sir, not
for any one. That child, bless her heart, is like my own child to me. If
she wants the moon, and there's nothing else to stop her having it but
my consent, why, I guess that moon's as good as fenced in with
triple-barbed wire an' registered in her name in the Government Land
Office."
"And in the meantime you are going to make that same child work for her
daily bread like any 'hired man,' and keep company with any scoun--"
"Hi, stop there, Lablache! Stop there," thundered "Poker" John, and
Jacky heard a thud as of a fist falling upon the table. "You've taken
the unwarrantable liberty of poking your nose into my affairs, and,
because of our old acquaintance, I have allowed it. But now let me tell
you this is no d----d business of yours. There's no make with Jacky.
What she does, she does of her own accord."
At that moment the girl in question walked abruptly in from the veranda.
She had heard enough.
"Ah, uncle," she said, smiling tenderly up into the old man's face,
"talking of me, I guess. You shouted my name just as I was coming along.
Say, I want the field-glasses. Where are they?"
Then she turned on Lablache as if she had only just become aware of his
presence.
"What, Mr. Lablache, you here? And so early, too. Guess this isn't like
you. How is your store--that temple of wealth and high interest--to get
on without you? How are the 'improvident'--'harum-scarums' to live if
you are not present to minister to their wants--upon the best of
security?" Without waiting for a reply the girl picked up the glasses
she was in search of and darted out, leaving Lablache glaring his
bilious-eyed rage after her.
"Poker" John stood for a moment a picture of blank surprise; then he
burst into a loud guffaw at the discomfited money-lender. Jacky heard
the laugh and smiled. Then she passed out of earshot and concentrated
her attention upon the distant speck of animal life.
The girl stood for some moments surveying the creature as it moved
leisurely along, its nose well down amongst the roots of the tawny
grass, seeking out the tender green shoots of the new-born pasture. Then
she closed her glasses and her thoughts wandered to other matters.
The gorgeous landscape was, for a moment, utterly lost upon her. The
snowy peaks of the Rockies, stretching far as the eye could see away to
the north and south, like some giant fortification set up to defend the
rolling pastures of the prairies from the ceaseless attack of the stormy
Pacific Ocean, were far from her thoughts. Her eyes, it is true, were
resting on the level flat of the muskeg, beyond the grove of slender
pines which lined the approach to the house, but she was not thinking of
that. No, recollection was struggling back through two years of a busy
life, to a time when, for a brief space, she had watched over the
welfare of another than her uncle, when the dark native blood which
flowed plentifully in her veins had asserted itself, and a nature which
was hers had refused to remain buried beneath a superficial European
training. She was thinking of a man who had formed a secret part of her
life for a few short years, when she had allowed her heart to dictate a
course for her actions which no other motive but that of love could have
brought about. She was thinking of Peter Retief, a pretty scoundrel, a
renowned "bad man," a man of wild and reckless daring. He had been the
terror of the countryside. A cattle-thief who feared neither man nor
devil; a man who for twelve months and more had carried, his life in his
hands, the sworn enemy of law and order, but who, in his worst moments,
had never been known to injure a poor man or a woman. The wild blood of
the half-breed that was in her had been stirred, as only a woman's blood
can be, by his reckless dealings, his courage, effrontery, and withal
his wondrous kindliness of disposition. She was thinking of this man
now, this man whom she knew to be numbered amongst the countless victims
of that dreadful mire. And what had conjured this thought? A horse--a
horse peacefully grazing far out across the mire in the direction of the
distant hills which she knew had once been this desperado's home.
Her train of recollection suddenly became broken, and a sigh escaped her
as the sound of her uncle's voice fell upon her ears. She did not move,
however, for she knew that Lablache was with him, and this man she hated
with the fiery hatred only to be found in the half-breeds of any native
race.
"I'm sorry, John, we can't agree on the point," Lablache was saying in
his wheezy voice, as the two men stood at the other end of the veranda,
"but I'm quite determined Upon the matter myself. The land intersects
mine and cuts me clean off from the railway siding, and I am forced to
take my cattle a circle of nearly fifteen miles to ship them. If he
would only be reasonable and allow a passage I would say nothing. I will
force him to sell."
"If you can," put in the rancher. "I reckon you've got chilled steel to
deal with when you endeavor to 'force' old Joe Norton to sell the finest
wheat land in the country."
At this point in the conversation three men came round from the back of
the house. They were "cow" hands belonging to the ranch. They approached
Jacky with the easy assurance of men who were as much companions as
servants of their mistress. All three, however, touched their
wide-brimmed hats in unmistakable respect. They were clad in buckskin
shirts and leather "chaps," and each had his revolver upon his hip. The
girl lost the rest of the conversation between her uncle and Lablache,
for her attention was turned to the men.
"Well?" she asked shortly, as the men stood before her.
One of the men, a tall, lank specimen of the dark-skinned prairie
half-breed, acted as spokesman.
He ejected a squirt of tobacco juice from his great, dirty mouth before
he spoke. Then with a curious backward jerk of the head he blurted out a
stream of Western jargon.
"Say, missie," he exclaimed in a high-pitched nasal voice, "it ain't no
use in talkin', ye kent put no tenderfoot t' boss the round-up. There's
them all-fired Donoghue lot jest sent right in t' say, 'cause, I s'pose,
they reckon as they're the high muck-i-muck o' this location, that that
tarnation Sim Lory, thar head man, is to cap' the round-up. Why, he
ain't cast a blamed foot on the prairie sence he's been hyar. An' I'll
swear he don't know the horn o' his saddle from a monkey stick. Et ain't
right, missie, an' us fellers t' work under him an' all."
His address came to an abrupt end, and he gave emphasis to his words by
a prolonged expectoration. Jacky, her eyes sparkling with anger, was
quick to reply.
"Look you here, Silas, just go right off and throw your saddle on your
pony--"
"Guess it's right thar, missie," the man interrupted.
"Then sling off as fast as your plug can lay foot to the ground, and
give John Allandale's compliments to Jim Donoghue and say, if they don't
send a capable man, since they've been appointed to find the 'captain,'
he'll complain to the Association and insist on the penalty being
enforced. What, do they take us for a lot of 'gophers'? Sim Lory,
indeed; why, he's not fit to prise weeds with a two tine hay fork."
The men went off hurriedly. Their mistress's swift methods of dealing
with matters pleased them. Silas was more than pleased to be able to get
a "slant" (to use his own expression) at his old enemy, Sim Lory. As the
men departed "Poker" John came and stood beside his niece.
"What's that about Sim Lory, Jacky?"
"They've sent him to run this 'round-up.'"
"And?"
"Oh, I just told them it wouldn't do," indifferently.
Old John smiled.
"In those words?"
"Well, no, uncle," the girl said with a responsive smile. "But they
needed a 'jinning' up. I sent the message in your name."
The old man shook his head, but his indulgent smile remained.
"You'll be getting me into serious trouble with that impetuosity of
yours, Jacky," he said absently. "But there--I daresay you know best."
His words were characteristic of him. He left the entire control of the
ranch to this girl of two-and-twenty, relying implicitly upon her
judgment in all things. It was a strange thing to do, for he was still a
vigorous man. To look at him was to make oneself wonder at the reason.
But the girl accepted the responsibility without question. There was a
subtle sympathy between uncle and niece. Sometimes Jacky would gaze up
into his handsome old face and something in the twitching cheek, the
curiously-shaped mouth, hidden beneath the gray mustache, would cause
her to turn away with a sigh, and, with stimulated resolution, hurl
herself into the arduous labors of managing the ranch. What she read in
that dear, honest face she loved so well she kept locked in her own
secret heart, and never, by word or act, did she allow herself to betray
it. She was absolute mistress of the Foss River Ranch and she knew it.
Old "Poker" John, like the morphine "fiend," merely continued to keep up
his reputation and the more fully deserve his sobriquet. His mind, his
character, his whole being was being slowly but surely absorbed in the
lust of gambling.
The girl laid her hand upon the old man's arm.
"Uncle--what was Lablache talking to you about? I mean when I came for
the field-glasses."
"Poker" John was gazing abstractedly into the dense growth of pines
which fringed the house. He pulled himself together, but his eyes had in
them a far-away look.
"Many things," he replied evasively.
"Yes, I know, dear, but," bending her face while she removed one of her
buckskin gauntlets from her hand, "I mean about me. You two
were-discussing me, I know."
She turned her keen gray eyes upon her relative as she finished
speaking. The old man turned away. He felt that those eyes were reading
his very soul. They made him uncomfortable.
"Oh, he said I ought not to let you associate with certain people."
"Why?" The sharp question came with the directness of a pistol-shot.
"Well, he seemed to think that you might think of marrying."
"Ah, and--"
"He seemed to fancy that you, being impetuous, might make a mistake and
fall--"
"In love with the wrong man. Yes, I understand; and from his point of
view, if ever I do marry it will undoubtedly be the wrong man."
And the girl finished up with a mirthless laugh.
They stood for some moments in silence. They were both thinking. The
noise from the corrals behind the house reached them. The steady drip,
drip of the water from the melting snow upon the roof of the house
sounded loudly as it fell on the sodden ground beneath.
"Uncle, did it ever strike you that that greasy money-lender wants to
marry me himself?"
The question startled John Allandale more than anything else could have
done. He turned sharply round and faced his niece.
"Marry you, Jacky?" he repeated. "I never thought of it."
"It isn't to be supposed that you would have done so."
There was the faintest tinge of bitterness in the girl's answer.
"And do you really think that he wants to marry you?"
"I don't know quite. Perhaps I am wrong, uncle, and my imagination has
run away with me. Yes, I sometimes think he wants to marry me."
They both relapsed into silence. Then her uncle spoke again.
"Jacky, what you have just said has made something plain to me which I
could not understand before. He came and gave me--unsolicited, mind--"a
little eagerly, "a detailed account of Bunning-Ford's circumstances,
and--"
"Endeavored to bully you into sending him about his business. Poor old
Bill! And what was his account of him?"
The girl's eyes were glowing with quickly-roused passion, but she kept
them turned from her uncle's face.
"He told me that the boy had heavy mortgages on his land and stock. He
told me that if he were to realize to-morrow there would be little or
nothing for himself. Everything would go to some firm in Calford. In
short, that he has gambled his ranch away."
"And he told this to you, uncle, dear." Then the girl paused and looked
far out across the great muskeg. In her abrupt fashion she turned again
to the old man. "Uncle," she went on, "tell me truly, do you owe
anything to Lablache? Has he any hold upon you?"
There was a world of anxiety in her voice as she spoke. John Allandale
tried to follow her thought before he answered. He seemed to grasp
something of her meaning, for in a moment his eyes took on an expression
of pain. Then his words came slowly, as from one who is not sure of what
he is saying.
"I owe him some--money--yes--but--"
"Poker?"
The question was jerked viciously from the girl's lips.
"Yes."
Jacky turned slowly away until her eyes rested upon the distant, grazing
horse. A strange restlessness seemed to be upon her. She was fidgeting
with the gauntlet which she had just removed. Then slowly her right hand
passed round to her hip, where it rested upon the butt of her revolver.
There was a tight drawnness about her lips and her keen gray eyes looked
as though gazing into space.
"How much?" she said at last, breaking the heavy silence which had
followed upon her uncle's admission. Then before he could answer she
went on deliberately: "But there--I guess it don't cut any figure.
Lablache shall be paid, and I take it his bill of interest won't amount
to more than we can pay if we're put to it. Poor old Bill!"
CHAPTER V
THE "STRAY" BEYOND THE MUSKEG
The Foss River Settlement nestles in one of those shallow
hollows--scarcely a valley and which yet must be designated by such a
term--in which the Canadian North-West abounds.
We are speaking now of the wilder and less-inhabited parts of the great
country, where grain-growing is only incidental, and the prevailing
industry is stock-raising. Where the land gradually rises towards the
maze-like foothills before the mighty crags of the Rockies themselves be
reached. A part where yet is to be heard of the romantic crimes of the
cattle-raiders; a part to where civilization has already turned its
face, but where civilizaton has yet to mature. In such a country is
situate the Foss River Settlement.
The settlement itself is like dozens of others of its kind. There is the
school-house, standing by itself, apart from other buildings, as if in
proud distinction for its classic vocation. There is the church, or
rather chapel, where every denomination holds its services. A saloon,
where four per cent. beer and prohibition whiskey of the worst
description is openly sold over the bar; where you can buy poker "chips"
to any amount, and can sit down and play from daylight till dark, from
dark to daylight. A blacksmith and wheelwright; a baker; a carpenter; a
doctor who is also a druggist; a store where one can buy every article
of dry goods at exorbitant prices--and on credit; and then, besides all
this, well beyond the township limit there is a half-breed settlement, a
place which even to this day is a necessary evil and a constant thorn
in the side of that smart, efficient force--the North-West Mounted
Police.
Lablache's store stands in the center of the settlement, facing on to
the market-place--the latter a vague, undefined space of waste ground on
which vendors of produce are wont to draw up their wagons. The store is
a massive building of great extent. Its proportions rise superior to its
surroundings, as if to indicate in a measure its owner's worldly status
in the district It is built entirely of stone, and roofed with
slate--the only building of such construction in the settlement.
A wonderful center of business is Lablache's store--the chief one for a
radius of fifty miles. Nearly the whole building is given up to the
stocking of goods, and only at the back of the building is to be found a
small office which answers the multifarious purposes of office, parlor,
dining-room, smoking-room--in short, every necessity of its owner,
except bedroom, which occupies a mere recess partitioned off by thin
matchwood boarding.
Wealthy as Lablache was known to be he spent little or no money upon
himself beyond just sufficient to purchase the bare necessities of life.
He had few requirements which could not be satisfied under the headings
of tobacco and food--both of which he indulged himself freely. The
saloon provided the latter, and as for the former, trade price was best
suited to his inclinations, and so he drew upon his stock. He was a
curious man, was Verner Lablache--a man who understood the golden value
of silence. He never even spoke of his nationality. Foss River was
content to call him curious--some people preferred other words to
express their opinion.
Lablache had known John Allandale for years. Who, in Foss River, had he
not known for years? Lablache would have liked to call old John his
friend, but somehow "Poker" John had never responded to the
money-lender's advances. Lablache showed no resentment. If he cared at
all he was careful to keep his feelings hidden. One thing is certain,
however, he allowed himself to think long and often of old John--and his
household. Often, when in the deepest stress of his far-reaching work,
he would heave his great bulk back in his chair and allow those fishy,
lashless, sphinx-like eyes of his to gaze out of his window in the
direction of the Foss River Ranch. His window faced in the direction of
John's house, which was plainly visible on the slope which bounded the
southern side of the settlement.
And so it came about a few days later, in one of these digressions of
thought, that the money-lender, gazing out towards the ranch, beheld a
horseman riding slowly up to the veranda of the Allandale's house. There
was nothing uncommon in the incident, but the sight riveted his
attention, and an evil light came into his usually expressionless eyes.
He recognized the horseman as the Hon. Bunning-Ford.
Lablache swung round on his revolving chair, and, in doing so, kicked
over a paper-basket. The rapidity of his movement was hardly to be
expected in one of his bulk. His thin eyebrows drew together in an ugly
frown.
"What does he want?" he muttered, under his heavy breath.
He hazarded no answer to his own question. It was answered for him. He
saw the figure of a woman step out on to the veranda.
The money-lender rose swiftly to his feet and took a pair of
field-glasses from their case. Adjusting them he gazed long and
earnestly at the house on the hill.
Jacky was talking to "Lord" Bill. She was habited in her dungaree skirt
and buckskin bodice. Presently Bill dismounted and passed into the
house.
Lablache shut his glasses with a snap and turned away from the window.
For some time he stood gazing straight before him and a swift torrent of
thought flowed through his active brain. Then, with the directness of
one whose mind is made up, he went over to a small safe which stood in
a corner of the room. From this he took an account book. The cover bore
the legend "Private." He laid it upon the table, and, for some moments,
bent over it as he scanned its pages.
He paused at an account headed John Allandale. The figures of this
account were very large, totalling into six figures. The balance against
the rancher was enormous. Lablache gave a satisfied grunt as he turned
over to another account.
"Safe--safe enough. Safe as the Day of Doom," he said slowly. His mouth
worked with a cruel smile.
He paused at the account of Bunning-Ford.
"Twenty thousand dollars--um," the look of satisfaction was changed. He
looked less pleased, but none the less cruel. "Not enough--let me see.
His place is worth fifty thousand dollars. Stock another thirty
thousand. I hold thirty-five thousand on first mortgage for the Calford
Trust and Loan Co." He smiled significantly. "This bill of sale for
twenty thousand is in my own name. Total, fifty-five thousand. Sell him
up and there would still be a margin. No, not yet, my friend."
He closed the book and put it away. Then he walked to the window.
Bunning-Ford's horse was still standing outside the house.
"He must be dealt with soon," he muttered.
And in those words was concentrated a world of hate and cruel purpose.
Who shall say of what a man's disposition is composed? Who shall
penetrate those complex feelings which go to make a man what his secret
consciousness knows himself to be? Not even the man himself can tell the
why and wherefore of his passions and motives. It is a matter beyond the
human ken. It is a matter which neither science nor learning can tell us
of. Verner Lablache was possessed of all that prosperity could give him.
He was wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, and no pleasure which money
could buy was beyond his reach. He knew, only too well, that when the
moment came, and he wished it, he could set out for any of the great
centers of fashion and society, and there purchase for himself a wife
who would fulfill the requirements of the most fastidious. In his own
arrogant mind he went further, and protested that he could choose whom
he would and she would be his. But this method he set aside as too
simple, and, instead, had decided to select for his wife a girl whom he
had watched grow up to womanhood from the first day that she had opened
her great, wondering eyes upon the world. And thus far he had been
thwarted. All his wealth went for nothing. The whim of this girl he had
chosen was more powerful in this matter than was gold--the gold he
loved. But Lablache was not the man to sit down and admit of defeat; he
meant to marry Joaquina Allandale willy-nilly. Love was impossible to
such a man as he. He had conceived an absorbing passion for her, it is
true, but love--as it is generally understood--no. He was not a young
man--the victim of a passion, fierce but transient. He was matured in
all respects--in mind and body. His passion was lasting, if impure, and
he meant to take to himself the girl-wife. Nothing should stand in his
way.
He turned back to his desk, but not to work.
In the meantime the object of his forcible attentions was holding an
interesting _tête-à-tête_ with the man against whom he fostered an evil
purpose.
Jacky was seated at a table in the pleasant sitting-room of her uncle's
house. Spread out before her were several open stock books, from which
she was endeavoring to estimate the probable number of "beeves" which
the early spring would produce. This was a task which she always liked
to do herself before the round-up was complete, so as the easier to sort
the animals into their various pastures when they should come in. Her
visitor was standing with his back to the stove, in typical Canadian
fashion. He was, clad in a pair of well-worn chaps drawn over a pair of
moleskin trousers, and wore a gray tweed coat and waistcoat over a soft
cotton shirt, of the "collar attached" type. As he stood there the stoop
of his shoulders was very pronounced. His fair hair was carefully
brushed, and although his face was slightly weather-stained, still, it
was quite easy to imagine the distinguished figure he would be, clad in
all the solemn pomp of broadcloth and the silk glaze of fashionable
society in the neighborhood of Bond Street.
The girl was not looking at her books. She was looking up and smiling at
a remark her companion had just made.
"And so your friend, Pat Nabob, is going up into the mountains after
gold. Does he know anything about prospecting?"
"I think so--he's had some experience."
Jacky became serious. She rose and turned to the window, which commanded
a perfect view of the distant peaks of the Rockies, towering high above
the broad, level expanse of the great muskeg. With her back still turned
to him she fired an abrupt question.
"Say, Bill, guess 'Pickles' has some other reason for this mad scheme.
What is it? You can't tell me he's going just for love of the adventure
of the thing. Now, let's hear the truth."
Unobserved by the girl, her companion shrugged his shoulders.
"If you want his reason you'd better ask him, Jacky. I can only
surmise."
"So can I." Jacky turned sharply. "I'll tell you why he's going, Bill,
and you can bet your last cent I'm right. Lablache is at the bottom of
it. He's at the bottom of everything that causes people to leave Foss
River. He's a blood-sucker."
Bunning-Ford nodded. He was rarely expansive. Moreover, he knew he could
add nothing to what the girl had said. She expressed his sentiments
fully. There was a pause. Jacky was keenly eyeing the tall thin figure
at the stove.
"Why did you come to tell me of this?" she asked at last.
"Thought you'd like to know. You like 'Pickles.'"
"Yes--Bill, you are thinking of going with him."
Her companion laughed uneasily. This girl was very keen.
"I didn't say so."
"No, but still you are thinking of doing so. See here, Bill, tell me all
about it."
Bill coughed. Then he turned, and stooping, shook the ashes from the
stove and opened the damper.
"Beastly cold in here," he remarked inconsequently.
"Yes--but, out with it."
Bill stood up and turned his indolent eyes upon his interrogator.
"I wasn't thinking of going--to the mountains."
"Where then?"
"To the Yukon."
"Ah!"
In spite of herself the girl could not help the exclamation.
"Why?" she went on a moment later.
"Well, if you must have it, I shan't be able to last out this
summer--unless a stroke of luck falls to my share."
"Financially?"
"Financially."
"Lablache?"
"Lablache--and the Calford Trust Co."
"The same thing," with conviction.
"Exactly--the same thing."
"And you stand?"
"If I meet the interest on my mortgages it will take away every head of
fat cattle I can scrape together, and then I cannot pay Lablache other
debts which fall due in two weeks' time." He quietly drew out his
tobacco-pouch and rolled a cigarette. He seemed quite indifferent to his
difficulties. "If I realize on the ranch now there'll be something left
for me. If I go on, by the end of the summer there won't be."
"I suppose you mean that you will be deeper in debt."
He smiled in his own peculiarly lazy fashion as he held a lighted match
to his cigarette.
"Just so. I shall owe Lablache more," he said, between spasmodic draws
at his tobacco.
"Lablache has wonderful luck at cards."
"Yes," shortly.
Jacky returned to the table and sat down. She turned the pages of a
stock book idly. She was thinking and the expression of her dark,
determined little face indicated the unpleasant nature of her thoughts.
Presently she looked up and encountered the steady gaze of her
companion. They were great friends--these two. In that glance each read
in the other's mind something of a mutual thought. Jacky, with womanly
readiness, put part of it into words.
"No one ever seems to win against him, Bill. Guess he makes a steady
income out of poker."
The man nodded and gulped down a deep inhalation from his cigarette.
"Wonderful luck," the girl went on.
"Some people call it 'luck,'" put in Bill, quietly, but with a curious
purse of the lips.
"What do you call it?" sharply.
Bunning-Ford refused to commit himself. He contented himself with
blowing the ash from his cigarette and crossing over to the window,
where he stood looking out. He had come there that afternoon with a
half-formed intention of telling this girl something which every girl
must hope to hear sooner or later in her life. He had come there with
the intention of ending, one way or the other, a
friendship--_camaraderie_--whatever you please to call it, by telling
this hardy girl of the prairie the old, old story over again. He loved
this woman with an intensity that very few would have credited him with.
Who could associate lazy, good-natured, careless "Lord" Bill with
serious love? Certainly not his friends. And yet such was the case, and
for that reason had he come. The affairs of Pat Nabob were but a
subterfuge. And now he found it impossible to pronounce the words he had
so carefully thought out. Jacky was not the woman to approach easily
with sentiment, she was so "deucedly practical." So Bill said to
himself. It was useless to speculate upon her feelings. This girl never
allowed anything approaching sentiment to appear upon the surface. She
knew better than to do so. She had the grave responsibility of her
uncle's ranch upon her shoulders, therefore all men must be kept at
arm's length. She was in every sense a woman, passionate, loyal, loving.
But in addition nature had endowed her with a spirit which rose superior
to feminine attributes and feelings. The blood in her veins--her life on
the prairie--her tender care and solicitude for her uncle, of whose
failings and weaknesses she was painfully aware, had caused her to put
from her all thoughts of love and marriage. Her life must be devoted to
him, and while he lived she was determined that no thought of self
should interfere with her self-imposed duty.
At last "Lord" Bill broke the silence which had fallen upon the room
after the girl's unanswered question. His remark seemed irrevelant and
inconsequent.
"There's a horse on the other side of the muskeg. Who's is it?"
Jacky was at his side in an instant. So suddenly had she bounded from
the table, that her companion turned, with that lazy glance of his, and
looked keenly at her. He failed to understand her excitement. She had
snatched up a pair of field-glasses and had already leveled them at the
distant object.
She looked long and earnestly across the miry waste. Then she turned to
her companion with a strange look in her beautiful gray eyes.
"Bill, I've seen that horse before. Four days ago. I've looked for it
ever since, but couldn't see it. I'm going to round it up."
"Eh? How?"
Bill was looking out across the muskeg again.
"Guess I'm going right across there this evening," the girl said
quietly.
"Across the muskeg?" Her companion was roused out of himself. His
usually lazy gray eyes were gleaming brightly. "Impossible!"
"Not at all, Bill," she replied, with an easy smile. "I know the path."
"But I thought there was only one man who ever knew that mythical path,
and--he is dead."
"Quite right, Bill--only one _man_."
"Then the old stories--"
There was a peculiar expression on the man's face. The girl interrupted
him with a gay laugh.
"Bother the 'old stories.' I'm going across there this evening after
tea--coming?"
Bunning-Ford looked across at the clock--the hands pointed to half-past
one. He was silent for a minute. Then he said,--
"I'll be with you at four if--if you'll tell me all about--"
"Peter Retief--yes, I'll tell you as we go, Bill. What are you going to
do until then?"
"I'm going down to the saloon to meet 'Pickles,' your pet aversion,
Pedro Mancha, and we're going to find a fourth."
"Ah, poker?"
"Yes, poker."
"I'm sorry, Bill. But be here at four sharp and I'll tell you all about
it. See here, boy, 'mum's' the word."
The craving of the Hon. Bunning-Ford's life was excitement. His
temperament bordered on the lethargic. He felt that unless he could
obtain excitement life was utterly unbearable. He had sought it all over
the world before he had adopted the life of a rancher. Here in the West
of Canada he had found something of what he sought. There was the big
game shooting in the mountains, and the pursuit of the "grizzly" is the
most wildly enthralling chase in the world. There was the taming and
"breaking" of the wild and furious "broncho"--the most exemplary
"bucking" horse in the world. There was the "round-up" and handling of
cattle which never failed to give unlimited excitement. And then, at all
times, was the inevitable poker, that king of all excitements among card
games. The West of Canada had pleased "Lord" Bill as did no other
country, and so he had invested the remains of his younger son's portion
in stock.
He had asked for excitement and Canada had responded generously. Bill
had found more than excitement, he had found love; and had found a
wealth of real friendship rarely equaled in the busy cities of
civilization.
In the midst of all these things which, seeking, he had found, came this
suggestion from a girl. The muskeg--the cruel, relentless muskeg, that
mire, dreaded and shunned by white men and natives alike. It could be
crossed by a secret, path. The thought pleased him. And none knew of
this path except a man who was dead and this girl he loved. There was a
strange excitement in the thought of such a journey.
"Lord" Bill, ignoring his stirrup, vaulted into his saddle, and, as he
swung his horse round and headed towards the settlement, he wondered
what the day would bring forth.
"Confound the cards," he muttered, as he rode away.
And it was the first time in his life that he had reluctantly
contemplated a gamble.
Had he only known it, a turning-point in his life was rapidly
approaching--a turning-point which would lead to events which, if told
as about to occur in the nineteenth century, would surely bring down
derision upon the head of the teller. And yet would the derided one have
right on his side.
CHAPTER VI
"WAYS THAT ARE DARK"
It was less than a quarter of a mile from the Allandales' house to the
saloon--a den of reeking atmosphere and fouler spirits.
The saloon at Foss River was no better and no worse than hundreds of
others in the North-West at the time of which we write. It was a fairly
large wooden building standing at the opposite end of the open space
which answered the purpose of a market-place, and facing Lablache's
store. Inside, it was gloomy, and the air invariably reeked of stale
tobacco and drink. The bar was large, and at one end stood a piano kept
for the purpose of "sing-songs"--nightly occurrences when the execrable
whisky had done its work. Passing through the bar one finds a large
dining-room on one side of a passage, and, on the other, a number of
smaller rooms devoted to the use of those who wished to play poker.
It was towards this place that the Hon. Bunning-Ford was riding in the
leisurely manner of one to whom time is no object.
His thoughts were far from matters pertaining to his destination, and he
would gladly have welcomed anything which could have interfered with his
projected game. For the moment poker had lost its charm.
This man was at no time given to vacillation. All his methods were, as a
rule, very direct. Underneath his easy nonchalance he was of a very
decided nature. His thin face at times could suddenly become very keen.
His true character was hidden by the cultivated lazy expression of his
eyes. Bunning-Ford was one of those men who are at their best in
emergency. At all other times life was a thing which it was impossible
for him to take seriously. He valued money as little as he valued
anything in the world. Poker he looked upon as a means to an end. He had
no religious principles, but firmly believed in doing as he would be
done by. Honesty and truth he loved, because to him they were clean. It
mattered nothing to him what his surroundings might be, for, though
living in them, he was not of them. He would as soon sit down to play
cards with three known murderers as play in the best club in London, and
he would treat them honestly and expect the same in return--but a loaded
revolver would be slung upon his hip and the holster would be open and
handy.
As he neared the saloon he recognized the figures of two men walking in
the direction of the saloon. They were the doctor and John Allandale. He
rode towards them.
"Hallo, Bill, whither bound?" said the old rancher, as the younger man
came up. "Going to join us in the parlor of Smith's fragrant hostelry?
The spider is already there weaving the web in which he hopes to ensnare
us."
Bunning-Ford shook his head.
"Who's the spider--Lablache?"
"Yes, we're going to play. It's the first time for some days. Guess
we've all been too busy with the round-up. Won't you really join us?"
"Can't. I've promised Mancha and 'Pickles' revenge for a game we played
the other night, when I happened to relieve them of a few dollars."
"Sensible man--Lablache is too consistent," put in the doctor, quietly.
"Nonsense," said "Poker" John, optimistically. "You're always carping
about the man's luck. We must break it soon."
"Yes, we've suggested that before."
Bill spoke with meaning and finished up with a purse of the lips.
They were near the saloon.
"How long are you going to play?" he went on quietly.
"Right through the evening," replied "Poker" John, with keen
satisfaction. "And you?"
"Only until four o'clock. I am going to take tea up at your place."
The old man offered no comment and Bill dismounted and tied the horse to
a post, and the three men entered the stuffy bar. The room was half full
of people. They were mostly cow-boys or men connected with the various
ranches about the neighborhood. Words of greeting hailed the new-comers
on all sides, but old John, who led the way, took little or no notice of
those whom he recognized. The lust of gambling was upon him, and, as a
dipsomaniac craves for drink, so he was longing to feel the smooth
surface of pasteboard between his fingers. While Bunning-Ford stopped to
exchange a word with some of those he met, the other two men went
straight up to the bar. Smith himself, a grizzled old man, with a
tobacco-stained gray moustache and beard, and the possessor of a pair of
narrow, wicked-looking eyes, was serving out whisky to a couple of
worse-looking half-breeds. It was noticeable that every man present wore
at his waist either a revolver or a long sheath knife. Even the
proprietor was fully armed. The half-breeds wore knives.
"Poker" John was apparently a man of distinction here. Possibly the
knowledge that he played a big game elicited for him a sort of
indifferent respect. Anyway, the half-breeds moved to allow him to
approach the bar.
"Lablache here?" asked the rancher, eagerly.
"He is," replied Mr. Smith, in a drawling voice, as he pushed the two
whiskies across to the waiting half-breeds. "Been here half an hour.
Jest pass right through, mister. Maybe you'll find him located in number
two."
There was no doubt that John B. Smith hailed from America. Although the
Canadian is not devoid of the American accent there is not much doubt of
nationality when one hears the real thing.
"Good; come on, Doc. No, thanks, Smith," as the man behind the bar
reached towards a bottle with a white seal. "We'll have something later
on. Number two on the right, I think you said."
The two men passed on into the back part of the premises.
"Guess dollars'll be flyin' 'fore the night's out," said Smith,
addressing any who cared to listen, and indicating "Poker" John with a
jerk of the head in the direction of the door through which the two men
had just passed. "Make the banks hum when they raise the 'bid.' Guess
ther' ain't many o' ther' likes roun' these parts. Rye or Scotch?" to
"Lord" Bill and three other men who came up at that moment. Mancha and
"Pickles" were with him, and a fourth player--the deposed captain of the
"round-up," Sim Lory.
"Scotch, you old heathen, of course," replied Bill, with a tolerant
laugh. "You don't expect us to drink fire-water. If you kept decent Rye
it would be different. We're going to have a flutter. Any room?"
"Number two, I guess. Chock-a-block in the others. Tolerable run on
poker these times. All the round-up hands been gettin' advances, I take
it. Say when."
The four men said "when" in due course, and each watered his own whisky.
The proprietor went on, with a quick twinkle of his beady eyes,--
"Ther's Mr. Allandale an' Lablache and company in number two. Nobody
else, I guess. I've a notion you'll find plenty of room. Chips, no? All
right; goin' to play a tidy game? Good!"
The four men, having swallowed their drink, followed in the footsteps of
the others.
There was something very brisk and business-like about this
gambling-hell. Early settlers doubtless remember in the days of
"prohibition," when four per cent. beer was supposed to be the only
beverage of the country, and before rigid legislation, backed by the
armed force of the North-West Mounted Police, swept these frightful
pollutions from the fair face of the prairie, how they thrived on the
encouragement of gambling and the sale of contraband spirits. The West
is a cleaner country now, thanks to the untiring efforts of the police.
In number two "Poker" John and his companions were already getting to
work when Bill and his friends entered. Beyond a casual remark they
seemed to take little notice of each other. One and all were eager to
begin the play.
A deep silence quickly fell upon the room. It was the silence of
suppressed excitement. A silence only broken by monosyllabic and almost
whispered betting and "raising" as the games proceeded. An hour passed
thus. At the table where Lablache and John Allandale were playing the
usual luck prevailed. The money-lender seemed unable to do wrong, and at
the other table Bunning-Ford was faring correspondingly badly. Pedro
Mancha, the Mexican, a man of obscure past and who lived no one quite
knew how, but who always appeared to find the necessary to gamble with,
was the favored one of dame Fortune. Already he had heaped before him a
pile of "bills" and I.O.U.'s most of which bore "Lord" Bill's signature.
Looking on at either table, no one from outward signs could have said
which way the luck was going. Only the scribblings of the pencils upon
the memo pads and the gradual accumulation of the precious slips of
paper before Lablache at one table and the wild-eyed, dark-skinned
Mexican at the other, told the story of the ruin which was surely being
accomplished.
At length, with a loser's privilege, Bunning-Ford, after glancing at his
watch, rose from the table. His lean face was in no way disturbed. He
seemed quite indifferent to his losses.
"I'll quit you, Pedro," he said, smiling lazily down at the Mexican.
"You're a bit too hot for me to-day."
The dark-skinned man smiled a vague, non-committing smile and displayed
a double row of immaculate teeth.
"Good. You shall have your revenge. Doubtless you would like some of
these papers back," he said, as he swept them leisurely into his
pocket-book, and then sugar-bagging a cigarette paper he poured a few
grains of granulated tobacco into it.
"Yes, I daresay I shall relieve you of some later on," replied Bill,
quietly. Then he turned to the other table and stood watching the play.
He glanced anxiously at the bare table in front of the old rancher. Even
Dr. Abbot was well stocked with slips of paper. Then his gaze fell upon
the money-lender, behind whose huge back he was standing.
He moved slightly to one side. It is an unwritten law amongst poker
players, in a public place in the west of the American continent, that
no onlooker should stand immediately behind any player. He moved to
Lablache's right. The money-lender was dealing. "Lord" Bill lit a
cigarette.
The cards were dealt round. Then the draw. Then Lablache laid the pack
down. Bunning-Ford had noted these things mechanically. Then something
caught his attention. It was his very indifference which caused his
sudden attention. Had he been following the game with his usual keenness
he would only have been thinking of the betting.
Lablache was writing upon his memo, pad, which was a gorgeous effort in
silver mounting. One of those oblong blocks with a broad band of
burnished silver at the binding of the perforated leaves. He knew that
this was the pad the money-lender always used; anyway, it was similar in
all respects to his usual memorandum pads.
How it was his attention had become fixed upon that pad he could not
have told, but now an inspiration came to him. His face remained
unchanged in its expression, but those lazy eyes of his gleamed wickedly
as he leisurely puffed at his cigarette.
The bet went round. Lablache raised and raised again. Eventually the
rancher "saw" him. The other took the pool. No word was spoken, but
"Lord" Bill gritted his teeth and viciously pitched his cigarette to
the other end of the room.
During the next two deals he allowed his attention to wander. Lablache
dropped out one hand, and, in the next, he merely "filled" his "ante"
and allowed the doctor to take in the pool. John Allandale's face was
serious. The nervous twitching of the cheek was still, but the drawn
lines around his mouth were in no way hidden by his gray mustache, nor
did the eager light which burned luridly in his eyes for one moment
deceive the onlooker as to the anxiety of mind which his features
masked.
Now it was Lablache's deal. "Lord" Bill concentrated his attention upon
the dealer. The money-lender was left-handed. He held the pack in his
right, and, in dealing, he was slow and slightly clumsy. The object of
Bunning-Ford's attention quickly became apparent. Each card as it left
the pack was passed over the burnished silver of the dealer's memorandum
pad. It was smartly done, and Lablache was assisted by the fact that the
piece of metal was inclined towards him. There was no necessity to look
down deliberately to see the reflection of each card as it passed on its
way to its recipient, a glance--just the glance necessary when dealing
cards--and the money-lender, by a slight effort of memory, knew every
hand that was out. Lablache was cheating.
To say that "Lord" Bill was astonished would be wrong. He was not. He
had long suspected it. The steady run of luck which Lablache had
persisted in was too phenomenal. It was enough to set the densest
thinking. Now everything was plain. Standing where he was, Bill had
almost been able to read the index numerals himself. He gave no sign of
his discovery. Apparently the matter was of no consequence to him, for
he merely lit a fresh cigarette and walked towards the door. He turned
as he was about to pass out.
"What time shall I tell Jacky to expect you home, John?" he said
quietly, addressing the old rancher.
Lablache looked up with a swift, malevolent glance, but he said nothing.
Old John turned a drawn face to the speaker.
"Supper, I guess," he said in a thick voice, husky from long silence.
"And tell Smith to send me in a bottle of 'white seal' and some
glasses."
"Right you are." Then "Lord" Bill passed out. "Poker without whisky is
bad," he muttered as he made his way back to the bar, "but poker and
whisky together can only be the beginning of the end. We'll see. Poor
old John!"
CHAPTER VII
ACROSS THE GREAT MUSKEG
It was on the stroke of four o'clock when Bunning-Ford left the saloon.
He had said that he would be at the ranch at four, and usually he liked
to be punctual. He was late now, however, and made no effort to make up
time. Instead, he allowed his horse to walk leisurely in the direction
of the Allandales' house. He wanted time to think before he again met
Jacky.
He was confronted by a problem which taxed all his wit. It was perhaps a
fortunate thing that his was not a hasty temperament. He well knew the
usual method of dealing with men who cheated at cards in those Western
wilds. Each man carried his own law in his holster. He had realized
instantly that Lablache was not a case for the usual treatment. Pistol
law would have defeated its own ends. Such means would not recover the
terrible losses of "Poker" John, neither would he recover thereby his
own lost property. No, he congratulated himself upon the restraint he
had exercised when he had checked his natural impulse to expose the
money-lender. Now, however, the case looked more complicated, and, for
the moment, he could see no possible means of solving the difficulty.
Lablache must be made to disgorge--but how? John Allandale must be
stopped playing and further contributing to Lablache's ill-gotten gains.
Again--but how?
Bill was roused out of his usual apathetic indifference. The moment had
arrived when he must set aside the old indolent carelessness. He was
stirred to the core. A duty had been suddenly forced upon him. A duty to
himself and also a duty to those he loved. Lablache had consistently
robbed him, and also the uncle of the girl he loved. Now, how to
restore that property and prevent the villain's further depredations?
Again and again he asked himself the question as he allowed his horse to
mouche, with slovenly step, over the sodden prairie; but no answer
presented itself. His thin, eagle face was puckered with perplexity. The
sleepy eyes gleamed vengefully from between his half-closed eyelids as
he gazed across the sunlit prairie. His aquiline nose, always bearing a
resemblance to an eagle's beak, was rendered even more like that
aristocratic proboscis by reason of the down-drawn tip, consequent upon
the odd pursing of his tightly-compressed lips. For the moment "Lord"
Bill was at a loss. And, oddly enough, he began to wonder if, after all,
silence had been his best course.
He was still struggling in the direst perplexity when he drew up at the
veranda of the ranch. Dismounting, he hitched his picket rope to the
tying-post and entered the sitting-room by the open French window. Tea
was set upon the table and Jacky was seated before the stove.
"Late, Bill, late! Guess that 'plug' of yours is a rapid beast, judging
by the pace you came up the hill."
For the moment Bunning-Ford's face had resumed its wonted air of lazy
good-nature.
"Glad you took the trouble to watch for me, Jacky," he retorted quickly,
with an attempt at his usual lightness of manner. "I appreciate the
honor."
"Nothing of the sort. I was looking for uncle. The mail brought a letter
from Calford. Dawson, the cattle buyer of the Western Railway Company,
wants to see him. The Home Government are buying largely. He is
commissioned to purchase 30,000 head of prime beeves. Come along, tea's
ready."
Bill seated himself at the table and Jacky poured out the tea. She was
dressed for the saddle.
"Where is Dawson now?" asked Bill.
"Calford. Guess he'll wait right there for uncle."
Suddenly a look of relief passed across the man's face.
"This is Wednesday. At six o'clock the mail-cart goes back to town. Send
some one down to the _saloon_ at once, and John will be able to go in
to-night."
As Bill spoke his eyes encountered a direct and steady glance from the
girl. There was much meaning in that mute exchange. For answer Jacky
rose and rang a bell sharply.
"Send a hand down to the settlement to find my uncle. Ask him to come up
at once. There is an important letter awaiting him," she said, to the
old servant who answered the summons.
"Bill, what's up?" she went on, when the retainer had departed.
"Lots. Look here, Jacky, we mustn't be long over tea. We must both be
out of the house when your uncle returns. He may not want to go into
town to-night. Anyway, I don't want to give him the chance of asking any
questions until we have had a long talk. He's losing to Lablache again."
"Ah! I don't want anything to eat. Whenever you are ready, Bill, I am."
Bunning-Ford drank his tea and rose from the table. The girl followed
his example.
There was something very strong and resolute in the brisk,
ready-for-emergency ways of this girl. There was nothing of the
ultra-feminine dependence and weakness of her sex about her. And yet her
hardiness detracted in no way from her womanly charm; rather was that
complex abstract enhanced by her wonderful self-reliance. There are
those who decry independence in women, but surely only such must come
from those whose nature is largely composed of hectoring selfishness.
There was a resolute set of the mouth as Jacky sent word to the stables
to have her horse brought round. She asked no questions of her
companion, as, waiting for compliance with her orders, she drew on her
stout buckskin gauntlets. She understood this man well enough to be
aware that his suggestion was based upon necessity. "Lord" Bill rarely
interfered with anything or anybody, but when such an occasion arose his
words carried a deal of weight with those who knew him.
A few minutes later and they were both riding slowly down the avenue of
pines leading from the house. The direction in which they were moving
was away from the settlement, down towards where the great level flat of
the muskeg began. At the end of the avenue they turned directly to the
southeast, leaving the township behind them. The prairie was soft and
springy. There was still a keen touch of winter in the fresh spring air.
The afternoon sun was shining coldly athwart the direction of their
route.
Jacky led the way, and, as they drew clear of the bush, and the house
and settlement were hidden from view behind them, she urged her horse
into a good swinging lope. Thus they progressed in silence. The
far-reaching deadly mire on their right, looking innocent enough in the
shadow of the snow-clad peaks beyond, the ranch well behind them in the
hollow of the Foss River Valley, whilst, on their left, the mighty
prairie rolled away upwards to the higher level of the surrounding
country.
In this way they covered nearly a mile, then the girl drew up beside a
small clump of weedy bush.
"Are you ready for the plunge, Bill?" she asked, as her companion drew
up beside her. "The path's not more than four feet wide. Does your
'plug' shy any?"
"He's all right. You lead right on. Where you can travel I've a notion
I'm not likely to funk. But I don't see the path."
"I guess you don't. Never did nature keep her secret better than in the
setting out of this one road across her woeful man-trap. You can't see
the path, but I guess it's an open book to me, and its pages ain't
Hebrew either. Say, Bill, there's been many a good prairie man looking
for this path, but"--with a slight accent of exultation--"they've never
found it. Come on. Old Nigger knows it; many a time has he trodden its
soft and shaking surface. Good old horse!" and she patted the black neck
of her charger as she turned his head towards the distant hills and
urged him forward with a "chirrup."
Far across the muskeg the distant peaks of the mountain range glistened
in the afternoon sun like diamond-studded sugar loaves. So high were the
clouds that every portion of the mighty summits was clearly outlined.
The great ramparts of the prairie are a magnificent sight on a clear
day. Flat and smooth as any billiard-table stretched this silent,
mysterious muskeg, already green and fair to the eye, an alluring
pasture to the unwary. An experienced eye might have judged it too
green--too alluring. Could a more perfect trap be devised by evil human
ingenuity than this? Think for one instant of a bottomless pit of liquid
soil, absorbing in its peculiar density. Think of all the horrors of a
quicksand, which, embracing, sucks down into its cruel bosom the
despairing victim of its insatiable greed. Think of a thin, solid crust,
spread like icing upon a cake and concealing the soft, spongy matter
beneath, covering every portion of the cruel plain; a crust which yields
a crop of luxurious, enticing grass of the most perfect emerald hue; a
crust firm in itself and dry looking, and yet not strong enough to bear
the weight of a good-sized terrier. And what imagination can possibly
conceive a more cruel--more perfect trap for man or beast? Woe to the
creature which trusts its weight upon that treacherous crust. For one
fleeting instant it will sway beneath the tread, then, in the flash of a
thought, it will break, and once the surface gives no human power can
save the victim. Down, down into the depths must the poor wretch be
plunged, with scarce time to offer a prayer to God for the poor soul
which so swiftly passes to its doom. Such is the muskeg; and surely more
terrible is it than is that horror of the navigator--the quicksands.
The girl led the way without as much as a passing thought for the
dangers which surrounded her. Truly had her companion said "I don't see
the path," for no path was to be seen. But Jacky had learned her lesson
well--and learned it from one who read the prairie as the Bedouin reads
the desert. The path was there and with a wondrous assurance she
followed its course.
The travelers moved silently along. No word was spoken; each was wrapped
in thought. Now and again a stray prairie chicken would fly up from
their path with a whirr, and speed across the mire, calling to its mate
as it went. The drowsy chirrup of frogs went on unceasingly around, and
already the ubiquitous mosquito was on the prowl for human gore.
The upstanding horses now walked with down-drooped heads, with sniffing
noses low towards the ground, ears cocked, and with alert, careful
tread, as if fully alive to the danger of their perilous road. The
silence of that ride teemed with a thrill of danger. Half an hour passed
and then the girl gathered up her reins and urged her willing horse into
a canter.
"Come on, Bill, the path is more solid now, and wider. The worst part is
on the far side," she called back over her shoulder.
Her companion followed her unquestioningly.
The sun was already dipping towards the distant peaks and already a
shadowy haze was rising upon the eastern prairie. The chill of winter
grew keener as the sun slowly sank.
Two-thirds of the journey were covered and Jacky, holding up a warning
hand, drew up her horse. Her companion came to a stand beside her.
"The path divides in three here," said the girl, glancing keenly down at
the fresh green grass. "Two of the branches are blind and end abruptly
further on. Guess we must avoid 'em," she went on shortly, "unless we
are anxious to punctuate our earthly career. This is the one we must
take," turning her horse to the left path. "Keep your eye peeled and
stick to Nigger's footprints."
The man did as he was bid, marvelling the while at the strange knowledge
of his companion. He had no fear; he only wondered. The trim, graceful
figure on the horse ahead of him occupied all his thoughts. He watched
her as, with quiet assurance she guided her horse. He had known Jacky
for years. He had watched her grow to womanhood, but although her
up-bringing must of necessity have taught her an independence and
courage given to few women, he had never dreamt of the strength of the
sturdy nature she was now displaying. Again his thoughts went to the
tales of the gossips of the settlement, and the strange figure of the
daring cattle-thief loomed up over his mental horizon. He rode, and as
he rode he wondered. The end Of this journey would be a fitting place
for the explanations which must take place between them.
At length the shaking path came to an end and the mire was crossed. A
signal from the girl brought her companion to her side.
"We have crossed it," she said, glancing up at the sun, and indicating
the muskeg with a backward jerk of her head. "Now for the horse."
"What about your promise to tell me about Peter Retief?"
"Guess being the narrator you must let me take my time."
She smiled up into her companion's eagle face.
"The horse is a mile or so further up towards the foothills. Come
along."
They galloped side by side over the moist, springy grass--moist with the
recently-melted snow. "Lord" Bill was content to wait her pleasure.
Suddenly the man brought his horse up with a severe "yank."
"What's up?" The girl's beautiful eyes were fixed upon the ground with a
peculiar instinct. Bill pointed to the ground on the side furthest from
his companion.
"Look!"
Jacky gazed at the spot indicated.
"The tracks of the horse," she said sharply.
She was on the ground in an instant and inspecting the hoof-prints
eagerly, with that careful study acquired by experience.
"Well?" said the other, as she turned back to her horse.
"Recent." Then in an impressive tone which her companion failed to
understand, "That horse has been shod. The shoes are off--all except a
tiny bit on his off fore. We must track it."
They now separated and rode keeping the hoof-prints between them. The
marks were quite fresh and so plain in the soft ground that they were
able to ride at a good pace. The clear-cut indentations led away from
the mire up the gently-sloping ground. Suddenly they struck upon a path
that was little more than a cattle-track, and instantly became mingled
with other hoof-marks, older and going both ways. Hitherto the girl had
ridden with her eyes closely watching the tracks, but now she suddenly
raised her sweet, weather-tanned face to her companion, and, with a
light of the wildest excitement in her eyes, she pointed along the path
and set her horse at a gallop.
"Come on! I know," she cried, "right on into the hills."
Bill followed willingly enough, but he failed to understand his
companion's excitement. After all they were merely bent upon "roping" a
stray horse. The girl galloped on at breakneck speed; the heavy black
ringlets of hair were swept like an outspread fan from under the broad
brim of her Stetson hat, her buckskin bodice ballooning in the wind as
rider and horse charged along, utterly indifferent to the nature of the
country they were traveling--indifferent to everything except the mad
pursuit of an unseen quarry. Now they were on the summit of some
eminence whence they could see for miles the confusion of hills, like
innumerable bee-hives set close together upon an endless plain; now
down, tearing through a deep hollow, and racing towards another abrupt
ascent. With every hill passed the country became less green and more
and more rugged. "Lord" Bill struggled hard to keep the girl in view as
she raced on--on through the labyrinth of seemingly endless hillocks.
But at last he drew up on the summit of a high cone-like rise and
realized that he had lost her.
For a moment he gazed around with that peculiar, all-observing keenness
which is given to those whose lives are spent in countries where human
habitation is sparse--where the work of man is lost in the immensity of
Nature's effort. He could see no sign of the girl. And yet he knew she
could not be far away. His instincts told him to search for her horse
tracks. He was sure she had passed that way. While yet he was thinking,
she suddenly reappeared over the brow of a further hill. She halted at
the summit, and, seeing him, waved a summons. Her gesticulations were
excited and he hastened to obey. Down into the intervening valley his
horse plunged with headlong recklessness. At the bottom there was a
hard, beaten track. Almost unconsciously he allowed his beast to adopt
it. It wound round and upwards, at the base of the hill on which Jacky
was waiting for him. He passed the bend, then, with a desperate,
backward heave of the body, he "yanked" his horse short up, throwing the
eager animal on to its haunches.
He had pulled up on what, at first appeared to be the brink of a
precipice, and what in reality was a declivity, down which only the slow
and sure foot of a steer or broncho might safely tread. He sat aghast at
his narrow escape. Then, turning at the sound of a voice behind him, he
found that Jacky had come down from the hill above.
"See, Bill," she cried, as she drew abreast of his hard-breathing horse,
"there he is! Down there, peacefully, grazing."
Her excitement was intense, and the hand with which she pointed shook
like an aspen. Her agitation was incomprehensible to the man. He looked
down. Hitherto he had seen little beyond the brink at which he had come
to such a sudden stand. But now, as he gazed down, he beheld a deep
dark-shadowed valley, far-reaching and sombre. From their present
position its full extent was beyond the range of vision, but sufficient
was to be seen to realize that here was one of those vast hiding-places
only to be found in lands where Nature's fanciful mood has induced the
mighty upheaval of the world's greatest mountain ranges. On the far side
of the deep, sombre vale a towering craig rose wall-like, sheer up,
overshadowing the soft, green pasture deep down at the bottom of the
yawning gulch. Dense patches of dark, relentless pinewoods lined its
base, and, over all, in spite of the broad daylight, a peculiar shadow,
as of evening, added mystery to the haunting view.
It was some seconds before the man was able to distinguish the tiny
object which had roused the girl to such unaccountable excitement. When
he did, however, he beheld a golden chestnut horse quietly grazing as it
made its way leisurely towards the ribbon-like stream which flowed in
the bosom of the mysterious valley. "Lord" Bill's voice was quite
emotionless when he spoke.
"Ah, a chestnut!" he said quietly. "Well, our quest is vain. He is
beyond our reach."
For a moment the girl looked at him in indignant surprise. Then her mood
changed and she nearly laughed outright. She had forgotten that this man
as yet knew nothing of what had all along been in her thoughts. As yet
he knew nothing of the secret of this hollow. To her it meant a world of
recollection--a world of stirring adventure and awful hazard. When first
she had seen that horse, grazing within sight of her uncle's house, her
interest had been aroused--suspicions had been sent teeming through her
brain. Her thoughts had flown to the man whom she had once known, and
who was now dead. She had believed his horse had died with him. And now
the strange apparition had yielded up its secret. The beast had been
traced to the old, familiar haunt, and what had been only suspicion had
suddenly become a startling reality.
"Ah, I forgot," she replied, "you don't understand. That is Golden
Eagle. Can't you see, he has the fragments of his saddle still tied
round his body. To think of it--and after two years."
Her companion still seemed dense.
"Golden Eagle?" he repeated questioningly. "Golden Eagle?" The name
seemed familiar but he failed to comprehend.
"Yes, yes," the girl broke out impatiently. "Golden Eagle--Peter
Retief's horse. The grandest beast that ever stepped the prairie. See,
he is keeping watch over his master's old
hiding-place--faithful--faithful to the memory of the dead."
"And this is--is the haunt of Peter Retief," Bill exclaimed, his
interest centering chiefly upon the yawning valley before him.
"Yes--follow me closely, and we'll get right along down. Say, Bill, we
must round up that animal."
For a fleeting space the man looked dubious, then, with lips pursed, and
a quiet look of resolution in his sleepy eyes, he followed in his
companion's wake. The grandeur--the solitude--the mystery and
associations, conveyed by the girl's words, of the place were upon him.
These things had set him thinking.
The tortuous course of that perilous descent occupied their full
attention, but, at length, they reached the valley in safety. Now,
indeed, was a wonderful scene disclosed. Far as the eye could reach the
great hollow extended. Deep and narrow; deep in the heart of the hills
which towered upon either side to heights, for the most part,
inaccessible, precipitous. It was a wondrous gulch, hidden and
unsuspected in the foothills, and protected by those amazing wilds, in
which the ignorant or unwary must infallibly be lost. It was a perfect
pasture, a perfect hiding-place, watered by a broad running stream;
sheltered from all cold and storm. No wonder then that the celebrated
outlaw, Peter Retief, had chosen it for his haunt and the harborage of
his ill-gotten stock.
With characteristic method the two set about "roping" the magnificent
crested horse they had come to capture. They soon found that he was
wild--timid as a hare. Their task looked as though it would be one of
some difficulty.
At first Golden Eagle raced recklessly from point to point. And so long
as this lasted his would-be captors could do little but endeavor to
"head" him from one to the other, in the hope of getting him within
range of the rope. Then he seemed suddenly to change his mind, and, with
a quick double, gallop towards the side of the great chasm. A cry of
delight escaped the girl as she saw this. The horse was making for the
mouth of a small cavern which had been boarded over, and, judging by the
door and window in the woodwork, had evidently been used as a dwelling
or a stable. It was the same instinct which led him to this place that
had caused the horse to remain for two years the solitary tenant of the
valley. The girl understood, and drew her companion's attention. The
capture at once became easy. Keeping clear of the cave they cautiously
herded their quarry towards it. Golden Eagle was docile enough until he
reached the, to him, familiar door. Then, when he found that his
pursuers still continued to press in upon him, he took alarm, and,
throwing up his head, with a wild, defiant snort he made a bolt for the
open.
Instantly two lariats whirled through the air towards the crested neck.
One missed its mark, but the other fell, true as a gun-shot over the
small, thoroughbred head. It was Jacky's rope which had found its mark.
A hitch round the horn of her saddle, and her horse threw himself back
with her forefeet braced, and faced the captive. Then the rope tightened
with a jerk which taxed its rawhide strands to their utmost. Instantly
Golden Eagle, after two years' freedom, stood still; he knew that once
more he must return to captivity.
CHAPTER VIII
TOLD IN BAD MAN'S HOLLOW
Jacky held her treasure fast. The choking grip of the running noose
quieted Golden Eagle into perfect docility. Bunning-Ford was off his
horse in a moment. Approaching the primitive dwelling he forced open the
crazy door. It was a patchwork affair and swung back on a pair of hinges
which lamented loudly as the accumulation of rust were disturbed. The
interior was essentially suggestive of the half-breed, and his guess at
its purpose had been a shrewd one. Part storehouse for forage, part
bedroom, and part stable, it presented a squalid appearance. The portion
devoted to stable-room was far in the back; the curious apparatus which
constituted the bed was placed under the window.
The man propped the door open, and then went to relieve the girl from
the strain of holding her captive. Seizing the lariat he gripped it
tightly and proceeded to pass slowly, hand over hand, towards the
beautiful, wild-eyed chestnut. Golden Eagle seemed to understand, for,
presently, the tension of the rope relaxed. For a moment the animal
looked fearfully around and snorted, then, as "Lord" Bill determinedly
attempted to lead him, he threw himself backward. His rebellion lasted
but for an instant, for, presently, drooping his proud head as though in
token of submission, he followed his captor quietly into the stable
which had always been his.
The girl dismounted, and, shortly after, "Lord" Bill rejoined her.
"Well?" she asked, her questioning eyes turned in the direction of the
cave.
"He's snug enough," Bill replied quietly, glancing at his watch. He
looked up at the chilly sky, then he seated himself on the edge of a
boulder which reposed beside the entrance to the stable. "We've just got
two hours and a half before dark," he added slowly. "That means an hour
in which to talk." Then he quietly prepared to roll a cigarette. "Now,
Jacky, let's have your yarn first; after that you shall hear mine."
He leisurely proceeded to pick over the tobacco before rolling it in the
paper. He was usually particular about his smoke. He centered his
attention upon the matter now, purposely, so as to give his companion a
chance to tell her story freely. He anticipated that what she had to
tell would affect her nearly. But his surmise of the direction in which
she would be affected proved totally incorrect. Her first words told him
this.
She hesitated only for the fraction of a second, then she plunged into
her story with a directness which was always hers.
"This is Bad Man's Hollow--he--he was my half-brother."
So the stories of the gossips were not true. Bill gave a comprehensive
nod, but offered no comment. Her statement appeared to him to need none.
It explained itself; she was speaking of Peter Retief.
"Mother was a widow when she married father--widow with one son. Mother
was a half-breed."
An impressive silence ensued. For a moment a black shadow swept across
the valley. It was a dense flight of geese winging their way back to the
north, as the warm sun melted the snow and furnished them with
well-watered feeding-grounds. The frogs were chirruping loudly down at
the edge of the stream which trickled its way ever southwards. She went
on.
"Mother and Peter settled at Foss River at different times. They never
hit it off. No one knew that there was any relationship between them up
at the camp. Mother lived in her own shack. Peter located himself
elsewhere. Guess it's only five years since I learned these things.
Peter was fifteen years older than I. I take it they made him 'bad' from
the start. Poor Peter!--still, he was my half-brother."
She conveyed a world of explanation in her last sentence. There was a
tender, far-away look in her great, sorrowful eyes as she told her jerky
story. "Lord" Bill allowed himself a side-long glance in her direction,
then he turned his eyes towards the south end of the valley and
something very like a sigh escaped him. She had struck a sympathetic
chord in his heart. He longed to comfort her.
"There's no use in reckoning up Peter's acts. You know 'em as well as I
do, Bill. He was slick--was Peter," she went on, with an inflection of
satisfaction. She was returning to a lighter manner as she contemplated
the cattle-thief's successes. "Cattle, mail-trains, mail-carts--nothing
came amiss to him. In his own line Peter was a Jo-dandy." Her face
flushed as she proceeded. The half-breed blood in her was stirred in all
its passionate strength. "But he'd never have slipped the coyote
sheriffs or the slick red-coats so long as he did without my help. Say,
Bill," leaning forward eagerly and peering into his face with her
beautiful glowing eyes, "for three years I just--just lived! Poor Peter!
Guess I'm reckoned kind of handy 'round a bunch of steers. There aren't
many who can hustle me. You know that. All the boys on the round-up know
that. And why? Because I learnt the business from Peter--and Peter
taught me to shoot quick and straight. Those three years taught me a
deal, and I take it those things didn't happen for nothing," with a
moody introspective gaze. "Those years taught me how to look after
myself--and my uncle. Say, Bill, what I'm telling you may sicken you
some. I can't help that. Peter was my brother and blood's thicker than
water. I wasn't going to let him be hunted down by a lot of bloodthirsty
coyotes who were no better than he. I wasn't going to let my mother's
flesh feed the crows from the end of a lariat. I helped Peter to steer
clear of the law--lynch at that--and if he fell at last, a victim to
the sucking muck of the muskeg, it was God's judgment and not
man's--that's good enough for me. I'd do it all again, I guess, if--if
Peter were alive."
"Peter had some shooting on the account against him," said Bill, without
raising his eyes from the contemplation of his cigarette. The girl
smiled. The smile hovered for a moment round her mouth and eyes, and
then passed, leaving her sweet, dark face bathed in the shadow of
regret. She understood the drift of his remark but in no way resented
it.
"No, Bill, I steered clear of that. I'd have shot to save Peter, but it
never came to that. Whatever shooting Peter did was done on his--lonely.
I jibbed at a frolic that meant--shooting. Peter never let me dirty my
hands to that extent. Guess I just helped him and kept him posted. If
I'd had law, they'd have called me accessory after the fact."
"Lord" Bill pondered. His lazy eyes were half-closed. He looked
indifferent but his thoughts were flowing fast. This girl's story had
given a fillup to a wild plan which had almost unconsciously found place
in his active brain. Now he raised his eyes to her face and was
astonished at the setness of its expression. She reminded him of those
women in history whose deeds had, at various periods, shaken the
foundations of empires. There was a deep, smouldering fire in her eyes,
for which only the native blood in her veins could account. Her
beautiful face was clouded beneath a somber shadow which is so often
accredited as a presage of tragedy. Surely her expression was one of a
great, passionate nature, of a soul capable of a wondrous love, or a
wondrous--hate. She had seated herself upon the ground with the careless
abandon of one used to such a resting-place. Her trim riding-boots were
displayed from beneath the hem of her coarse dungaree habit. Her Stetson
hat was pushed back on her head, leaving the broad low forehead exposed.
Her black waving hair streamed about her face, a perfect framing for
the Van Dyke coloring of her skin. She was very beautiful.
The man shifted his position.
"Tell me," he went on, gazing over towards where a flock of wild ducks
had suddenly settled upon a reedy swamp, and were noisily revelling in
the water, "did your uncle know anything about this?"
"Not a soul on God's earth knew. Did you ever suspect anything?"
Bill shook his head.
"Not a thing. I was as well posted on the subject of Peter as any one.
Sometimes I thought it curious that old John's stock and my own were
never interfered with. But I had no suspicion of the truth. Peter's
relationship to your mother--did the Breeds in the settlement know
anything of it?"
"No--I alone knew."
"Ah!"
The girl looked curiously into her companion's face. The tone of his
exclamation startled her. She wondered towards what end his questions
were leading. His face was inscrutable; she gained no inspiration from
it. There was a short pause. She wondered anxiously how her story had
affected him in regard to herself. After all, she was only a woman--a
woman of strong affections and deep feelings. Her hardihood, her mannish
self-reliance, were but outer coverings, the result of the surroundings
of her daily life. She feared lest he should turn from her in utter
loathing.
The Hon. Bunning-Ford had no such thoughts, however. Twenty-four hours
ago her story might have startled him. But now it was different. His was
as wild and reckless a nature as her own. Law and order were matters
which he regarded in the light of personal inclinations. He had seen too
much of the early life on the prairie to be horrified by the part this
courageous girl had taken in her blood-relative's interests. Under other
circumstances "Lord" Bill might well have developed into a "bad man"
himself. As it was, his sympathies were always with those whose daring
led them into ways of danger and risk of personal safety.
"How far does this valley extend?" he asked abruptly, stepping over as
though to obtain a view of the southern extremity of the mysterious
hollow.
"Guess we reckoned it 300 miles. Dead straight into the heart of the
mountains, then out again sharply into the foot-hills thirty miles south
of the border. It comes to an end in Montana."
"And Peter disposed of his stock that way--all by himself?" he asked,
returning to his seat upon the boulder.
"All by himself," the girl repeated, again wondering at the drift of his
questions. "My help only extended as far as this place. Peter used to
fatten his stock right here and then run them down into Montana. Down
there no one knew where he came from, and so wonderfully is this place
hidden that he was never traced. There is only one approach to it, and
that's across the keg. In winter that can be crossed anywhere, but no
sane persons would trust themselves in the foothills at that time of
year. For the rest it can only be crossed by the secret path. This
valley is a perfectly-hidden natural road for illicit traffic."
"Wonderful." The man permitted a smile to spread over his thin, eagle
face. "Peter's supposed to have made a pile of money."
"Yes, I guess Peter sunk a pile of dollars. He hid his bills right here
in the valley," Jacky replied, smiling back into the indolent face
before her. Then her face became serious again. "The secret of its
hiding-place died with him--it's buried deep down in the reeking keg."
"And you're sure he died in the 'reeking keg'?" There was a sharp
intonation in the question. The matter seemed to be of importance in the
story.
Jacky half started at the eagerness with which the question was put. She
paused for an instant before replying.
"I believe he died there," she said at length, like one weighing her
words well, "but it was never clearly proved. Most people think that he
simply cleared out of the country. I picked up his hat close beside the
path, and the crust of the keg had been broken. Yes, I believe he died
in the muskeg. Had he lived I should have known."
"But how comes it that Golden Eagle is still alive? Surely Peter would
never have crossed the keg on foot"
The girl looked perplexed for a moment. But her conviction was plainly
evident.
"No--he wouldn't have walked. Peter drank some."
"I see."
"Once I saved him from taking the wrong track at the point where the
path forks. He'd been drinking then. Yes," with a quiet assurance, "I
think he died in the keg."
Her companion seemed to have come to the end of his cross-examination.
He suddenly rose from his seat. The chattering of the ducks in the
distance caused him to turn his head. Then he turned again to the girl
before him. The indolence had gone from his eyes. His face was set, and
the firm pursing of his lips spoke of a determination arrived at. He
gazed down at the recumbent figure upon the ground. There was something
in his gaze which made the girl lower her eyes and look far out down the
valley.
"This brother of yours--he was tall and thin?"
The girl nodded.
"Am I right in my recollection of him when I say that he was possessed
of a dark, dark face, lantern jaws, thin--and high, prominent
cheek-bones?"
"That's so."
She faced him inquiringly as she answered his eager questions.
"Ah!"
He quickly turned again in the direction of the noisy water-fowl. Their
rollicking gambols sounded joyously on the brooding atmosphere of the
place. The wintry chill in the air was fast ousting the balmy breath of
spring. It was a warning of the lateness of the hour.
"Now listen to me," he went on presently, turning again from the
contemplation of his weird surroundings. "I lost all that was left to me
from the wreck of my little ranch this afternoon--no, not to Lablache,"
as the girl was about to pronounce the hated name, "but," with a wintry
smile, "to another friend of yours, Pedro Mancha. I also discovered,
this afternoon, the source of Lablache's phenomenal--luck. He has
systematically robbed both your uncle and myself--" He broke off with a
bitter laugh.
"My God!"
The girl had sprung to her feet in her agitation. And a rage
indescribable flamed into her face. The fury there expressed appalled
him, and he stood for a moment waiting for it to abate. What terrible
depths had he delved into? The hidden fires of a passionate nature are
more easily kept under than checked in their blasting career when once
the restraining will power is removed. For an instant it seemed that she
must choke. Then she hurled her feelings into one brief, hissing
sentence.
"Lablache--I hate him!"
And the man realized that he must continue his story.
"Yes, we lost our money not fairly, but by--cheating. I am ruined, and
your uncle--" Bill shrugged.
"My uncle--God help him!"
"I do not know the full extent of his losses, Jacky--except that they
have probably trebled mine."
"But I know to what extent the hound has robbed him," Jacky answered in
a tone of such bitter hatred as to cause her companion to glance
uneasily at the passionate young face before him. "I know, only too
well. And right thoroughly has Lablache done his work. Say, Bill, do you
know that that skunk holds mortgages on our ranch for two hundred
thousand dollars? And every bill of it is for poker. For twenty years,
right through, he has steadily sucked the old man's blood. Slick? Say a
six-year-old steer don't know more about a branding-iron than does
Verner Lablache about his business. For every dollar uncle's lost he's
made him sign a mortgage. Every bit of paper has the old man had to
redeem in that way. What he's done lately--I mean uncle--I can't say.
But Lablache held those mortgages nearly a year ago."
"Whew--" "Lord" Bill whistled under his breath. "Gee-whittaker. It's
worse than I thought. 'Poker' John's losses during the last winter, to
my knowledge, must have amounted to nearly six figures--the devil!"
"Ruin, ruin, ruin!"
The girl for a moment allowed womanly feeling to overcome her, for, as
her companion added his last item to the vast sum which she had quoted,
she saw, in all its horrible nakedness, the truth of her uncle's
position. Then she suddenly forced back the tears which had struggled
into her eyes, and, with indomitable courage, faced the catastrophe.
"But can't we fight him--can't we give him--"
"Law? I'm afraid not," Bill interrupted. "Once a mortgage is signed the
debt is no longer a gambling debt. Law is of no use to us, especially
here on the prairie. There is only one law which can save us. Lablache
must disgorge."
"Yes--yes! For every dollar he has stolen let him pay ten."
The passionate fire in her eyes burned more steadily now. It was the
fire which is unquenchable--the fire of a lasting hate, vengeful,
terrible. Then her tone dropped to a contemplative soliloquy.
"But how?" she murmured, looking away towards the stream in the heart of
the valley, as though in search of inspiration.
Bunning-Ford smiled as he heard the half-whispered question. But his
smile was not pleasant to look upon. All the latent recklessness which
might have made of him a good soldier or a great scoundrel was roused in
him. He was passing the boundary which divides the old Adam, which is in
every man, from the veneer of early training. He was
mutely--unconsciously--calling to his aid the savage instincts which the
best of men are not without. His face expressed something of what was
passing within his active brain, and the girl before him, as she turned
and watched the working features, usually so placid--indifferent, knew
that she was to see a side of his character always suspected by her but
never before made apparent. His thoughts at last found vent in words of
almost painful intensity.
"How?" he said, repeating the question as though it had been addressed
to himself. "He shall pay--pay! Everlastingly pay! So long as I have
life--and liberty, he shall pay!"
Then as if anticipating a request for explanation he told her the means
by which Lablache had consistently cheated. The girl listened,
speechless with amazement. She hung upon his every word. At the
conclusion of his story she put an abrupt question.
"And you gave no sign? He doesn't suspect that you know?"
"He suspects nothing."
"Good. You are real smart, Bill. Yes, shooting's no good. This is no
case for shooting. What do you propose? I see you mean business."
The man was still smiling but his smile had suddenly changed to one of
kindly humor.
"First of all Jacky," he said, taking a step towards her, "I can do
nothing without your help. I propose that you share this task with me.
No, no, I don't mean in that way," as she commenced to assure him of her
assistance. "What I mean is that--that I love you, dear. I want you to
give me the right to protect--your uncle."
He finished up with his hands stretched out towards her. Golden Eagle
stirred in his stable, and the two heard him whinny as if in approval.
Then as the girl made no answer Bill went on: "Jacky, I am a ruined man.
I have nothing, but I love you better than life itself. We now have a
common purpose in life. Let us work together."
His voice sank to a tender whisper. He loved this motherless girl who
was fighting the battle of life single-handed against overwhelming
odds, with all the strength of his nature. He had loved her ever since
she had reached woman's estate. In asking for a return of his affections
now he fully realized the cruelty of his course. He knew that the
future--his future--was to be given up to the pursuit of a terrible
revenge. And he knew that, in linking herself with him, she would
perforce be dragged into whatever wrong-doing his contemplated revenge
might lead him. And yet he dared not pause. It all seemed so plain--so
natural--that they should journey through the crooked, paths of the
future together. Was she not equally determined upon a terrible revenge?
He waited in patience for his answer. Suddenly she looked up into his
face and gently placed her hands in his. Her answer came with simple
directness.
"Do you really, Bill? I am glad--yes, glad right through. I love you,
too. Say, you're sure you don't think badly of me because--because I'm
Peter's sister?"
There was a smiling, half-tearful look in her eyes--those expressive
eyes which, but a moment before, had burnt with a vengeful fire--as she
asked the question. After all her nature was wondrously simple.
"Why should I, dear?" he replied, bending and kissing the gauntleted
hands which rested so lovingly in his. "My life has scarcely been a
Garden of Eden before the Fall. And I don't suppose my future, even
should I escape the laws of man, is likely to be most creditable. Your
past is your own--I have no right nor wish to criticise. Henceforth we
are united in a common cause. Our hand is turned against one whose power
in this part of the country is almost absolute. When we have wrested his
property from him, to the uttermost farthing, we will cry quits--"
"And on the day that sees Lablache's downfall, Bill, I will become your
wife."
There was a pause. Then Bill drew her towards him and they sealed the
compact with one long embrace. They were roused to the matters of the
moment by another whinny from Golden Eagle, who was chafing at his
forced imprisonment.
The two stood back from one another, hand in hand, and smiled as they
listened to the tuneful plaint. Then the man unfolded a wonderful plan
to this girl whom he loved. Her willing ears drank in the details like
one whose heart is set with a great purpose. They also talked of their
love in their own practical way. There was little display of sentiment.
They understood without that. Their future was not alluring, unless
something of the man's strange plan appealed to the wild nature of the
prairie which, by association, has somehow become affiliated with
theirs. In that quiet, evening-lit valley these two people arranged to
set aside the laws of man and deal out justice as they understood it. An
eye for an eye--a tooth for a tooth; fortune favoring, a cent, per cent,
interest in each case. The laws of the prairie, in those days always
uncertain, were more often governed by human passions than the calm
equity of unbiased jurymen. And who shall say that their idea of justice
was wrong? Two "wrongs," it has been said, do not make one "right." But
surely it is not a human policy when smote upon one cheek to turn the
other for a similar chastisement.
"Then we leave Golden Eagle where he is," said Jacky, as she remounted
her horse and they prepared to return home.
"Yes. I will see to him," Bill replied, urging his horse into a canter
towards the winding ascent which was to take them home.
The ducks frolicking in their watery playground chattered and flapped
their heavy wings. The frogs in their reedy beds croaked and chirruped
without ceasing. And who shall say how much they had heard, or had seen,
or knew of that compact sealed in Bad Man's Hollow?
CHAPTER IX
LABLACHE'S "COUP"
Lablache was seated in a comfortable basket chair in his little back
office. He preferred a basket chair--he knew its value. He had tried
other chairs of a less yielding nature, but they were useless to support
his weight; he had broken too many, and they were expensive--there is
nothing more durable than a strong basket chair. Lablache appreciated
strength combined with durability, especially when the initial outlay
was reduced to a minimum.
His slippered feet were posted on the lower part of the self-feeding
stove and he gazed down, deep in thought, at the lurid glow of the fire
shining through the mica sides of the firebox.
A clock was ticking away with that peculiar, vibrating aggressiveness
which characterizes the cheap American "alarm." The bare wood of the
desk aggravated the sound, and, in the stillness of the little room, the
noise pounded exasperatingly on the ear-drums. From time to time he
turned his great head, and his lashless eyes peered over at the paper
dial of the clock. Once or twice he stirred with a suggestion of
impatience. At times his heavy breathing became louder and shorter, and
he seemed about to give expression to some irritable thought.
At last his bulk heaved and he removed his feet from the stove. Then he
slowly raised himself from the depths of the yielding chair. His
slippered feet shuffled over the floor as he moved towards the window.
The blind was down, but he drew it aside and wiped the steam from the
glass pane with his soft, fat hand. The night was black--he could see
nothing of the outside world. It was nearly an hour since he had left
the saloon where he had been playing poker with John Allandale. He
appeared to be waiting for some one, and he wanted to go to bed.
Once more he returned to his complaining chair and lowered himself into
it. The minutes slipped by. Lablache did not want to smoke; he felt that
he must do something to soothe his impatience, so he chewed at the
quicks of his finger-nails.
Presently there came a tap at the window. The money-lender ponderously
rose, and, cautiously opening the door, admitted the dark, unkempt form
of Pedro Mancha. There was no greeting; neither spoke until Lablache had
again secured the door. Then the money-lender turned his fishy eyes and
mask-like face to the newcomer. He did not suggest that his visitor
should sit down. He merely looked with his cold, cruel eyes, and spoke.
"Well?--been drinking."
The latter part of his remark was an assertion. He knew the Mexican
well. The fellow had an expressive countenance, unlike most of his race,
and the least sign of drink was painfully apparent upon it. The man was
not drunk but his wild eyes testified to his recent libations.
"Guess you've hit it right thar," he retorted indifferently.
It was noticeable that this man had adopted the high-pitched, keen tone
and pronounced accent of the typical "South-Westerner." In truth he was
a border Mexican; a type of man closely allied to the "greaser." He was
a perfect scoundrel, who had doubtless departed from his native land for
the benefit of that fair but swarming hornet's nest.
"It's a pity when you have business on hand you can't leave that 'stuff'
alone."
Lablache made no effort to conceal his contempt. He even allowed his
mask-like face to emphasize his words.
"You're almighty pertickler, mister. You ask for dirty work to be done,
an' when that dirty work's done, gorl-darn-it you croak like a
flannel-mouthed temperance lecturer. Guess I came hyar to talk straight
biz. Jest leave the temperance track, an' hit the main trail."
Pedro's face was not pretty to look upon. The ring of white round the
pupils of his eyes gave an impression of insanity or animal ferocity.
The latter was his chief characteristic. His face was thin and scored
with scars, mainly long and narrow. These, in a measure, testified to
his past. His mouth, half hidden beneath a straggling mustache, was his
worst feature. One can only liken it to a blubber-lipped gash, lined
inside with two rows of yellow fangs, all in a more or less bad state of
decay.
The two men eyed one another steadily for a moment. Lablache could in no
way terrorize this desperado. Like all his kind this man was ready to
sell his services to any master, provided the forthcoming price of such
services was sufficiently exorbitant. He was equally ready to play his
employer up should any one else offer a higher price. But Lablache, when
dealing with such men, took no chances. He rarely employed this sort of
man, preferring to do his own dirty work, but when he did, he knew it
was policy to be liberal. Pedro served him well as a rule, consequently
the Mexican was enabled to ruffle it with the best in the settlement,
whilst people wondered where he got his money from. Somehow they never
thought of Lablache being the source of this man's means; the
money-lender was not fond of parting.
"You are right, I am particular. When I pay for work to be done I don't
want gassing over a bar. I know what you are when the whisky is in you."
Lablache stood with his great back to the fire watching his man from
beneath his heavy lids. Bad as he was himself the presence of this man
filled him with loathing. Possibly deep down, somewhere in that organ he
was pleased to consider his heart, he had a faint glimmer of respect for
an honest man. The Mexican laughed harshly.
"Guess all you know of me, mister, wouldn't make a pile o' literature.
But say, what's the game to-night?"
Lablache was gnawing his fingers.
"How much did you take from the Honorable?" he asked sharply.
"You told me to lift his boodle. Time was short--he wouldn't play for
long."
"I'm aware of that. How much?"
Lablache's tone was abrupt and peremptory. Mancha was trying to estimate
what he should be paid for his work.
"See hyar, I guess we ain't struck no deal yet. What do you propose to
pay me?"
The Mexican was sharp but he was no match for his employer. He fancied
he saw a good deal over this night's work.
"You played on paper, I know," said the money-lender, quietly. He was
quite unmoved by the other's display of cunning. It pleased him rather
than otherwise. He knew he held all the cards in his hands--he generally
did in dealing with men of this stamp. "To you, the amounts he lost are
not worth the paper they are written on. You could never realize them.
He couldn't meet 'em."
Lablache leisurely took a pinch of snuff from his snuff-box. He coughed
and sneezed voluminously. His indifferent coolness, his air of
patronage, aggravated the Mexican while it alarmed him. The deal he
anticipated began to assume lesser proportions.
"Which means, I take it, you've a notion you'd like the feel of those
same papers."
Mancha had come to drive a bargain. He was aware that the I.O.U.'s he
held would take some time to realize on, in the proper quarter, but, at
the same time, he was quite aware of the fact that Bunning-Ford would
ultimately meet them.
Lablache shrugged his shoulders with apparent indifference--he meant to
have them.
"What do you want for the debts? I am prepared to buy--at a reasonable
figure."
The Mexican propped himself comfortably upon the corner of the desk.
"Say, guess we're talkin' biz, now. His 'lordship' is due to ante up the
trifle of seven thousand dollars--"
The fellow was rummaging in an inside pocket for the slips of paper. His
eyes never left his companion's face. The amount startled Lablache, but
he did not move a muscle.
"You did your work well, Pedro," he said, allowing himself, for the
first time in this conversation, to recognize that the Mexican had a
name. He warmed towards a man who was capable of doing another down for
such a sum in such a short space of time. "I'll treat you well. Two
thousand spot cash, and you hand over the I.O.U.'s. What say? Is it a
go?"
"Be damned to you. Two thousand for a certain seven? Not me. Say, what
d'ye do with the skin when you eat a bananny? Sole your boots with it?
Gee-whiz! You do fling your bills around."
The Mexican laughed derisively as he jammed the papers back into his
pocket. But he knew that he would have to sell at the other's price.
Lablache moved heavily towards his desk. Selecting a book he opened it
at a certain page.
"You can keep them if you like. But you may as well understand your
position. What's Bunning-Ford worth? What's his ranch worth?"
The other suggested a figure much below the real value.
"It's worth more than that. Fifty thousand if it's worth a cent,"
Lablache said expansively. "I don't want to do you, my friend, but as
you said we're talking business now. Here is his account with me, you
see," pointing to the entries. "I hold thirty-five thousand on first
mortgage and twenty thousand on bill of sale. In all fifty-five
thousand, and his interest twelve months in arrears. Now, you refuse to
part with those papers at my price, and I'll sell him up. You will then
get not one cent of your money."
The money-lender permitted himself to smile a grim, cold smile. He had
been careful to make no mention of Bunning-Ford's further assets. He had
quite forgotten to speak of a certain band of cattle which he knew his
intended victim to possess. It was a well-known thing that Lablache knew
more of the financial affairs of the people of the settlement than any
one else; doubtless the Mexican thought only of "Lord" Bill's ranch.
Mancha shifted his position uneasily. But there was a cunning look on
his face as he retorted swiftly,--
"You're a'mighty hasty to lay your hands on his reckoning. How's it that
you're ready to part two thou' for 'em?"
There was a moment's silence as the two men eyed each other. It seemed
as if each were endeavoring to fathom the other's thoughts. Then the
money-lender spoke, and his voice conveyed a concentration of hate that
bit upon the air with an incisiveness which startled his companion.
"Because I intend to crush him as I would a rattlesnake. Because I wish
to ruin him so that he will be left in my debt. So that I can hound him
from this place by holding that debt over his head. It is worth two
thousand to me to possess that power. Now, will you part?"
This explanation appealed to the worst side of the Mexican's nature.
This hatred was after his own heart. Lablache was aware that such would
be the case. That is why he made it. He was accustomed to play upon the
feelings of people with whom he dealt--as well as their pocket. Pedro
Mancha grinned complacently. He thought he understood his employer.
"Hand over the bills. Guess I'll part. The price is slim, but it's not a
bad deal."
Lablache oozed over to the safe. He opened it, keeping one heavy eye
upon his companion. He took no chances--he trusted no one, especially
Pedro Mancha. Presently he returned with a roll of notes. It contained
the exact amount. The Mexican watched him hungrily as he counted out the
green-backed bills. His lips moistened beneath his mustache--his eyes
looked wilder than ever. Lablache understood his customer thoroughly. A
loaded revolver was in his own coat pocket. It is probable that the
brown-faced desperado knew this.
At last the money-lender held out the money. He held out both hands, one
to give and the other to receive. Pedro passed him the I.O.U.'s and took
the bills. One swift glance assured Lablache that the coveted papers
were all there. Then he pointed to the door.
"Our transaction is over. Go!"
He had had enough of his companion. He had no hesitation in thus
peremptorily dismissing him.
"You're in a pesky hurry to get rid of me. See hyar, pard, you'd best be
civil. Your dealin's ain't a sight cleaner than mine."
"I'm waiting." Lablache's tone was coldly commanding. His lashless eyes
gazed steadily into the other's face. Something the Mexican saw in them
impelled him towards the door. He moved backwards, keeping his face
turned towards the money-lender. At this moment Lablache was at his
best. His was a dominating personality. There was no cowardice in his
nature--at least no physical cowardice. Doubtless, had it come to a
struggle where agility was required, he would have fallen an easy prey
to his lithe companion; but with him, somehow, it never did come to a
struggle. He had a way with him that chilled any such thought that a
would-be assailant might have. Will and unflinching courage are splendid
assets. And, amongst others, this man possessed both.
Mancha slunk back to the door, and, fumbling at the lock, opened it and
passed out. Lablache instantly whipped out a revolver, and, stepping
heavily on one side, advanced to the door, paused and listened. He was
well under cover. The door was open. He was behind it. He knew better
than to expose himself in the light for Mancha to make a target of him
from without. Then he kicked the door to. Making a complete circuit of
the walls of the office he came to the opposite side of the door, where
he swiftly locked and bolted it. Then he drew an iron shutter across the
light panelling and secured it.
"Good," he muttered, as, sucking in a heavy breath, he returned to the
stove and turned his back to it. "It's as well to understand Mexican
nature."
Then he lounged into his basket chair and rubbed his fleshy hands
reflectively. There was a triumphant look upon his repulsive features.
"Quite right, friend Pedro, it's not a bad deal," he said to himself,
blinking at the red light of the fire. "Not half bad. Seven thousand
dollars for two thousand dollars, and every cent of it realizable." He
shook with inward mirth. "The Hon. William Bunning-Ford will now have to
disgorge every stick of his estate. Good, good!"
Then he relapsed into deep thought. Presently he roused himself from his
reverie and prepared for bed.
"But I'll give him a chance. Yes, I'll give him a chance," he muttered,
as, after undergoing the simple operation of removing his coat, he
stretched himself upon his bed and drew the blankets about him. "If
he'll consent to renounce any claim, fancied or otherwise, he may have
to Joaquina Allandale's regard I'll refrain from selling him up. Yes,
Verner Lablache will forego his money--for a time."
The great bed shook as the monumental money-lender suppressed a chuckle.
Then he turned over, and his stertorous inhalations soon suggested that
the great man slept.
Shylock, the Jew, determined on having his pound of flesh. But a woman
outwitted him.
CHAPTER X
"AUNT" MARGARET REFLECTS
It was almost dark when Jacky returned to the ranch. She had left "Lord"
Bill at the brink of the great keg, whence he had returned to his own
place. Her first thought, on entering the house, was for the letter
which she had left for her uncle. It was gone. She glanced round the
room uncertainly. Then she stood gazing into the stove, while she idly
drummed with her gauntleted fingers upon the back of a chair. She had as
yet removed neither her Stetson hat nor her gauntlets.
Her strong, dark face was unusually varying in its expression. Possibly
her thoughts were thus indexed. Now, as she stood watching the play of
the fire, her great, deep eyes would darken with a grave, almost anxious
expression; again they would smile with a world of untold happiness in
their depths. Again they would change, in a flash, to a hard, cold gleam
of hatred and unyielding purpose; then slowly, a tender expression, such
as that of a mother for Her new-born babe, would creep into them and
shine down into the depths of the fire with a world of sweet sympathy.
But through all there was a tight compression of the lips, which spoke
of the earnest purpose which governed her thoughts; a slight pucker of
the brows, which surely told of a great concentration of mind.
Presently she roused herself, and, walking to where a table-bell stood,
rang sharply upon it. Her summons was almost immediately answered by the
entry of a servant.
Jacky turned as the door opened, and fired an abrupt question.
"Has Uncle John been in, Mamie?"
The girl's face had resumed its usual strong, kindly expression.
Whatever was hidden behind that calm exterior, she had no intention of
giving a chance observer any clew to it.
"No, miss," the servant replied, in that awestruck tone which domestics
are apt to use when sharply interrogated. She was an intelligent-looking
girl. Her dark skin and coarse black hair pronounced her a half-breed.
Her mistress had said "blood is thicker than water." All the domestics
under Jacky's charge hailed from the half-breed camp.
"Was my message delivered to him?"
Unconcernedly as she spoke she waited with some anxiety for the answer.
"Oh, yes, miss. Silas delivered it himself. The master was in company
with Mr. Lablache and the doctor, miss," added the girl, discreetly.
"And what did he say?"
"He sent Silas for the letter, miss."
"He didn't say what time he would return, I suppose?"
"No, miss--" She hesitated and fumbled at the door handle.
"Well?" as the girl showed by her attitude that there was something she
had left unsaid.
Jacky's question rang acutely in the quiet room.
"Silas--" began the girl, with a deprecating air of unbelief--"you know
what strange notions he takes--he said--"
The girl stopped in confusion under the steady gaze of her mistress.
"Speak up, girl," exclaimed Jacky, impatiently. "What is it?"
"Oh, nothing, miss," the girl blurted out desperately. "Only Silas said
as the master didn't seem well like."
"Ah! That will do." Then, as the girl still stood at the door, "You can
go."
The dismissal was peremptory, and the half-breed had no choice but to
depart. She had hoped to have heard something interesting, but her
mistress was never given to being communicative with servants.
When the door had closed behind the half-breed Jacky turned again
towards the stove. Again she was plunged in deep thought. This time
there could be no mistake as to its tenor. Her heart was racked with an
anxiety which was not altogether new to it. The sweet face was pale and
her eyelids flickered ominously. The servant's veiled meaning was quite
plain to her. Brave, hardy as this girl of the prairie was, the fear
that was ever in her heart had suddenly assumed the proportions of a
crushing reality. She loved her uncle with an affection that was almost
maternal. It was the love of a strong, resolute nature for one of a
kindly but weak disposition. She loved the gray-headed old man, whose
affection had made her life one long, long day of happiness, with a
tenderness which no recently-acquired faults of his could alienate.
He--and now another--was her world. A world in which it was her joy to
dwell. And now--now; what of the present? Racked by losses brought about
through the agency of his all-absorbing passion, the weak old man was
slowly but surely taking to drowning his consciousness of the appalling
calamity which he had consistently set to work to bring about, and which
in his lucid moments he saw looming heavily over his house, in drink.
She had watched him with the never-failing eye of love, and had seen, to
her horror, the signs she so dreaded. She could face disaster stoically,
she could face danger unflinchingly, but this moral wrecking of the old
man, who had been more to her than a father, was more than she could
bear. Two great tears welled up into her beautiful, somber eyes and
slowly rolled down her cheeks. She bowed like a willow bending to the
force of the storm.
Her weakness was only momentary, however; her courage, bred from the
wildness of her life surroundings, rose superior to her feminine
weakness. She dashed her gloved hands across her eyes and wiped the
tears away. She felt that she must be doing--not weeping. Had not she
sealed a solemn compact with her lover? She must to work without delay.
She glanced round the room. Her gaze was that of one who wishes to
reassure herself. It was as if the old life had gone from her and she
was about to embark on a career new--foreign to her. A career in which
she could see no future--only the present. She felt like one taking a
long farewell to a life which had been fraught with nothing but delight.
The expression of her face told of the pain of the parting. With a heavy
sigh she passed out of the room--out into the chill night air, where
even the welcome sounds of the croaking frogs and the lowing cattle were
not. Where nothing was to cheer her for the work which in the future
must be hers. Something of that solemn night entered her soul. The gloom
of disaster was upon her.
It was only a short distance to Dr. Abbot's house. The darkness of the
night was no hindrance to the girl. Hither she made her way with the
light, springing step of one whose mind is made up to a definite
purpose.
She found Mrs. Abbot in. The little sitting-room in the doctor's house
was delightfully homelike and comfortable. There was nothing pretentious
about it--just solid comfort. And the great radiating stove in the
center of it smelt invitingly warm to the girl as she came in out of the
raw night air. Mrs. Abbot was alternating between a basket of sewing and
a well-worn, cheap-edition novel. The old lady was waiting with
patience, the outcome of experience, for the return of her lord to his
supper.
"Well, 'Aunt' Margaret," said Jacky, entering with the confidence of an
assured welcome, "I've come over for a good gossip. There's nobody at
home--up there," with a nod in the direction of the ranch.
"My dear child, I'm so pleased," exclaimed Mrs. Abbot, coming forward
from her rather rigid seat, and kissing the girl on both cheeks with
old-fashioned cordiality. "Come and sit by the stove--yes, take that
hideous hat off, which, by the way, I never could understand your
wearing. Now, when John and I were first en--"
"Yes, yes, dear. I know what you're going to say," interrupted the girl,
smiling in spite of the dull aching at her heart. She knew how this
sweet old lady lived in the past, and she also knew how, to a
sympathetic ear, she loved to pour out the delights of memory from a
heart overflowing with a strong affection for the man of her choice.
Jacky had come here to talk of other matters, and she knew that when
"Aunt" Margaret liked she could be very shrewd and practical.
Something in the half-wistful smile of her companion brought the old
lady quickly back from the realms of recollection, and a pair of keen,
kindly eyes met the steady gray-black orbs of the girl.
"Ah, Jacky, my child, we of the frivolous sex are always being forced
into considering the mundane matters of everyday life here at Foss
River. What is it, dear? I can see by your face that you are worrying
over something."
The girl threw herself into an easy chair, drawn up to the glowing stove
with careful forethought by the old lady. Mrs. Abbot reseated herself in
the straight-backed chair she usually affected. She carefully put her
book on one side and took up some darning, assiduously inserting the
needle but without further attempt at work. It was something to fix her
attention on whilst talking. Old Mrs. Abbot always liked to be able to
occupy her hands when talking seriously. And Jacky's face told her that
this was a moment for serious conversation.
"Where's the Doc?" the girl asked without preamble. She knew, of course,
but she used the question by way of making a beginning.
The old lady imperceptibly straightened her back. She now anticipated
the reason of her companion's coming. She glanced over the top of a pair
of gold _pince-nez_, which she had just settled comfortably upon the
bridge of her pretty, broad nose.
"He's down at the saloon playing poker. Why, dear?"
Her question was so innocent, but Jacky was not for a moment deceived by
its tone. The girl smiled plaintively into the fire. There was no
necessity for her to disguise her feelings before "Aunt" Margaret, she
knew. But her loyal nature shrank from flaunting her uncle's weaknesses
before even this kindly soul. She kept her fencing attitude a little
longer, however.
"Who is he playing with?" Jacky raised a pair of inquiring gray eyes to
her companion's face.
"Your uncle and--Lablache."
The shrewd old eyes watched the girl's face keenly. But Jacky gave no
sign.
"Will you send for him, 'Aunt' Margaret?" said the girl, quietly.
"Without letting him know that I am here," she added, as an
afterthought.
"Certainly, dear," the old lady replied, rising with alacrity. "Just
wait a moment while I send word. Keewis hasn't gone to his teepee yet. I
set him to clean some knives just now. He can go. These Indians are
better messengers than they are domestics." Mrs. Abbot bustled out of
the room.
She returned a moment later, and, drawing her chair beside that of the
girl, seated herself and rested one soft white hand on those of her
companion, which were reposing clasped in the lap of her dungaree skirt.
"Now, tell me, dear--tell me all about it--I know, it is your uncle."
The sympathy of her tone could never have been conveyed in mere words.
This woman's heart expressed its kindliness in voice and eyes. There was
no resisting her, and Jacky made no effort to do so.
For one instant there flashed into the girl's face a look of utter
distress. She had come purposely to talk plainly to the woman whom she
had lovingly dubbed "Aunt Margaret," but she found it very hard when it
came to the point, She cast about in her mind for a beginning, then
abandoned the quest and blurted out lamely the very thing from which she
most shrank.
"Say, auntie, you've observed uncle lately--I mean how strange he is?
You've noticed how often, now, he is--is not himself?"
"Whisky," said the old lady, uncompromisingly. "Yes, dear, I have. It is
quite the usual thing to smell' old man Smith's vile liquor when John
Allandale is about. I'm glad you've spoken. I did not like to say
anything to you about it. John's on a bad trail."
"Yes, and a trail with a long, downhill gradient," replied Jacky, with a
rueful little smile. "Say, aunt," she went on, springing suddenly to her
feet and confronting the old lady's mildly-astonished gaze, "isn't there
anything we can do to stop him? What is it? This poker and whisky are
ruining him body and soul. Is the whisky the result of his losses? Or is
the madness for a gamble the result of the liquor?"
"Neither the one--nor the other, my dear. It is--Lablache."
The older woman bent over her darning, and the needle passed, rippling,
round a "potato" in the sock which was in her lap. Her eyes were
studiously fixed upon the work.
"Lablache--Lablache! It is always Lablache, whichever way I turn.
Gee--but the whole country reeks of him. I tell you right here, aunt,
that man's worse than scurvy in our ranching world. Everybody and
everything in Foss River seems to be in his grip."
"Excepting a certain young woman who refuses to be ensnared."
The words were spoken quite casually. But Jacky started. Their meaning
was driven straight home. She looked down upon the bent, gray head as if
trying to penetrate to the thought that was passing within. There was a
moment's impressive silence. The clock ticked loudly in the silence of
the room. A light wind was whistling rather shrilly outside, round the
angles of the house.
"Go on, auntie," said the girl, slowly. "You haven't said enough--yet. I
guess you're thinking mighty--deeply."
Mrs. Abbot looked up from her work. She was smiling, but behind that
smile there was a strange gravity in the expression of her eyes.
"There is nothing more to say at present." Then she added, in a tone
from which all seriousness had vanished, "Hasn't Lablache ever asked you
to marry him?"
A light was beginning to dawn upon the girl.
"Yes--why?"
"I thought so." It was now Mrs. Abbot's turn to rise and confront her
companion. And she did so with the calm manner of one who is assured
that what she is about to say cannot be refuted. Her kindly face had
lost nothing of its sweet expression, only there was something in it
which seemed to be asking a mute question, whilst her words conveyed the
statement of a case as she knew it. "You dear, foolish people. Can you
not see what is going on before your very eyes, or must a stupid old
woman like myself explain what is patent to the veriest fool in the
settlement? Lablache is the source of your uncle's trouble, and,
incidentally, you are the incentive. I have watched--I have little else
to do in Foss River--you all for years past, and there is little that I
could not tell you about any of you, as far as the world sees you.
Lablache has been a source of a world of thought to me. The business
side of him is patent to everybody. He is hard, flinty, tyrannical--even
unscrupulous. I am telling you nothing new, I know. But there is another
side to his character which some of you seem to ignore. He is capable of
strong passions--ay, very strong passions. He has conceived a passion
for you. I will call it by no other name in such an unholy brute as
Lablache. He wishes to marry _you--he means to marry you_."
The silver-haired old lady had worked herself up to an unusual
vehemence. She paused after accentuating her last words. Jacky, taking
advantage of the break, dropped in a question.
"But--how does this affect my uncle?"
"Aunt" Margaret sniffed disdainfully and resettled the glasses which, in
the agitation of the moment, had slipped from her nose.
"Of course it affects your uncle," she continued more quietly. "Now
listen and I will explain." Once more these two seated themselves and
"Aunt" Margaret again plunged into her story.
"Sometimes I catch myself speculating as to how it comes about that you
have inspired this passion in such a man as Lablache," she began,
glancing into the somberly beautiful face beside her. "I should have
expected that mass of flesh and money--he always reminds me of a
jelly-fish, my dear--ugh!--to have wished to take to himself one of your
gaudy butterflies from New York or London for a wife; not a simple child
of the prairie who is more than half a wild--wild savage." She smiled
lovingly into the girl's face. "You see these coarse money-grubbers
always prefer their pills well gilded, and, as a rule, their matrimonial
pills need a lot of gilding to bring them up to the standard of what
they think a wife should be. However, it was not long before it became
plain to me that he wished to marry you. He may be a master of finance;
he may disguise his feelings--if he has any--in business, so that the
shrewdest observer can discover no vulnerable point in his armor of
dissimulation. But when it comes to matters pertaining
to--to--love--quite the wrong word in his case, my dear--these men are
as babes; worse, they are fools. When Lablache makes up his mind to a
purpose he generally accomplishes his end--"
"In business," suggested Jacky, moodily.
"Just so--in business, my dear. In matters matrimonial it may be
different. But I doubt his failure in that," went on Mrs. Abbot, with a
decided snap of her expressive mouth. "He will try by fair means or
foul, and, if I know anything of him, he will never relinquish his
purpose. He asked you to marry him--and of course you refused, quite
natural and right. He will not risk another refusal from you--these
people consider themselves very sensitive, my dear--so he will attempt
to accomplish his end by other means--means much more congenial to him,
the--the beast. There now, I've said it, my dear. The doctor tells me
that he is quite the most skilful player at poker that he has ever come
across."
"I guess that's so," said the girl, with a dark, ironical smile.
"And that his luck is phenomenal," the old lady went on, without
appearing to notice the interruption. "Very well. Your uncle, the old
fool--excuse me, my dear--has done nothing but gamble all his life. The
doctor says that he believes John has never been known to win more than
about once in a month's play, no matter with whom he plays. You know--we
all know--that for years he has been in the habit of raising loans from
this monumental cuttle-fish to settle his losses. And you can trust that
individual to see that these loans are well secured. John Allandale is
reputed very rich, but the doctor assures me that were Lablache to
foreclose his mortgages a very, very big slice of your uncle's worldly
goods would be taken to meet his debts.
"Now comes the last stage of the affair," she went on, with a sage
little shake of the head. "How long ago is it since Lablache proposed to
you? But there, you need not tell me. It was a little less than a year
ago--wasn't it?"
Her companion nodded her head. She wondered how "Aunt" Margaret had
guessed it. She had never told a soul herself. The shrewd little old
lady was filling her with wonder. The careful manner in which she had
pieced facts together and argued them out with herself revealed to her
a cleverness and observation she would never, in spite of the kindly
soul's counsels, have given her credit for.
"Yes, I knew I was right," said Mrs. Abbot, complacently. "Just about
the time when Lablache began seriously to play poker--about the time
when his phenomenal luck set in, to the detriment of your uncle. Yes, I
am well posted," as the girl raised her eyebrows in surprise. "The
doctor tells me a great deal--especially about your uncle, dear. I
always like to know what is going on. And now to bring my long
explanation to an end. Don't you see how Lablache intends to marry you?
Your uncle's losses this winter have been so terribly heavy--and all to
Lablache. Lablache holds the whip hand of him. A request from Lablache
becomes a command--or the crash."
"But how about the Doc," asked Jacky, quickly. "He plays with
them--mostly?"
Mrs. Abbot shrugged her shoulders.
"The doctor can take care of himself. He's cautious, and
besides--Lablache has no wish to win his money."
"But surely he must lose? Say, auntie, dear, it's not possible to play
against Lablache's luck without losing--some."
"Well, dear, I can't say I know much of the game," with some perplexity,
"but the doctor assures me that Lablache never hits him hard. Often and
often when the 'pot' rests between them Lablache will throw down his
hand--which goes to show that he does not want to take his money."
"An' I reckon goes to show that he's bucking dead against Uncle John,
only. Yes, I see."
The little gray head again bent over the darning, which had lain almost
untouched in her lap during her long recital. Now she resolutely drew
the darning yarn through the soft wool of the sock and re-inserted the
needle. The girl beside her bent an eager face before her, and, resting
her chin upon her hands, propped her elbows on her knees.
"Yes, auntie, I know," Jacky went on thoughtfully. "Lablache means to
put this marriage with me right through. I see it all. But say,"
bringing one of her brown hands down forcibly upon that of her
companion, which was concealed in the foot of the woolen sock, and
gripping it with nervous strength, "I guess he's reckoned without his
bride. I'm not going to marry Lablache, auntie, dear, and you can bet
your bottom dollar I'm not going to let him ruin uncle. All I want to do
is to stop uncle drinking. That is what scares me most."
"My child, Lablache is the cause of that. The same as he is the cause of
all troubles in Foss River. Your uncle realizes the consequences of the
terrible losses he has incurred. He knows, only too well, that he is
utterly in the money-lender's power. He knows he must go on playing,
vainly endeavoring to recover himself, and with each fresh loss he
drinks deeper to smother his fears and conscience. It is the result of
the weakness of his nature--a weakness which I have always known would
sooner or later lead to his undoing. Jacky, girl, I fear you will one
day have to marry Lablache or your uncle's ruin will be certainly
accomplished."
Mrs. Abbot's face was very serious now. She pitied from the bottom of
her heart this motherless girl who had come to her, in spite of her
courage and almost mannish independence, for that sympathy and advice
which, at certain moments, the strongest woman cannot do without. She
knew that all she had said was right, and even if her story could do no
material good it would at least have the effect of putting the girl on
her guard. In spite of her shrewdness Mrs. Abbot could never quite
fathom her _protégée_. And even now, as she gazed into the girl's face,
she was wondering how--in what manner--the narration of her own
observations would influence the other's future actions. The thick blood
of the half-breed slowly rose into Jacky's face, until the dark skin was
suffused with a heavy, passionate flush. Slowly, too, the somber eyes
lit--glowed--until the dazzling fire of anger shone in their depths.
Then she spoke; not passionately, but with a hard, cruel delivery which
sent a shiver thrilling through her companion's body and left her
shuddering.
"'Aunt' Margaret, I swear by all that's holy that I'll never marry that
scum. Say, I'd rather follow a round-up camp and share a greaser's
blankets than wear all the diamonds Lablache could buy. An' as for
uncle; say, the day that sees him ruined'll see Lablache's filthy brains
spoiling God's pure air."
"Child, child," replied the old lady, in alarm, "don't take oaths, the
rashness--the folly of which you cannot comprehend. For goodness' sake
don't entertain such wicked thoughts. Lablache is a villain, but--"
She broke off and turned towards the door, which, at that moment, opened
to admit the genial doctor.
"Ah," she went on, with a sudden change of manner back to that of her
usual cheerful self, "I thought you men were going to make a night of
it. Jacky came to share my solitude."
"Good evening, Jacky," said the doctor. "Yes, we were going to make a
night of it, Margaret. Your summons broke up the party, and for John's
sake--" He checked himself, and glanced curiously at the recurrent form
of the girl, who was now lounging back in her chair gazing into the
stove. "What did you want me for?"
Jacky rose abruptly from her seat and picked up her hat.
"'Aunt' Margaret didn't really want you, Doc. It was I who asked her to
send for you. I want to see uncle."
"Ah!"
The doctor permitted himself the ejaculation.
"Good-night, you two dear people," the girl went on, with a forced
attempt at cheerfulness. "I guess uncle'll be home by now, so I'll be
off."
"Yes, he left the saloon with me," said Doctor Abbot, shaking hands and
walking towards the door. "You'll just about catch him."
The girl kissed the old lady and passed out. The doctor stood for a
moment on his doorstep gazing after her.
"Poor child--poor child!" he murmured. "Yes, she'll find him--I saw him
home myself," And he broke off with an expressive shrug.
CHAPTER XI
THE CAMPAIGN OPENS
The summit of a hill, however insignificant its altitude, is always an
inspiring vantage point from which to survey the surrounding world.
There is a briskness of atmosphere on a hilltop which is inspiriting to
the most jaded of faculties; there is a sparkling vitality in the breath
of the morning air which must ever make life a joy and the world seem an
inexpressible delight in which it is the acme of happiness to dwell.
The exigencies of prairie life demand the habit of early rising, and
more often does the tiny human atom, which claims for its home the vast
tracts of natural pasture, gaze upon the sloth of the orb of day than
does that glorious sphere smile down upon a sleeping world.
Far as the eye can reach stretch the mighty wastes of waving grass--the
undulating plains of ravishing verdure. What breadth of thought must
thus be inspired in one who gazes out across the boundless expanse at
the glories of a perfect sunrise? How insignificant becomes the petty
affairs of man when gazing upon the majesty of God's handiwork. How
utterly inconceivable becomes the association of evil with such
transcendently beautiful creation? Surely no evil was intended to lurk
in the shadow of so much simple splendor.
And yet does the ghastly specter of crime haunt the perfect plains, the
majestic valleys, the noiseless, inspiring pine woods, the glistening,
snow-capped hills. And so it must remain as long as the battle of life
continues undecided--so long as the struggle for existence endures.
The Hon. Bunning-Ford rose while yet the daylight was struggling to
overcome the shades of night. He stood upon the tiny veranda which
fronted his minute house, smoking his early morning cigarette. He was
waiting for his coffee--that stimulating beverage which few who have
lived in the wilds of the West can do without--and idly luxuriating in
the wondrous charm of scene which was spread out before him. "Lord" Bill
was not a man of great poetic mind, but he appreciated his adopted
country--"God's country," as he was wont to call it--as can only those
who have lived in it. The prairie had become part of his very existence,
and he loved to contemplate the varying lights and colors which moved
athwart the fresh spring-clad plains as the sun rose above the eastern
horizon.
The air was chill, but withal invigorating, as he watched the steely
blue of the daylit sky slowly give place to the rosy tint of sunrise.
Slowly at first--then faster--great waves of golden light seemed to leap
from the top of one green rising ground to another; the gray white of
the snowy western mountains passed from one dead shade to another,
until, at last, they gleamed like alabaster from afar with a diamond
brilliancy almost painful to the eye. Thus the sun rose like some mighty
caldron of fire mounting into the cloudless azure of a perfect sky,
showering unctuous rays of light and heat upon the chilled life that was
of its own creating.
Bill was still lost in thought, gazing out upon the perfect scene from
the vantage point of the hill upon which his "shack" stood, when round
the corner of the house came a half-breed, bearing a large tin pannikin
of steaming coffee. He took the pannikin from the man and propped
himself against a post which helped to support the roof of the veranda.
"Are the boys out yet?" he asked the waiting Breed, and nodding towards
the corrals, which reposed at the foot of the hill and were overlooked
by the house.
"I guess," the fellow replied laconically. Then, as an afterthought,
"They're getting breakfast, anyhow."
"Say, when they've finished their grub you can tell 'em to turn to and
lime out the sheds. I'm going in to the settlement to-day. If I'm not
back to-night let them go right on with the job to-morrow."
The man signified his understanding of the instructions with a grunt.
This cook of "Lord" Bill's was not a man of words. His vocation had
induced an irascibility of temper which took the form of silence. His
was an incipient misanthropy.
Bill returned the empty pannikin and strolled down towards the corrals
and sheds. The great barn lay well away from where the cattle
congregated. This ranch was very different from that of the Allandales
of Foss River. It was some miles away from the settlement. Its
surroundings were far more open. Timber backed the house, it is true,
but in front was the broad expanse of the open plains. It was an
excellent position, and, governed by a thrifty hand, would undoubtedly
have thrived and ultimately vied with the more elaborate establishment
over which Jacky held sway. As it was, however, Bill cared little for
prosperity and money-making, and though he did not neglect his property
he did not attempt to extend its present limits.
The milch cows were slowly mouching from the corrals as he neared the
sheds. A diminutive herder was urging them along with shrill, piping
shrieks--vicious but ineffective. Far more to the purpose were the
efforts to a well-trained, bob-tailed sheep dog who was awaking echoes
on the brisk morning air with the full-toned note of his bark.
"Lord" Bill found one or two hands quietly enjoying their
after-breakfast smoke, but the majority had not as yet left the kitchen.
Outside the barn two men were busily soft-soaping their saddles and
bridles, whilst a third, seated on an upturned box, was wiping out his
revolver with a coal-oil rag. Bill passed them by with a nod and
greeting, and went into the stable. The horses were feeding, but as yet
the stalls had not been cleaned out. He returned and gave some
instructions to one of the men. Then he walked slowly back to the house.
Usually he would have stayed down there to see the work of the day
carried out; now, however, he was preoccupied. On this particular
morning he took but little interest in the place; he knew only too well
how soon it must pass from his possession.
Half-way up the hill he paused and turned his sleepy eyes towards the
south. At a considerable distance a vehicle was approaching at a
spanking pace. It was a buckboard, one of those sturdy conveyances built
especially for light prairie transport. As yet it was not sufficiently
near for him to distinguish its occupant, but the speed and cut of the
horses seemed familiar to him. He continued on towards the house, and
seated himself leisurely on the veranda, and, rolling himself another
cigarette, calmly watched the on-coming conveyance.
It was the habit of this man never to be prodigal in the display of
energy. He usually sat when there was no need for standing; he always
considered speech to be golden, but silence, to his way of thinking, was
priceless. And like most men of such opinion he cultivated thought and
observation.
He propped his back against the veranda post, and, taking a deep
inhalation from his cigarette, gazed long and earnestly, with
half-closed eyes, down the winding southern trail.
His curiosity, if such a feeling might have been attributed to him, was
soon set at rest, for, as the horses raced up the hill towards him, he
had no difficulty in recognizing the bulky proportions of his visitor.
Seeing the driver of the buckboard making for the house, two of the
"hands" had hastened up the hill to take the horses. Lablache, for it
was the fleshy money-lender, slid, as agilely as his great bulk would
permit him, from the vehicle, and the two men took charge of the horses.
Bill was not altogether cordial. It was not his way to be so to anybody
but his friends.
"How are you?" he said with a nod, but without rising from his recumbent
attitude. "Goin' to stay long?"
His latter question sounded churlish, but Lablache understood his
meaning. It was of the horses the rancher was thinking.
"An hour, maybe," replied Lablache, breathing heavily as a result of his
climb out of the buckboard.
"Right Take 'em away, boys. Remove the harness and give 'em a good rub
down. Don't water or feed 'em till they're cool. They're spanking
'plugs,' Lablache," he added, as he watched the horses being led down to
the barn. "Come inside. Had breakfast?" rising and knocking the dust
from the seat of his moleskin trousers.
"Yes, I had breakfast before daylight, thanks," Lablache said, glancing
quickly down at the empty corrals, where his horses were about to
undergo a rubbing down. "I came out to have a business chat with you.
Shall we go in-doors?"
"Most certainly."
There was an expressive curtness in the two words. Bill permitted
himself a brief survey of the great man's back as the latter turned
towards the front door. And although his half-closed lids hid the
expression of his eyes, the pursing of the lips and the fluctuating
muscles of his jaw spoke of unpleasant thoughts passing through his
mind. A business talk with Lablache, under the circumstances, could not
afford the rancher much pleasure. He followed the money-lender into the
sitting-room.
The apartment was very bare, mannish, and scarcely the acme of neatness.
A desk, a deck chair, a bench and a couple of old-fashioned windsor
chairs; a small table, on which breakfast things were set, an old
saddle, a rack of guns and rifles, a few trophies of the chase in the
shape of skins and antelope heads comprised the furniture and
decorations of the room. And too, in that slightly uncouth collection,
something of the character of the proprietor was revealed.
Bunning-Ford was essentially careless of comfort. And surely he was
nothing if not a keen and ardent sportsman.
"Sit down." Bill indicated the chairs with a wave of the arm. Lablache
dubiously eyed the deck chair, then selected one of the unyielding
Windsor chairs as more safe for the burden of his precious body, tested
it, and sat down, emitting a gasp of breath like an escape of steam from
a safety-valve. The younger man propped himself on the corner of his
desk.
Lablache looked furtively into his companion's face. Then he turned his
eyes in the direction of the window. Bill said nothing, his face was
calm. He intended the money-lender to speak first. The latter seemed
indisposed to do so. His lashless eyes gazed steadily out at the prairie
beyond. "Lord" Bill's persistent silence at length forced the other into
speech. His words came slowly and were frequently punctuated with deep
breaths.
"Your ranch--everything you possess is held on first mortgage."
"Not all." Bunning-Ford's answer came swiftly. The abruptness of the
other's announcement nettled him. The tone of the words conveyed a
challenge which the younger man was not slow to accept.
Lablache shrugged his shoulders with deliberation until his fleshy jowl
creased against the woolen folds of his shirt front.
"It comes to the same thing," he said; "what I--what is not mortgaged is
held in bonds. The balance, practically all of it, you owe under
signature to Pedro Mancha. It is because of that--latest--debt I am
here."
"Ah!"
Bill rolled a fresh cigarette and lit it. He guessed something of what
was coming--but not all.
"Mancha will force you to meet your liabilities to him. Your interest is
shortly due to the Calford Loan Co. You cannot meet both."
Lablache gazed unblinkingly into the other's face. He was thoroughly
enjoying himself.
Bill was staring pensively at his cigarette. One leg swung pendulum
fashion beside the desk. His indebtedness troubled him not a jot. He was
trying to fathom the object of this prelude. Lablache, he knew, had not
come purposely to make these plain statements. He blew a cloud of smoke
down his nostrils with much appreciation. Then he heaved a sigh as
though his troubles were too great for him to bear.
"Right--dead right, first time."
The lazy eyes appeared to be staring into space. In reality they were
watching the doughy countenance before him. "What do you propose to do?"
Lablache asked, ignoring the other's flippant tone.
Bill shrugged.
"Debts of honor must be met first," he said quietly. "Mancha must be
paid in full. I shall take care of that. For the rest, I have no doubt
your business knowledge will prompt you as to what course the Calford
Loan Co. and yourself had best adopt."
Lablache was slightly taken aback at the cool indifference of this man.
He scarcely knew how to deal with him. He had driven out this morning
intending to coerce, or, at least, strike a hard bargain. But the object
of his attentions was, to say the least of it, difficult.
He moved uneasily and crossed his legs.
"There is only one course open to your creditors. It is a harsh method
and one which goes devilishly against the grain. But--"
"Pray don't apologize, Mr. Lablache," broke in the other, smiling
sardonically. "I am fully aware of the tender condition of your
feelings. I only trust that in this matter you will carry out
your--er--painful duty without worrying me with the detail of the
necessary routine. I shall settle Mancha's debt at once and then you are
welcome to the confounded lot."
Bill moved from his position and walked towards the door. The
significance of his action was well marked. Lablache, however, had no
intention of going yet. He moved heavily round upon his chair so as to
face his man.
"One moment--er--Ford. You are a trifle precipitate. I was going on to
say, when you interrupted me, that if you cared to meet me half-way I
have a proposition to make which might solve your difficulty. It is an
unusual one, I admit, but," with a meaning smile, "I rather fancy that
the Calford Loan Co. might be induced to see the advantage, _to them_,
of delaying action."
The object of this early morning visit was about to be made apparent.
Bill returned to his position at the desk and lit another cigarette. The
suave manner of his unwelcome guest was dangerous. He was prepared.
There was something almost feline in the attitude and the expression of
the young rancher as he waited for the money-lender to proceed. Perhaps
Lablache understood him. Perhaps his understanding warned him to adopt
his best manner. His usual method in dealing with his victims was hardly
the same as he was now using.
"Well, what is this 'unusual' course?" asked Bill, in no very tolerant
tone. He wished it made quite plain that he cared nothing about the
"selling up" process to which he knew he must be subjected. Lablache
noted the haughty manner and resented it, but still he gave no outward
sign. He had a definite object to attain and he would not allow his
anger to interfere with his chances of success.
"Merely a pleasant little business arrangement which should meet all
parties' requirements," he said easily. "At present you are paying a ten
per cent, interest on a principal of thirty-five thousand dollars to the
Calford Loan Co. A debt of twenty thousand to me includes an amount of
interest which represents ten per cent, interest for ten years. Very
well, Your ranch should be yielding a greater profit than it is. With
your permission the Calford Trust Co. shall put in a competent manager,
whose salary shall be paid out of the profits. The balance of said
profits shall be handed Over to your creditors, less an annual income to
you of fifteen hundred dollars. Thus the principal of your debts, at a
careful computation, should be liquidated in seven years. In
consideration of thus shortening the period of the loans by three years
the Calford Trust Co. shall allow you a rebate of five per cent,
interest. Failing the profits in seven years amounting to the sums of
money required, the Calford Trust Co. and myself will forego the balance
due to us. Let me plainly assure you that this is no philanthropic
scheme but the result of practical calculation. The advantage to you is
obvious. An assured income during that period, and your ranch well and
ably managed and improved. Your property at the end of seven years will
return to you a vastly more valuable possession than it is at present.
And we, on our part, will recover our money and interest without the
unpleasant reflection that, in doing so, we have beggared you."
Lablache, usurer, scoundrel, smiled benignly at his companion as he
pronounced his concluding words. The Hon. Bunning-Ford looked, thought,
and looked again. He began to think that Lablache was meditating a more
rascally proceeding than he had given him credit for. His words were so
specious. His pie was so delicately crusted with such a tempting
exterior. What was the object of this magnanimous offer? He felt he must
know more.
"It sounds awfully well, but surely that is not all. What, in return, is
demanded of me?"
Lablache had carefully watched the effect of his words. He was wondering
whether the man he was dealing with was clever beyond the average, or a
fool. He was still balancing the point in his mind when Bill put the
question.
Lablache looked away, produced a snuff-box and drew up a large pinch of
snuff before answering. He blew his nose with trumpet-like vehemence on
a great red bandana.
"The only return asked of you is that you vacate the country for the
next two years," he said heavily. And in that rejoinder "Lord" Bill
understood the man's guile.
It was a sudden awakening, but it came to him as no sort of surprise. He
had long suspected, although he had never given serious credence to his
suspicions, the object the money-lender had in inveigling both himself
and "Poker" John into their present difficulties. Now he understood, and
a burning desire swept over him to shoot the man down where he sat. Then
a revulsion of feeling came to him and he saw the ludicrous side of the
situation. He gazed at Lablache, that obese mountain of blubber, and
tried to think of the beautiful, wild Jacky as the money-lender's wife.
The thing seemed so preposterous that he burst out into a mocking laugh.
Lablache, whose fishy eyes had never left the rancher's face, heard the
tone and slowly flushed with anger. For an instant he seemed about to
rise, then instead he leant forward.
"Well?" he asked, breathing his monosyllabic inquiry hissing upon the
air.
Bill emitted a thin cloud of smoke into the money-lender's face. His
eyes had suddenly become wide open and blazing with anger. He pointed to
the door.
"I'll see you damned first! Now--git!"
At the door Lablache turned. In his face was written all the fury of
hell.
"Mancha's debt is transferred to me. You will settle it without delay."
He had scarcely uttered the last word when there was a loud report, and
simultaneously the crash of a bullet in the casing of the door. Lablache
accepted his dismissal with precipitation and hastened to where his
horses were stationed, to the accompaniment of "Lord" Bill's mocking
laugh. He had no wish to test the rancher's marksmanship further.
CHAPTER XII
LABLACHE FORCES THE FIGHT
A month--just one month and the early spring has developed with almost
tropical suddenness into a golden summer. The rapid passing of seasons,
the abrupt break, the lightning change from one into another, is one of
the many beauties of the climate of that fair land where there are no
half measures in Nature's mode of dealing out from her varied store of
moods. Spring chases Winter, hoary, bitter, cruel Winter, in the hours
of one night; and in turn Spring's delicate influence is overpowered
with equal celerity by the more matured and unctuous ripeness of Summer.
Foss River had now become a glorious picture of vivid coloring. The
clumps of pine woods no longer present their tattered purplish
appearance, the garb in which grim Winter is wont to robe them. They are
lighter, gayer, and bathed in the gleaming sunlight they are transformed
from their somber forbidding aspect to that of radiant, welcome shade.
The river is high, almost to flooding point. And the melting snow on the
distant mountain-tops has urged it into a sparkling torrent of icy cold
water rushing on at a pace which threatens to tear out its deterring
banks and shallow bed in its mad career.
The most magical change which the first month of summer has brought is
to be seen in the stock. Cattle, when first brought in from distant
parts at the outset of the round-up, usually are thin, mean-looking, and
half-starved. Two weeks of the delicious spring grass and the fat on
their ribs and loins rolls and shakes as they move, growing almost
visibly under the succulent influence of the delicate vegetation.
Few at Foss River appreciated the blessings of summer more fully than
did Jacky Allandale, and few worked harder than did she. Almost
single-handed she grappled with the stupendous task of the management of
the great ranch, and no "hand," however experienced, was more capable in
the most arduous tasks which that management involved. From the skillful
organization down to the roping and branding of a wild two-year-old
steer there was no one who understood the business of stock-raising
better than she. She loved it--it was the very essence of life to her.
Silas, her uncle's foreman, was in the habit of summing her up in his
brief but expressive way.
"Missie Jacky?" he would exclaim, in tones of surprise, to any one who
dared to express wonder at her masterly management. "Guess a cyclone
does its biz mighty thorough, but I take it ef that gal 'ud been born a
hurricane she'd 'ave dislodged mountains an' played baseball with the
glaciers."
But this year things were different with the mistress of the Foss River
Ranch. True she went about her work with that thorough appreciation
which she always displayed, but the young face had last something of its
happy girlish delight--that _débonnaire_ cheerfulness which usually
characterized it. A shadow seemed to be hanging over her--a shadow,
which, although it marred in no way her fresh young beauty, added a
deepened pensiveness to her great somber eyes, and seemed to broaden the
fringing black ring round the gray pupils. This year the girl had more
to grapple with than the mere management of the ranch.
Her uncle needed all her care. And, too, the consciousness that the
result of all her work was insufficient to pay the exorbitant interest
on mortgages which had been forced upon her uncle by the hated,
designing Lablache took something of the zest from her labors. Then,
besides this, there were thoughts of the compact sealed between her
lover and herself in Bad Man's Hollow, and the knowledge of the
intentions of the money-lender towards "Lord" Bill, all helped to render
her distrait. She knew all about the scene which had taken place at
Bill's ranch, and she knew that, for her lover at least, the crash had
come. During that first month of the open season the girl had been
sorely tried. There was no one but "Aunt" Margaret to whom she could go
for comfort or sympathy, and even she, with her wise councils and
far-seeing judgment, could not share in the secrets which weighed so
heavily upon the girl.
Jacky had not experienced, as might have been expected, very great
difficulty in keeping her uncle fast to the grind-stone of duty.
Whatever his faults and weaknesses, John Allandale was first of all a
rancher, and when once the winter breaks every rancher must work--ay,
work like no negro slave ever worked. It was only in the evenings, when
bodily fatigue had weakened the purpose of ranching habit, and when the
girl, wearied with her day's work, relaxed her vigilance, that the old
man craved for the object of his passion and its degrading
accompaniment. Then he would nibble at the whisky bottle, having "earned
his tonic," as he would say, until the potent spirit had warmed his
courage and he would hurry off to the saloon for "half an hour's
flutter," which generally terminated in the small hours of the morning.
Such was the state of affairs at the Foss River Ranch when Lablache put
into execution his threats against the Hon. Bunning-Ford. The settlement
had returned to its customary torpid serenity. The round-up was over,
and all the "hands" had returned to the various ranches to which they
belonged. The little place had entered upon its period of placid sleep,
which would last until the advent of the farmers to spend the proceeds
of their garnered harvest. But this would be much later in the year, and
in the meantime Foss River would sleep.
The night before the sale of "Lord" Bill's ranch, he and Jacky went for
a ride. They had thus ridden out on many evenings of late. Old John was
too absorbed in his own affairs to bother himself at these evening
journeyings, although, in his careless way, he noticed how frequent a
visitor at the ranch Bill had lately become. Still, he made no
objection. If his niece saw fit to encourage these visits he would not
interfere. In his eyes the girl could do no wrong. It was his one
redeeming feature, his love for the motherless girl, and although his
way of showing it was more than open to criticism, it was true he loved
her with a deep, strong affection.
Foss River was far too sleepy to bother about these comings and goings.
Lablache, alone, of the sleepy hamlet, eyed the evening journeys with
suspicion. But even he was unable to fathom their object, and was forced
to set them down, his whole being consumed with jealousy the while, to
lovers' wanderings. However, these nightly rides were taken with
purpose. After galloping across the prairie in various directions they
always, as darkness crept on, terminated at a certain spot--the clump of
willows and reeds at which the secret path across the great keg began.
The sun was well down below the distant mountain peaks when Jacky and
her lover reached the scrubby bush of willows and reeds upon the evening
before the day of the sale of Bill's ranch. As they drew up their
panting horses, and dismounted, the evening twilight was deepening over
the vast expanse of the mire.
The girl stood at the brink of the bottomless caldron of viscid muck and
gazed out across the deadly plain. Bill stood still beside her, watching
her face with eager, hungry eyes.
"Well?" he said at last, as his impatience forced itself to his lips.
"Yes, Bill," the girl answered slowly, as one balancing her decision
well before giving judgment, "the path has widened. The rain has kept
off long enough, and the sun has done his best for us. It is a good
omen. Follow me."
She linked her arm through the reins of her horse's bridle, and leading
the faithful animal, stepped fearlessly out on to the muskeg. As she
trod the rotten crust she took a zigzag direction from one side of the
secret path to the other. That which, in early spring, had scarcely been
six feet in width, would now have borne ten horsemen abreast. Presently
she turned back. "We need go no further, Bill; what is safe here
continues safe across the keg. It will widen in places, but in no place
will the path grow narrower."
"But tell me," said the man, anxious to assure himself that no detail
was forgotten, "what about the trail of our footprints?"
The girl laughed. Then indenting the ground with her shapely boot until
the moisture below oozed into the imprint, she looked up into the lazy
face before her.
"See--we wait for one minute, and you shall see the result."
They waited in silence in the growing darkness. The night insects and
mosquitoes buzzed around them. The man's attention was riveted upon the
impression made by the girl's foot. Slowly the water filled the print,
then slowly, under the moist influence, the ground, sponge-like, rose
again, the water disappeared, and all sign of the footmark was gone.
When again the ground had resumed its natural appearance the girl looked
up.
"Are you satisfied, Bill? No man or beast who passes over this path
leaves a trail which lasts longer than a minute. Even the rank grass,
however badly trodden down, rears itself again with amazing vitality. I
guess this place was created through the devil's agency and for the
purpose of devil's work."
Bill gave one sweeping glance around. Then he turned, and the two made
their way back to the edge of the sucking mire.
"Yes, it'll do, dear. Now let us hasten home."
They remounted their horses and were soon lost in the gathering darkness
as they made their way over the brow of the rising ground, in the
direction of the settlement.
The next day saw the possession of the Hon. Bunning-Ford's ranch pass
into other hands. Punctually at noon, the sale began. And by four
o'clock the process, which robbed the rancher of everything that he
possessed in the world, was completed.
Bill stationed himself on the veranda and smoked incessantly while the
sale proceeded. He was there to see how the things went, and, in fact,
seemed to take an outsider's interest only. He experienced no morbid
sentiment at the loss of his property--it is doubtful if he cared at
all. Anyhow, his leisurely attitude and his appearance of good-natured
indifference caused many surprised remarks amongst the motley collection
of bidders who were present. In spite of these appearances, however, he
did take a very keen interest. A representative of Lablache's was there
to purchase stock, and Bill knew it, and his interest was centered on
this would-be purchaser.
The stock was the last thing to come under the hammer. There were twenty
lots. Of these Lablache's representative purchased
fifteen--three-quarters of the stock of the entire ranch.
Bill waited only for this, then, as the sale closed, he leisurely rolled
and lit another cigarette and strolled to where a horse, which he had
borrowed from the Allandales stable, was tied, and rode slowly away.
As he rode away he turned his head in the direction of the house upon
the hill. He was leaving for good and all the place which had so long
claimed him as master. He saw the small gathering of people still
hanging about the veranda, upon which the auctioneer still stood with
his clerk, busy over the sales. He noticed others passing hither and
thither, as they prepared to depart with their purchases. But none of
these things which he looked upon affected him in any mawkish,
sentimental manner. It was all over. That little hill, with its wooded
background and vast frontage of prairie, from which he had loved to
watch the sun get up after its nightly sojourn, would know him no more.
His indifference was unassumed. His was not the nature to regret past
follies.
He smiled softly as he turned his attention to the future which lay
before him, and his smile was not in keeping with the expression of a
broken man.
In these last days of waning prosperity Bunning-Ford had noticeably
changed. With loss of property he had lost much of that curious veneer
of indolence, utter disregard of consequences, which had always been
his. Not, that he had suddenly developed a violent activity or
boisterous enthusiasm. Simply his interest in things and persons seemed
to have received a fillip. There seemed to be an air of latent activity
about him; a setness of purpose which must have been patent to any one
sufficiently interested to observe the young rancher closely. But Foss
River was too sleepy--indifferent--to worry itself about anybody, except
those in its ranks who were riding the high horse of success. Those who
fell out by the wayside were far too numerous to have more than a
passing thought devoted to them. So this subtle change in the man was
allowed to pass without comment by any except, perhaps, the
money-lender, Lablache, and the shrewd, kindly wife of the
doctor--people not much given to gossip.
It was only since the discovery of Lablache's perfidy that "Lord" Bill
had understood what living meant. His discovery in Smith's saloon had
roused in him a very human manhood. Since that time he had been seized
with a mental activity, a craving for action he had never, in all his
lazy life, before experienced. This sudden change had been aggravated by
Lablache's subsequent conduct, and the flame had been fanned by the
right that Jacky had given him to protect her. The sensation was one of
absorbing excitement, and the loss of property sat lightly upon him in
consequence. Money he had not--property he had not. But he had now what
he had never possessed before--he had an object.
A lasting, implacable vengeance was his, from the contemplation of which
he drew a satisfaction which no possession of property could have given
him. Nature had, with incorrigible perversity, cut him out for a life of
ease, whilst endowing him with a character capable of very great things.
Now, in her waywardness she had aroused that character and overthrown
the hindering superficialty in which she had clothed it. And further to
mark her freakish mood, these same capabilities which might easily,
under other circumstances, have led him into the fore-front of life's
battle, she directed, with inexorable cruelty, into an adverse course.
He had been cheated, robbed, and his soul thirsted for revenge. Lablache
had robbed the uncle of the girl he loved, and, worse than all, the
wretch had tried to oust him from the affections of the girl herself.
Yes, he thirsted for revenge as might any traveler in a desert crave for
water. His eyes, no longer sleepy, gleamed as he thought. His long,
square jaws seemed welded into one as he thought of his wrongs. His was
the vengeance which, if necessary, would last his lifetime. At least,
whilst Lablache lived no quarter would he give or accept.
Something of this he was thinking as he took his farewell of the ranch
on the hill, and struck out in the direction of the half-breed camp
situated in a hollow some distance outside the settlement of Foss
River.
CHAPTER XIII
THE FIRST CHECK
The afterglow of sunset slowly faded out of the western sky. And the
hush of the night was over all. The feeling of an awful solitude, which
comes to those whose business is to pass the night on the open prairie,
is enhanced rather than reduced by the buzz of insect life upon the
night air. The steady hum of the mosquito--the night song of the
grasshoppers and frogs--the ticking, spasmodic call of the invisible
beetles--all these things help to intensify the loneliness and magnitude
of the wild surroundings. Nor does the smoldering camp-fire lessen the
loneliness. Its very light deepens the surrounding dark, and its only
use, after the evening meal is cooked, is merely to dispel the savage
attack of the voracious mosquito and put the fear of man into the hearts
of the prairie scavenger, the coyote, whose dismal howl awakens the
echoes of the night at painfully certain intervals, and often drives
sleep from the eyes of the weary traveler.
It is rare that the "cow-hand" pitches his camp amongst hills, or in the
neighborhood of any bushy growth. The former he shuns from a natural
dislike for a limited view. The latter, especially if the bush takes the
form of pine woods, is bad for many reasons, chief amongst which is the
fact of its being the harborage of the savage, gigantic timber wolf--a
creature as naturally truculent as the far-famed grizzly, the denizen of
the towering Rockies.
Upon a high level of the prairie, out towards the upper reaches of the
Rainy River, a tributary of the broad, swift-flowing Foss River, and
some fifteen miles from the settlement, two men were lounging, curled
leisurely round the smoldering remains of a camp fire. Some distance
away the occasional lowing of a cow betrayed the presence of a band of
cattle.
The men were wide awake and smoking. Whether they refrained from sleep
through necessity or inclination matters little. Probably the hungry
attacks of the newly-hatched mosquito were responsible for their
wakefulness. Each man was wrapped in a single brown blanket, and folded
saddle-cloth answered as a pillow, and it was noticeable that they were
stretched out well to leeward of the fire, so that the smoke passed
across them, driving away a few of the less audacious "skitters."
"We'll get 'em in by dinner to-morrow," said one of the sleepless men
thoughtfully. His remark was more in the tone of soliloquy than
addressed to the other. Then louder, and in a manner which implied
resentment, "Them all-fired skitters is givin' me a twistin'."
"Smoke up, pard," came a muffled rejoinder from the region of the other
blanket "Maybe your hide's a bit tender yet. I 'lows skitters 'most
allus goes fur young 'uns. Guess I'm all right."
"Dessay you are," replied the first speaker, sharply. "I ain't been long
in the country--leastways, not on the prairie, an' like as not I ain't
dropped into the ways o' things. I've allus heerd as washin' is mighty
bad when skitters is around. They doesn't worry you any."
He pulled heavily at his pipe until his face was enveloped in a fog of
smoke. His companion's tone of patronage had nettled him. The old hand
moved restlessly but did not answer. It is doubtful if the other's
sarcasm had been observed. It was scarcely broad enough to penetrate the
toughened hide of the older hand's susceptibilities.
The silence was broken by a man's voice in the distance. The sound of an
old familiar melody, chanted in a manly and not unmusical voice, reached
the fireside. It was the voice of the man who was on watch round the
band of cattle, and he was endeavoring to lull them into quiescence.
The human voice, in the stillness of the night, has a somnolent effect
upon cattle, and even mosquitoes, unless they are very thick, fail to
counteract the effect. The older hand stirred. Then he sat up and
methodically replenished the fire, kicking the dying embers together
until they blazed afresh.
"Jim Bowley do sing mighty sweet," he said, in disparaging tones. "Like
a crazy buzz-saw, I guess. S'pose them beasties is gettin' kind o'
restless. Say, Nat, how goes the time? It must be night on ter your
spell."
Nat sat up and drew out a great silver watch.
"Haf an hour yet, pard." Then he proceeded to re-fill his pipe, cutting
great flakes of black tobacco from a large plug with his sheath knife.
Suddenly he paused in the operation and listened. "Say, Jake, what's
that?"
"What's what?" replied Jake, roughly, preparing to lie down again.
"Listen!"
The two men bent their keen, prairie-trained ears to windward. They
listened intently. The night was very black--as yet the moon had not
risen. Jake used his eyes as well as ears. On the prairie, as well as
elsewhere, eyes have a lot to do with hearing. He sought to penetrate
the darkness around him, but his efforts were unavailing. He could hear
no sound but the voice of Jim Bowley and the steady plodding of his
horse's feet as he ceaselessly circled the band of somnolent cattle. The
sky was cloudy, and only here and there a few stars gleamed diamond-like
in the heavens, but threw insufficient light to aid the eyes which
sought to penetrate the surrounding gloom. The old hand threw himself
back on his pillow in skeptical irritation.
"Thar ain't nothin', young 'un," he said disdainfully. "The beasties is
quiet, and Jim Bowley ain't no tenderfoot. Say, them skitters 'as
rattled yer. Guess you 'eard some prowlin' coyote. They allus come
around whar ther's a tenderfoot."
Jake curled himself up again and chuckled at his own sneering
pleasantry.
"Coyote yerself, Jake Bond," retorted Nat, angrily. "Them lugs o' yours
is gettin' old. Guess yer drums is saggin'. You're mighty smart, I don't
think."
The youngster got on to his feet and walked to where the men's two
horses were picketed. Both horses were standing with ears cocked and
their heads held high in the direction of the mountains. Their attitude
was the acme of alertness. As the man came up they turned towards him
and whinnied as if in relief at the knowledge of his presence. But
almost instantly turned again to gaze far out into the night. Wonderful
indeed is a horse's instinct, but even more wonderful is the keenness of
his sight and hearing.
Nat patted his broncho on the neck, and then stood beside him
watching--listening. Was it fancy, or was it fact? The faintest sound of
a horse galloping reached him; at least, he thought so.
He returned to the fire sullenly antagonistic. He did not return to his
blanket, but sat silently smoking and thinking. He hated the constant
reference to his inexperience on the prairie. If even he did hear a
horse galloping in the distance it didn't matter. But it was his ears
that had first caught the sound in spite of his inexperience. His
companion pigheadedly derided the fact because his own ears were not
sufficiently keen to have detected the sound himself.
Thus he sat for a few minutes gazing into the fire. Jake was now snoring
loudly, and Nat was glad to be relieved from the tones of his sneering
voice. Presently he rose softly from his seat, and taking his saddle
blanket, saddled and bridled his horse. Then he mounted and silently
rode off towards the herd. It was his relief on the cattle guard.
Jim Bowley welcomed him with the genial heartiness of a man who knows
that he has finished his vigil and that he can now lie down to rest. The
guarding of a large herd at night is always an anxious time. Cattle are
strange things to handle. A stampede will often involve a week's weary
scouring of the prairie.
Just as Jim Bowley was about to ride up to the camp, Nat fired a
question which he had been some time meditating.
"Guess you didn't hear a horse gallopin' jest now, pard?" he asked
quietly.
"Why cert, boy," the other answered quickly, "only a deaf mule could 'a'
missed it. Some one passed right under the ridge thar, away to the
southwest. Guess they wer' travelin' mighty fast too. Why?"
"Oh, nothin', Jim, on'y I guess Jake Bond's that same deaf mule you
spoke of. He's too fond of gettin' at youngsters, the old fossil. I told
'im as I 'card suthin', an' 'e told me as I was a tenderfoot and didn't
know wot I was gassin' about."
"Jake's a cantankerous cuss, boy. Let 'im gas; 'e don't cut any figger
anyway. Say, you keep yer eye peeled on some o' the young heifers on the
far side o' the bunch. They're rustlin' some. They keep mouching after
new grass. When the moon gits up you'll see better. S'long, mate."
Jim rode away towards the camp fire, and young Nat proceeded to circle
round the great herd of cattle. It was a mighty bunch for three men to
handle. But Lablache, its owner, was never one to underwork his men.
This was the herd which he had purchased at the sale of Bunning-Ford's
ranch. And they were now being taken to his own ranch, some distance to
the south of the settlement, for the purpose of re-branding with his own
marks.
As young Nat entered upon his vigil the golden arc of the rising moon
broke the sky-line of the horizon. Already the clouds were fast
clearing, being slowly driven before the yellow glory of the orb of
night. Soon the prairie would be bathed in the effulgent, silvery light
which renders the western night so delicious when the moon is at its
full.
As the cowboy circled the herd, the moon, at first directly to his left,
slowly dropped behind until its, as yet, dull light shone full upon his
back. The beasts were quite quiet and the sense of responsibility which
was his, in a measure, lessened.
Some distance ahead, and near by where' he must pass, a clump of
undergrowth and a few stunted trees grew round the base of a hillock and
broken rocks. The cattle were reposing close up by this shelter. Nat's
horse, as he drew near to the brush, was ambling along at that peculiar
gait, half walk, half trot, essentially the pace of a "cow-horse."
Suddenly the animal came to a stand, for which there seemed no apparent
reason. He stood for a second with ears cocked, sniffing at the night
air in evident alarm. Then a prolonged, low whistle split the air. The
sound came from the other side of the rocks, and, to the tenderfoot's
ears, constituted a signal.
The most natural thing for him to have done would have been to wait for
further developments, if developments there were to be. However, he was
a plucky youngster, in spite of his inexperience, and, besides,
something of the derision of Jake Bond was still rankling in his mind.
He knew the whistle to be the effort of some man, and his discovery of
the individual would further prove the accuracy of his hearing, and he
would then have the laugh of his companion. A more experienced hand
would have first looked to his six-shooter and thought of cattle
thieves, but, as Jake had said, he was a tenderfoot. Instead, without a
moment's hesitation, he dashed his spurs into his broncho's flanks and
swept round to the shadowed side of the rocks.
He realized his folly when too late. The moment he entered the shade
there came the slithering whirr of something cutting through the air.
Something struck the horse's front legs, and the next moment he shot out
of the saddle in response to a somersault which the broncho turned. His
horse had been roped by one of his front legs. The cowboy lay where he
fell, dazed and half stunned. Then he became aware of three dark faces
bending over him. An instant later a gag was forced into his mouth, and
he felt himself being bound hand and foot. Then the three faces silently
disappeared, and all was quiet about him.
In the meantime, on the rising ground, where the camp fire burned, all
was calm slumber. The two old hands were taking their rest with healthy
contentment and noisy assertion. The glory of the rising moon was lost
to the slumberers, and no dread of coming disaster disturbed them. The
stertorous blasts of their nostrils testified to this. The replenished
fire slowly died down to a mass of white smoldering ashes, and the
chill-growing air caused one of the sleepers to move restlessly in his
sleep and draw his head down beneath his blanket for greater warmth.
Up the slope came three figures. They were moving with cautious,
stealthy step, the movement of men whose purpose is not open. On they
came swiftly--silently. One man led; he was tall and swarthy with long
black hair falling upon his shoulders in straight, coarse mass. He was
evidently a half-breed, and his clothes denoted him to be of the poorer
class--a class accustomed to live by preying upon its white neighbors.
He was clad in a pair of moleskin trousers, which doubtless at one time
had been white, but which now were of that nondescript hue which dirt
conveys. His upper garments were a beaded buckskin shirt and a battered
Stetson hat. Around his waist was a cartridge belt, on which was slung a
holster containing a heavy six-chambered revolver and a long sheath
knife.
His companions were similarly equipped, and the three formed a wild
picture of desperate resolve. Yard by yard they drew toward the
sleepers, at each step listening for the loud indications of sleep which
were made only too apparent upon the still night air. Now they were
close upon the fire. One of the unconscious cow-boys, Jim Bowley,
stirred. A moment passed. Then the intruders drew a step nearer.
Suddenly Jim roused and then sat up. His action at once became a signal.
There was a sound of swift footsteps, and the next instant the
astonished man was gazing into the muzzle of a heavy pistol.
"Hands up!" cried the voice of the leading half-breed. One of his
followers had similarly covered the half-awakened Jake.
Without a word of remonstrance two pairs of hands went up. Astonishment
had for the moment paralyzed speech on the part of the rudely awakened
sleepers. They were only dimly conscious of their assailants. The
compelling rings of metal that confronted them weighed the balance of
their judgment, and their response was the instinctive response of the
prairie. Whoever their assailants, they had got the drop on them. The
result was the law of necessity.
In depressing silence the assailants drew their captives' weapons. Then,
after binding their arms, the leader bade them rise. His voice was harsh
and his accent "South-western" American. Then he ordered them to march,
the inexorable pistol ever present to enforce obedience. In silence the
two men were conducted to the bush where the first capture had been
made. And here they were firmly tied to separate trees with their own
lariats.
"See hyar," said the tall half-breed, as the captives' feet were bound
securely. "There ain't goin' to be no shootin'. You're that sensible.
You're jest goin' to remain right hyar till daylight, or mebbe later. A
gag'll prevent your gassin'. You're right in the track of white men, so
I guess you'll do. See hyar, bo', jest shut it," as Jim Bowley essayed
to speak, "cause my barker's itchin' to join in a conversation."
The threat had a quieting effect upon poor Jim, who immediately closed
his lips. Silent but watchful he eyed the half-breed's face. There was
something very familiar about the thin cheeks, high cheek-bones, and
about the great hooked nose. He was struggling hard to locate the man.
At this moment the third ruffian approached with three horses. The other
had been busy fixing a gag in Jake Bond's mouth. Jim Bowley saw the
horses come up. And, in the now brilliant moonlight, he beheld and
recognized a grand-looking golden chestnut. There was no mistaking that
glorious beast. Jim was no tenderfoot; he had been on the prairie in
this district for years. And although he had never come into actual
contact with the man, he had seen him and knew about the exploits of the
owner of that perfect animal.
The half-breed approached him with an improvised gag. For the life of
him Jim could not resist a temptation which at that moment assailed him.
The threatening attitude of his captor for the instant had lost its
effect. If he died for it he must blurt out his almost superstitious
astonishment.
The half-breed seized his prisoner's lower jaw in his hand and
compressed the cheeks upon the teeth. Jim's lips parted, and a horrified
amazement found vent in words.
"Holy Gawd! man. But be ye flesh or sperrit? Peter Retief--as I'm a
livin'--"
He said no more, for, with a wrench, the gag was forced into his mouth
by the relentless hand of the man before him. Although he was thus
silenced his eyes remained wide open and staring. The dark stern face,
as he saw it, was magnified into that of a fiend. The keen eyes and
depressed brows, he thought, might belong to some devil re-incarnated,
whilst the eagle-beaked nose and thin-compressed lips denoted, to his
distorted fancy, a sanguinary cruelty. At the mention of his name this
forbidding apparition flashed a vengeful look at the speaker, and a half
smile of utter disdain flickered unnoticed around the corners of his
mouth.
Once his prisoners were secured the dark-visaged cattle-thief turned to
the horses. At a word the trio mounted. Then they rode off, and the
wretched captives beheld, to their unspeakable dismay, the consummate
skill with which the cattle were roused and driven off. Away they went
with reckless precipitance, the cattle obeying the master hand of the
celebrated raider with an implicitness which seemed to indicate a
strange sympathy between man and beast. The great golden chestnut raced
backwards and forwards like some well-trained greyhound, heading the
leading beasts into the desired direction without effort or apparent
guidance. It was a grand display of the cowboy's art, and, in spite of
his predicament and the cruel tightness of his bonds, Jim Bowley reveled
in the sight of such a display.
In five minutes the great herd was out of sight, and only the distant
rumble of their speeding hoofs reached the captives. Later, the moon, no
longer golden, but shedding a silvery radiance over all, shone down upon
a peaceful plain. The night hum of insects was undisturbed. The mournful
cry of the coyote echoed at intervals, but near by, where the camp fire
no longer put the fear of man into the hearts of the scavengers of the
prairie, all was still and calm. The prisoners moaned softly, but not
loud enough to disturb the peace of the perfect night, as their cruel
bonds gnawed at their patience. For the rest, the Western world had
resumed its wonted air.
CHAPTER XIV
THE HUE AND CRY
"A thousand head of cattle, John! A thousand; and 'hustled' from under
our very noses. By thunder! it is intolerable. Over thirty-five thousand
dollars gone in one clean sweep. Why, I say, do we pay for the up-keep
of the police if this sort of thing is allowed to go on? It is
disgraceful. It means ruination to the country if a man cannot run his
stock without fear of molestation. Who said that scoundrel Retief was
dead--drowned in the great muskeg? It's all poppy-cock, I tell you; the
man's as much alive as you or I. Thirty-five thousand dollars! By
heavens!--it's--it's scandalous!"
Lablache leant forward heavily in his chair and rested his great arms
upon John Allandale's desk. "Poker" John and he were seated in the
former's office, whither the money-lender had come, post-haste, on
receiving the news of the daring raid of the night before. The great
man's voice was unusually thick with rage, and his asthmatical breathing
came in great gusts as his passionate excitement grew under the lash of
his own words. The old rancher gazed in stupefied amazement at the
financier. He had not as yet fully realized the fact with which he had
just been acquainted in terms of such sweeping passion. The old man's
brain was none too clear in the mornings now. And the suddenness of the
announcement had shocked his faculties into a state of chaos.
"Terrible--terrible," was all he was able to murmur. Then, bracing
himself, he asked weakly, "But what are you to do?"
The weather-beaten old face was working nervously. The eyes, in the
past keen and direct in their glance, were bloodshot and troubled. He
looked like a man who was fast breaking up. Very different from the
night when we first met him at the Calford Polo Club ball. There could
be no doubt as to the origin of this swift change. The whole atmosphere
of the man spoke of drink.
Lablache turned on him without any attempt to conceal the latent
ferocity of his nature. The heavy, pouchy jowl was scarlet with his
rage. The money-lender had been flicked upon a very raw and tender spot.
Money was his god.
"What am I to do?" he retorted savagely. "What are _we_ to do? What is
all the ranching world of Alberta to do? Why, fight, man. Hound this
scoundrel to his lair. Follow him--track him. Hunt him from bush to bush
until we fall upon him and tear him limb from limb. Are we going to sit
still while he terrorizes the whole country? While he 'hustles' every
head of stock from us, and--and spirits it away? No, if we spend
fortunes upon his capture we must not rest until he swings from a gibbet
at the end of his own lariat."
"Yes, of course--of course," the rancher responded, his cheek twitching
weakly. "You are quite right, we must hunt this scoundrel down. But we
know what has gone before--I mean, before he was supposed to have died.
The man could never be traced. He seemed to vanish into thin air. What
do you propose?"
"Yes, but that was two years ago," said Lablache, moodily. "Things may
be different now. A thousand head of cattle does not vanish so easily.
There is bound to be some trace left behind. And then, the villain has
only got a short start of us. I sent a messenger over to Stormy Cloud
Settlement the first thing this morning. A sergeant and four men will be
sent to work up the case. I expect them here at any moment. As justices
of the peace it devolves on both of us to set an example to the
settlers, and we shall then receive hearty co-operation. You understand,
John," the money-lender went on, with pompous assertiveness, "although,
at present, I am the chief sufferer by this scoundrel's depredations, it
is plainly your duty as much as mine to take this matter up."
The first rough storm of Lablache's passion had passed. He was "yanking"
himself up to the proper attitude for the business in hand. Although he
had calmed considerably his lashless eyes gleamed viciously, and his
flabby face wore an expression which boded ill for the object of his
rage, should that unfortunate ever come within the range of his power.
"Poker" John was struggling hard to bring a once keen intellect to bear
upon the affair. He had listened to the money-lender's account of the
raid with an almost doubtful understanding, the chief shock to which was
the re-appearance of the supposed dead Retief, that prince of
"hustlers," who, two years ago, had terrorized the neighborhood by his
impudent raids. At last his mind seemed to clear and he stood up. And,
bending across the desk as though to emphasize his words, he showed
something of the old spirit which had, in days gone by, made him a
successful rancher.
"I don't believe it, Lablache. This is some damned yarn to cover the
real culprit. Why, man, Peter Retief is buried deep in that reeking keg,
and no slapsided galoot's goin' to pitch such a crazy notion as his
resurrection down my throat. Retief? Why, I'd as lief hear that Satan
himself was abroad duffing cattle. Bah! Where's the 'hand' that's gulled
you?"
Lablache eyed the old man curiously. He was not sure that there might
not be some truth in the rancher's forcible skepticism. For the moment
the old man's words carried some weight, then, as he remembered the
unvarnished tale the cowboy had told, he returned to his conviction. He
shook his massive head.
"No one has gulled me, John. You shall hear the story for yourself as
soon as the police arrive. You will the better be able to judge of the
fellow's sincerity."
At this moment the sound of horses' hoofs came in through the open
window. Lablache glanced out on to the veranda.
"Ah, here he is, and I'm glad to see they've sent Sergeant Horrocks. The
very man for the work. Good," and he rubbed his fat hands together.
"Horrocks is a great prairie man."
"Poker" John rose and went out to meet the officer. Later he conducted
him into the office. Sergeant Horrocks was a man of medium height,
slightly built, but with an air of cat-like agility about him. He was
very bronzed, with a sharp, rather than a clever face. His eyes were
black and restless, and a thin mouth, hidden beneath a trim black
mustache, and a perfectly-shaped aquiline nose, completed the sum of any
features which might be called distinctive. He was a man who was
thoroughly adapted to his work--work which needed a cool head and quick
eye rather than great mental attainments. He was dressed in a brown
canvas tunic with brass buttons, and his riding breeches were concealed
in, a pair of well-worn leather "chaps." A Stetson hat worn at the exact
angle on his head, with his official "side arms" secured round his
waist, completed a very picturesque appearance.
"Morning, Horrocks," said the money-lender. "This is a pretty business
you've come down on. Left your men down in the settlement, eh?"
"Yes. I thought I'd come and hear the rights of the matter straight
away. According to your message you are the chief victim of this
'duffing' business?"
"Exactly," replied Lablache, with a return to his tone of anger, "one
thousand head of beeves! Thirty-five thousand dollars' worth!" Then he
went on more calmly: "But wait a moment, we'll send down for the 'hand'
that brought in the news."
A servant was despatched, and a few minutes later Jim Bowley entered.
Jacky, returning from the corrals, entered at the same time. Directly
she had seen the police horse outside she knew what was happening. When
she appeared Lablache endeavored to conceal a look of annoyance.
Sergeant Horrocks raised his eyebrows in surprise. He was not accustomed
to petticoats being present at his councils. John, however, without
motive, waived all chance of objection by anticipating his guests.
"Sergeant, this is my niece, Jacky. Affairs of the prairie affect her as
nearly as they do myself. Let us hear what this man has to tell us."
Horrocks half bowed to the girl, touching the brim of his hat with a
semi-military salute. Acquiescence to her presence was thus forced upon
him.
Jacky looked radiant in spite of the uncouthness of her riding attire.
The fresh morning air was the tonic she loved, and, as yet, the day was
too young for the tired shadows to have crept into her beautiful face.
Horrocks, in spite of his tacit objection, was forced to admire the
sturdy young face of this child of the prairie.
Jim Bowley plunged into his story with a directness and simplicity which
did not fail to carry conviction. He told all he knew without any
attempt at shielding himself or his companions. Horrocks and the old
rancher listened carefully to the story. Lablache looked for
discrepancies but found none. Jacky, whilst paying every attention,
keenly watched the face of the money-lender. The seriousness of the
affair was reflected in all the faces present, whilst the daring of the
raid was acknowledged by the upraised brows and wondering ejaculations
which occasionally escaped the police-officer and "Poker" John. When the
narrative came to a close there followed an impressive pause. Horrocks
was the first to break it.
"And how did you obtain your release?"
"A Mennonite family, which had bin travelin' all night, came along 'bout
an hour after daylight. They pitched camp nigh on to a quarter mile from
the bluff w'ere we was tied up. Then they came right along to look fur
kindlin'. There wasn't no other bluff for half a mile but ours. They
found us all three. Young Nat 'ad got 'is collar-bone broke. Them
'ustlers 'adn't lifted our 'plugs' so I jest came right in."
"Have you seen these Mennonites?" asked the officer, turning sharply to
the money-lender.
"Not yet," was the heavy rejoinder. "But they are coming in."
The significance of the question and the reply nettled the cowboy.
"See hyar, mister, I ain't no coyote come in to pitch yarns. Wot I've
said is gospel. The man as 'eld us up was Peter Retief as sure as I'm a
living man. Sperrits don't walk about the prairie 'ustling cattle, an' I
guess 'is 'and was an a'mighty solid one, as my jaw felt when 'e gagged
me. You take it from me, 'e's come around agin to make up fur lost time,
an' I guess 'e's made a tidy haul to start with."
"Well, we'll allow that this man is the hustler you speak of," went on
Horrocks, bending his keen eyes severely on the unfortunate cowboy.
"Now, what about tracking the cattle?"
"Guess I didn't wait fur that, but it'll be easy 'nough."
"Ah, and you didn't recognize the man until you'd seen his horse?"
The officer spoke sharply, like a counsel cross-examining a witness.
"Wal, I can't say like that," said Jim, hesitating for the first time.
"His looks was familiar, I 'lows. No, without knowing of it I'd
recognized 'im, but 'is name didn't come along till I see that beast,
Golden Eagle. I 'lows a good prairie hand don't make no mistake over
cattle like that. 'E may misgive a face, but a beastie--no, siree."
"So you base your recognition of the man on the identity of his horse. A
doubtful assertion."
"Thar ain't no doubt in my mind, sergeant. Ef you'll 'ave it so, I
did--some."
The officer turned to the other men.
"If there's nothing more you want this man for, gentlemen, I have quite
finished with him--for the present. With your permission," pulling out
his watch, "I'll get him to take me to the er--scene of disaster in an
hour's time."
The two men nodded and Lablache conveyed the necessary order to the man,
who then withdrew.
As soon as Bowley had left the room three pairs of eyes were turned
inquiringly upon the officer.
"Well?" questioned Lablache, with some show of eagerness.
Horrocks shrugged a pair of expressive shoulders.
"From his point of view the man speaks the truth," he replied
decisively. "And," he went on, more to himself than to the others, "we
never had any clear proof that the scoundrel, Retief, came to grief.
From what I remember things were very hot for him at the time of his
disappearance. Maybe the man's right. However," turning to the others,
"I should not be surprised if Mr. Retief has overreached himself this
time. A thousand head of cattle cannot easily be hidden, or, for that
matter, disposed of. Neither can they travel fast; and as for tracking,
well," with a shrug, "in this case it should be child's play."
"I hope it will prove as you anticipate," put in John Allandale,
concisely. "What you suggest has been experienced by us before. However,
the matter, I feel sure, is in capable hands."
The officer acknowledged the compliment mechanically. He was thinking
deeply. Lablache struggled to his feet, and, supporting his bulk with
one hand resting upon the desk, gasped out his final words upon the
matter.
"I want you to remember, sergeant, this matter not only affects me
personally but also in my capacity as a justice of the peace. To
whatever reward I am able to make in the name of H.M. Government I shall
add the sum of one thousand dollars for the recovery of the cattle, and
the additional sum of one thousand dollars for the capture of the
miscreant himself. I have determined to spare no expense in the matter
of hunting this devil," with vindictive intensity, "down, therefore you
can draw on me for all outlay your work may entail. All I say is,
capture him."
"I shall do my best, Mr. Lablache," Horrocks replied simply. "And now,
if you will permit me, I will go down to the settlement to give a few
orders to my men. Good-morning--er--Miss Allandale; good day, gentlemen.
You will hear from me to-night."
The officer left in all the pride of his official capacity. And possibly
his pride was not without reason, for many and smart were the captures
of evil-doers he had made during his career as a keeper of the peace.
But we have been told that "pride goeth before a fall." His estimation
of a "hustler" was not an exalted one. He was accustomed to dealing with
men who shoot quick and straight--"bad men" in fact--and he was equally
quick with the gun, and a dead shot himself. Possibly he was a shade
quicker and a trifle more deadly than the smartest "bad man" known, but
now he was dealing with a man of all these necessary attainments and
whose resourcefulness and cleverness were far greater than his own.
Sergeant Horrocks had a harder road to travel than he anticipated.
Lablache took his departure shortly afterwards, and "Poker" John and his
niece were left in sole possession of the office at the ranch.
The old man looked thoroughly wearied with the mental effort the
interview had entailed upon him. And Jacky, watching him, could not help
noticing how old her uncle looked. She had been a silent observer in the
foregoing scene, her presence almost ignored by the other actors. Now,
however, that they were left alone, the old man turned a look of
appealing helplessness upon her. Such was the rancher's faith in this
wild, impetuous girl that he looked for her judgment on what had passed
in that room with the ready faith of one who regards her as almost
infallible, where human intellect is needed. Nor was the girl, herself,
slow to respond to his mute inquiry. The swiftness of her answer
enhanced the tone of her conviction.
"Set a thief to catch a thief, Uncle John. I guess Horrocks, in spite of
his shifty black eyes, isn't the man for the business. He might track
the slimmest neche that ever crossed the back of a choyeuse. Lablache is
the man Retief has to fear. That uncrowned monarch of Foss River is
subtle, and subtlety alone will serve. Horrocks?" with fine disdain.
"Say, you can't shoot snipe with a pea-shooter."
"That's so," replied John, with weary thoughtlessness. "Do you know,
child, I can't help feeling a strange satisfaction that this Retief's
victim is Lablache. But there, one never knows, when such a man is
about, who will be the next to suffer. I suppose we must take our chance
and trust to the protection of the police."
The girl had walked to the window and now stood framed in the casement
of it. She turned her face back towards the old man as he finished
speaking, and a quiet little smile hovered round the corners of her
fresh ripe lips.
"I don't think Retief will bother us any--at least, he never did before.
Somehow I don't think he's an ordinary rascal." She turned back to the
window. "Hulloa, I guess Bill's coming right along up the avenue."
A moment later "Lord" Bill, lazily cheerful as was his wont, stepped in
through the open French window. The selling up of his ranch seemed to
have made little difference to his philosophical temperament. In his
appearance, perhaps, for now he no longer wore the orthodox dress of the
rancher. He was clad in a tweed lounging suit, and a pair of
well-polished, brown leather boots. His headgear alone pertained to the
prairie. It was a Stetson hat. He was smoking a cigarette as he came up,
but he threw the insidious weed from him as he entered the room.
"Morning, John. How are you, Jacky? I needn't ask you if you have heard
the news. I saw Sergeant Horrocks and old Shylock leaving your veranda.
Hot lot--isn't it? And all Lablache's cattle, too."
A look of deep concern was on his keen face. Lablache might have been
his dearest friend. Jacky smiled over at him. "Poker" John looked
pained.
"Guess you're right, Bill," said the rancher. "Hot--very hot. I pity the
poor devil if Lablache lays a hand on him. Excuse me, boy, I'm going
down to the barn. We've got a couple of ponies we're breaking to
harness."
The old man departed. The others watched the burly figure as he passed
out of the door. His whole personality seemed shrunken of late. The old
robustness seemed a thing of the past. The last two months seemed to
have put ten years of ageing upon the kindly old man. Jacky sighed as
the door closed behind him, and there was no smile in her eyes as she
turned again to her lover. Bill's face had become serious.
"Well?" in a tone of almost painful anxiety.
The girl had started forward and was leaning with her two brown hands
upon the back of a chair. Her face was pale beneath her tan, and her
eyes were bright with excitement. For answer, Bunning-Ford stepped to
the French window and closed it, having first glanced up and down the
veranda to see that it was empty. Not a soul was in sight. The tall
pines, which lined the approach to the house, waved silently in the
light breeze. The clear sky was gloriously blue. On everything was the
peace of summer.
The man swung round and came towards the girl. His eagle face was lit up
by an expression of triumph. He held out his two hands, and the girl
placed her own brown ones in them. He drew her towards him and embraced
her in silence. Then he moved a little away from her. His gleaming eyes
indexed the activity of his mind.
"The cattle are safe--as houses. It was a grand piece of work, dear.
They would never have faced the path without your help. Say, girlie, I'm
an infant at handling stock compared with you. Now--what news?"
Jacky was smiling tenderly into the strong face of the man. She could
not help but wonder at the reckless daring of this man, who so many set
down as a lazy good-for-nothing. She knew--she had always known, she
fancied--the strong character which underlay that indolent exterior. It
never appealed to her to regret the chance that had driven him to use
his abilities in such a cause. There was too much of the wild half-breed
blood in her veins to allow her to stop to consider the
might-have-beens. She gloried in his daring, and something of the spirit
which had caused her to help her half-brother now forced from her an
almost worshiping adoration for her lover.
"Horrocks is to spare no expense in tracking--Retief--down." She laughed
silently. "Lablache is to pay. They are going over the old ground again,
I guess. The tracks of the cattle. Horrocks is not to be feared. We must
watch Lablache. He will act. Horrocks will only be his puppet."
Bill pondered before he spoke.
"Yes," he said thoughtfully at last, "that is the best of news. The very
best. Horrocks can track. He is one of the best at that game. But I have
taken every precaution. Tracking is useless--waste of time."
"I know that from past experience, Bill. Now that the campaign has
begun, what is the next move?"
The girl was all eagerness. Her beautiful dark face was no longer pale.
It was aglow with the enthusiasm of her feelings. Her deep, meaning eyes
burned with a consuming brilliancy. Framed in its setting of curling,
raven hair, her face would have rejoiced the heart of the old masters of
the Van Dyke school. She was wondrously beautiful. Bill gazed upon her
features with devouring eyes, and thoughts of the wrongs committed by
Lablache against her and hers teemed through his brain and set his blood
surging through his veins in a manner that threatened to overbalance his
usual cool judgment. He forced himself to an outward calmness, however,
and the lazy tones of his voice remained as easy as ever.
"On the result of the next move much will depend," he said. "It is to be
a terrific _coup_, and will entail careful planning. It is fortunate
that the people at the half-breed camp are the friends of--of--Retief."
"Yes, and of mine," put in the girl. Then she added slowly, and as
though with painful thought, "Say, Bill, be--be careful. I guess you are
all I have in the world--you and uncle. Do you know, I've kind of seen
to the end of this racket. Maybe there's trouble coming. Who's to be
lagged I can't say. There are shadows around, Bill; the place fairly
hums with 'em. Say, don't--don't give Lablache a slant at you. I can't
spare you, Bill."
The tall thin figure of her companion stepped over towards her, and she
felt herself encircled by his long powerful arms. Then he bent down from
his great height and kissed her passionately upon the lips.
"Take comfort, little girl. This is a war, if necessary, to the death.
Should anything happen to me, you may be sure that I leave you freed
from the snares of old Shylock. Yes, I will be careful, Jacky. We are
playing for a heavy stake. You may trust me."
CHAPTER XV
AMONG THE HALF-BREEDS
Lablache was not a man of variable moods. He was too strong; his purpose
in life was too strong for any vacillation of temper. His one aim--his
whole soul--was wrapt in a craving for money-making and the inevitable
power which the accumulation of great wealth must give him. In all his
dealings he was perfectly--at least outwardly--calm, and he never
allowed access to anger to thwart his ends. An inexorable purpose
governed his actions to an extent which, while his feelings might
undergo paroxysms of acute changes, never permitted him to make a false
move or to show his hand prematurely. But this latest reverse had upset
him more than he had ever been upset in his life, and all the great
latent force of his character had suddenly, as it were, been
precipitated into a torrent of ungovernable fury. He had been wounded
deeply in the most vulnerable spot in his composition. Thirty-five
thousands of his precious dollars ruthlessly torn from his capacious and
retentive money-bags. Truly it was a cruel blow, and one well calculated
to disturb the even tenor of his complacency.
Thought was very busy within that massive head as he lumped heavily
along from John Allandale's house in the direction of his own store.
Some slight satisfaction was his at the reflection of the prompt
assistance he had obtained from the police. It was the satisfaction of a
man who lived by the assistance of the law, of a man who, in his own
inordinate arrogance, considered that the law was made for such as he,
to the detriment of those who attempt to thwart the rich man's purpose.
He knew Horrocks to be capable, and although he did not place too much
reliance on that astute prairie-man's judgment--he always believed in
his own judgment first--still, he knew that he could not have obtained
better assistance, and was therefore as content as circumstances would
permit. That he was sanguine of recovering his property was doubtful.
Lablache never permitted himself the luxury of optimism. He set himself
a task and worked steadily on to the required end. So he had decided
now. He did not permit himself to dwell on the desired result, or to
anticipate. He would simply leave no stone unturned to bring about the
recovery of his stolen property.
He moved ponderously along over the smooth dusty road, and at last
reached the market-place. The settlement was drowsily quiet. Life of a
sort was apparent but it was chiefly "animal." The usual number of dogs
were moving about, or peacefully basking in the sun; a few saddle horses
were standing with dejected air, hitched to various tying-posts. A
buckboard and team was standing outside his own door. The sound of the
smith's hammer falling upon the anvil sounded plaintively upon the
calmness of the sleepy village. In spite of the sensational raid of the
night before, Foss River displayed no unusual activity.
At length the great man reached his office, and threw himself, with
great danger to his furniture, into his capacious wicker chair. He was
in no mood for business. Instead he gazed long and thoughtfully out of
his office window. What somber, vengeful thoughts were teeming through
his brain would be hard to tell, his mask-like face betrayed nothing.
His sphinx-like expression was a blank.
In this way half an hour and more passed. Then his attention became
fixed upon a tall figure sauntering slowly towards the settlement from
the direction of Allandale's ranch. In a moment Lablache had stirred
himself, and a pair of field-glasses were leveled at the unconscious
pedestrian. A moment later an exclamation of annoyance broke from the
money-lender.
"Curse the man! Am I never to be rid of this damned Englishman?" He
stood now gazing malevolently at the tall figure of the Hon.
Bunning-Ford, who was leisurely making his way towards the village. For
the time being the channel of Lablache's thoughts had changed its
direction. He had hoped, in foreclosing his mortgages on the
Englishman's property, to have rid Foss River of the latter's, to him,
hateful presence. But since misfortune had come upon "Lord" Bill, the
Allandales and he had become closer friends than ever. This effort had
been one of the money-lender's few failures, and failure galled him with
a bitterness the recollection of which no success could eliminate. The
result was a greater hatred for the object of his vengeance, and a
lasting determination to rid Foss River of the Englishman forever. And
so he remained standing and watching until, at length, the entrance of
one of his clerks, to announce that the saloon dinner-time was at hand,
brought him out of his cruel reverie, and he set off in quest of the
needs of his inner man, a duty which nothing, of whatever importance,
was allowed to interfere with.
In the meantime, Horrocks, or, as he was better known amongst his
comrades, "the Ferret," was hot upon the trail of the lost cattle.
Horrocks bristled with energy at every point, and his men, working with
him, had reason to be aware of the fact. It was an old saying amongst
them that when "the Ferret" was let loose there was no chance of bits
rusting. In other words, his mileage report to his chiefs would be a
long one.
As the sergeant anticipated, it was child's play to track the stolen
herd. The tracks left by the fast-driven cattle was apparent to the
veriest greenhorn, and Horrocks and his men were anything but
greenhorns.
Long before evening closed in they had followed the footprints right
down to the edge of the great muskeg, and already Horrocks anticipated a
smart capture. But his task seemed easier than it really was. On the
brink of the keg the tracks became confused. With some difficulty the
sleuth instincts of these accomplished trackers led them to follow the
marks for a mile and a half along the edge of the mire, then, it seemed,
the herd had been turned and driven with great speed back on their
tracks. But worse confusion became apparent; and "the Ferret" soon
realized that the herd had been driven up and down along the border of
the great keg with a view to evading further pursuit. So frequently had
this been done that it was impossible to further trace the stock, and
the sun was already sinking when Horrocks dismounted, and with him his
men were at last forced to acknowledge defeat.
He had come to a standstill with a stretch of a mile and a half of
cattle tracks before him. There was no sign further than this of where
the beasts had been driven. The keg itself gave no clew. It was as green
and trackless as ever, and again on the land side there was not a single
foot-print beyond the confused marks along the quagmire's dangerous
border.
The work of covering retreat had been carried out by a master hand, and
Horrocks was not slow to acknowledge the cleverness of the raider. With
all one good prairie man's appreciation for another he detected a foeman
worthy of his steel, and he warmed to the problem set out before him.
The troopers waited for their superior's instructions. As "the Ferret"
did not speak one of the men commented aloud.
"Smart work, sergeant," he said quietly. "I'm not surprised that this
fellow rode roughshod over the district for so long and escaped all who
were sent to nab him. He's clever, is P. Retief, Esq."
Horrocks was looking out across the great keg. Strangely enough they had
halted within twenty yards of the willow bush, at which point the secret
path across the mire began. The man with the gold chevrons upon his arm
ignored the remark of his companion, but answered with words which
occurred in his own train of thought.
"It's plain enough, I guess. Yonder is the direction taken by the
cattle," he said, nodding his head towards the distant peaks of the
mountains beyond. "But who's got the nerve to follow 'em? Say," he went
on sharply, "somewhere along this bank, I mean in the mile and a half of
hoof marks, there's a path turns out, or, at least, firm ground by which
it is possible to cross this devil's keg. It must be so. Cattle can't be
spirited away. Unless, of course--but no, a man don't duff cattle to
drown 'em in a swamp. They've crossed this pernicious mire, boys. We may
nab our friend, Retief, but we'll never clap eyes on those beasts."
"It's the same old business over again, sergeant," said one of the
troopers. "I was on this job before, and I reckon we landed hereabouts
every time we lit on Retief's trail. But we never got no further. Yonder
keg is a mighty hard nut to crack. I guess the half-breed's got the
bulge on us. If path across the mire there is he knows it and we don't,
and, as you say, who's goin' to follow him?" Having delivered himself of
these sage remarks he stepped to the brink of the mire and put his foot
heavily upon its surface. His top-boot sank quickly through the yielding
crust, and the black subsoil rose with oily, sucking action, 'and his
foot was immediately buried out of sight. He drew it out sharply, a
shudder of horror quickening his action. Strong man and hardy as he was,
the muskeg inspired him with a superstitious terror. "Guess there ain't
no following them beasties through that, sergeant. Leastways, not for
me."
Horrocks had watched his subordinate's action thoughtfully. He knew,
without showing, that no man or beast could attempt to cross the mire
with any hope of success without the knowledge of some secret path. That
such a path, or paths, existed he believed, for many were the stories of
how criminals in past days escaped prairie law by such means. However,
he had no knowledge of any such paths himself, and he had no intention
of sacrificing his life uselessly in an attempt to discover the keg's
most jealously guarded secret.
He turned back to his horse and prepared to vault into the saddle.
"It's no use, boys. We are done for to-day. You can ride back to the
settlement. I have another little matter on hand. If any of you see
Lablache just tell him I shall join him in about two hours' time."
Horrocks rode off and his four troopers headed towards the Foss River.
Despite the fact that his horse had been under the saddle for nearly
eight hours Horrocks rode at a great pace. He was one of those men who
are always to be found on the prairie--thorough horsemen. Men who, in
times of leisure, care more for their horses than they do for
themselves; men who regard their horses as they would a comrade, but
who, when it becomes a necessity to work or travel, demand every effort
the animal can make by way of return for the care which has been
lavished upon it. Such men generally find themselves well repaid. A
horse is something more than a creature with four legs, one at each
corner, head out of one end, tail out of the other. There is an old
saying in the West to the effect that a thorough horseman is worthy of
man's esteem. The opinion amongst prairie men is that a man who loves
his horse can never be wholly bad. And possibly we can accept this
decision upon the subject without question, for their experience in men,
especially in "bad men," is wide and varied.
Horrocks avoided the settlement, leaving it well to the west, and turned
his willing beast in the direction of the half-breed camp. There was an
ex-Government scout living in this camp whom he knew; a man who was
willing to sell to his late employers any information he chanced to
possess. It was the officer's intention to see this man and purchase all
he had to sell, if it happened to be worth buying. Hence his visit to
the camp.
The evening shadows were fast lengthening when he espied in the distance
the squalid shacks and dilapidated teepees of the Breeds. There was a
large colony of those wanderers of the West gathered together in the
Foss River camp. We have said that these places are hot-beds of crime, a
curse to the country; but that description scarcely conveys the wretched
poverty and filthiness of these motley gatherings. From a slight rising
ground Horrocks looked down on what might have, at first sight, been
taken for a small village. A scattering of small tumbled-down shacks,
about fifty in number, set out on the fresh green of the prairie,
created the first blot of uncleanly, uncouth habitation upon the view.
Add to these a proportionate number of ragged tents and teepees, a crowd
of unwashed, and, for the most part, undressed children, a hundred
fierce and half-starved dogs of the "husky" type. Imagine a stench of
dung fire cooking, and the gathering of millions of mosquitoes about a
few choyeuses and fat cattle grazing near by, and the picture as it
first presents itself is complete.
The approach to such a place makes one almost wish the undulating
prairie was not quite so fair a picture, for the contrast with man's
filthy squalor is so great that the feeling of nauseation which results
is almost overpowering. Horrocks, however, was used to such scenes. His
duty often took him into worse Breed camps than this. He treated such
places to a perfectly callous indifference, and regarded them merely as
necessary evils.
At the first shack he drew up and instantly became the center of
attention from a pack of yelping dogs and a number of half-fearful,
wide-eyed ragamuffins, grimy children nearly naked and ranging in age
from two years up to twelve. Young as the latter were they were an
evil-looking collection. The noisy greeting of the camp dogs had aroused
the elders from their indolent repose within the shacks, and Horrocks
quickly became aware of a furtive spying within the darkened doorways
and paneless windows.
The reception was nothing unusual to the officer. The Breeds he knew
always fought shy of the police. As a rule, such a visit as the present
portended an arrest, and they were never quite sure who the victim was
to be and the possible consequences. Crime was so common amongst these
people that in nearly every family it was possible to find one or more
law-breakers and, more often than not, the delinquent was liable to
capital punishment.
Ignoring his cool reception, Horrocks hitched his horse to a tree and
stepped up to the shack, regardless of the vicious snapping of the dogs.
The children fled precipitately at his approach. At the door of the
house he halted.
"Hallo there, within!" he called.
There was a moment's pause, and he heard a whispered debate going on in
the shadowy interior.
"Hey!" he called again. "Get a hustle on, some of you. Get out," he
snapped sharply, as a great husky, with bristling hair, came snuffing at
his legs. He aimed a kick at the dog, which, in response, sullenly
retreated to a safe distance.
The angry tone of his second summons had its effect, and a figure moved
cautiously within and finally approached the door.
"Eh! what is it?" asked a deep, guttural voice, and a bulky form framed
itself in the opening.
The police-officer eyed the man keenly. The twilight had so far deepened
that there was barely sufficient light to distinguish the man's
features, but Horrocks's survey satisfied him as to the fellow's
identity. He was a repulsive specimen of the Breed; the dark, lowering
face had something utterly cruel in its expression. The cast was brutal
in the extreme; sensual, criminal. The shifty black eyes looked anywhere
but into the policeman's face.
"That you, Gustave?" said Horrocks, pleasantly enough. He wished to
inspire confidence. "I'm looking for Gautier. I've got a nice little job
for him. Do you know where he is?"
"Ugh!" grunted Gustave, heavily, but with a decided air of relief. He
entertained a wholesome dread of Sergeant Horrocks. Now he became more
communicative. Horrocks had not come to arrest anybody. "I see," he went
on, gazing out across the prairie, "this is not a warrant business, eh?
Guess Gautier is back there," with a jerk of a thumb in a vague
direction behind him. "He's in his shack. Gautier's just hooked up with
another squaw."
"Another?" Horrocks whistled softly. "Why, that's the sixth to my
knowledge. He's very much a marrying man. How much did he pay the neche
this time?"
"Two steers and a sheep," said the man, with an oily grin.
"Ah! I wonder how he acquired 'em. Well, I'll go and find him. Gautier
is smart, but he'll land himself in the penitentiary if he goes on
marrying squaws at that price. Say, which is his shack did you say?"
"Back thar. You'll see it. He's just limed the outside of it. Guess
white's the color his new squaw fancies most. S'long."
The man was glad to be rid of his visitor. In spite of the sergeant's
assurance, Gustave never felt comfortable in the officer's presence.
Horrocks moved off in search of the white hut, while the Breed, with
furtive eyes, watched his progress.
There was no difficulty in locating the shack in that colony of grime.
Even in the darkness the gleaming white of the ex-spy's abode stood out
prominently. The dogs and children now tacitly acknowledged the right of
the police-officer's presence in their camp, and allowed him to move
about apparently unnoticed. He wound his way amongst the huts and tents,
ever watchful and alert, always aiming for Gautier's hut. He knew that
in this place at night his life was not worth much. A quick aim, and a
shot from behind, and no one would ever know who had dropped him. But
the Canadian police are accustomed to take desperate chances in their
work, and think less of it than do our police patrols in the slums of
London.
He found Gautier sitting at his hut door waiting for him. Another might
have been surprised at the Breed's cognizance of the police-officer's
intentions, but Horrocks knew the habits of these people, and was fully
alive to the fact that while he had been talking to Gustave a messenger
was dispatched to warn Gautier that he was sought.
"Well, sergeant, what's your best news?" Gautier asked civilly. He was a
bright, intelligent-looking, dusky man, of perhaps forty years. His face
was less brutal than that of the other Breed, but it was none the less
cunning. He was short and massively built.
"That's just what I've come to ask you, Gautier. I think you can tell me
all I want to know--if you've a notion to. Say," with a keen look round,
"can we talk here?"
There was not a soul visible but an occasional playing child. It was
curious how quiet the camp became. Horrocks was not deceived, however.
He knew that a hundred pairs of eyes were watching him from the reeking
recesses of the huts.
"No talk here." Gautier was serious, and his words conveyed a lot. "It's
bad medicine your coming to-night. But there," with a return to his
cunning look, "I don't know that I've got anything to tell."
Horrocks laughed softly.
"Yes--yes, I know. You needn't be afraid." Then lowering his voice:
"I've got a roll of bills in my pocket."
"Ah, then don't stay here talking. There's lots to tell, but they'd kill
me if they suspected. Where can I see you--quiet-like? They won't lose
sight of me if they can help it, but I reckon I'm good for the best of
'em."
The man's attempt to look sincere was almost ludicrous. His cunning eyes
twinkled with cupidity. Horrocks kept his voice down.
"Right. I shall be at Lablache's store in an hour's time. You must see
me to-night." Then aloud, for the benefit of listening ears, "You be
careful what you are doing. This promiscuous buying of wives, with
cattle which you may have difficulty in accounting for your possession
of, will lead you into trouble. Mind, I've warned you. Just look to it."
His last sentences were called out as he moved away, and Gautier quite
understood.
Horrocks did not return the way he had come, but took a circuitous
route through the camp. He was a man who never lost a chance in his
work, and now, while he was in the midst of that criminal haunt, he
thought it as well to take a look round. He hardly knew what he expected
to find out--if anything. But he required information of Retief, and he
was fully alive to the fact that all that individual's movements would
be known here. He trusted to luck to help him to discover something.
The smartest of men have to work against overwhelming odds in the
detection of crime. Many and devious are the ways of men whose hand is
against the law. Surely is the best detective a mere babe in the hands
of a clever criminal. In this instance the very thing that Horrocks was
in search of was about to be forced upon him. For underlying that
information was a deep-laid scheme.
Never can reliance be placed in a true half-breed. The heathen Chinee is
the ideal of truth and honesty when his wiles are compared with the dark
ways of the Breed. Horrocks, with all his experience, was no match for
the dusky-visaged outcast of the plains. Gautier had been deputied to
convey certain information to Lablache by the patriarchs of the camp.
And with his native cunning he had decided, on the appearance of
Sergeant Horrocks, to extort a price for that which it was his duty to
tell. Besides this, as matters had turned out, Horrocks was to receive
gratis that for which he would shortly pay Gautier.
He had made an almost complete circuit of the camp. Accustomed as he was
to such places, the stench of it almost made him sick. He came to a
stand close beside one of the outlying teepees. He was just preparing to
fill his pipe and indulge in a sort of disinfecting smoke when he became
aware of voices talking loudly close by. The sound proceeded from the
teepees. From force of habit he listened. The tones were gruff, and
almost Indian-like in the brevity of expression. The language was the
bastard jargon of the French half-breed. For a moment he was doubtful.
Then his attention became riveted.
"Yes," said one voice, "he is a good man, is Peter. When he has plenty
he spends it. He does not rob the poor Breed. Only the gross white man.
Peter is clever. Very."
Then another voice, deep-toned and full, took up the eulogy.
"Peter knows how to spend his money. He spends it among his friends. It
is good. How much whisky will he buy, think you?"
Another voice chipped in at this point, and Horrocks strained his ears
to catch the words, for the voice was the voice of a female and her
utterance was indistinct.
"He said he would pay for everything--all we could eat and drink--and
that the pusky should be held the night after to-morrow. He will come
himself and dance the Red River jig. Peter is a great dancer and will
dance all others down."
Then the first speaker laughed.
"Peter must have a long stocking if he would pay for all. A barrel of
rye would not go far, and as for food, he must bring several of the
steers which he took from old Lablache if he would feed us. But Peter is
always as good as his word. He said he would pay. And he will pay. When
does he come to prepare?"
"He does not come. He has left the money with Baptiste, who will see to
everything. Peter will not give 'the Ferret' a chance."
"But how? The dance will be a danger to him," said the woman's voice.
"What if 'the Ferret' hears?"
"He will not hear, and, besides, Peter will be prepared if the damned
police come. Have no fear for Peter. He is bold."
The voices ceased and Horrocks waited a little longer. But presently,
when the voices again became audible, the subject of conversation had
changed, and he realized that he was not likely to hear more that would
help him. So, with great caution, he stole quickly away to where his
horse was tied. He mounted hastily and rode off, glad to be away from
that reeking camp, and greatly elated with the success of the visit.
He had learned a lot. And he was to hear more yet from Gautier. He felt
that the renowned "hustler" was already in his clutches. His spurs went
sharply into his broncho's flanks and he raced over the prairie towards
the settlement. Possibly he should have known better than to trust to
the overhearing of that conversation. His knowledge of the Breeds should
have warned him to put little faith in what he had heard. But he was
eager. His reputation was largely at stake over this affair, and that
must be the excuse for the rashness of his faith. However, the penalty
of his folly was to be his, therefore blame can well be spared.
CHAPTER XVI
GAUTIER CAUSES DISSENSION
"Sit down and let me hear the--worst."
Lablache's voice rasped harshly as he delivered his mandate. Horrocks
had just arrived at the money-lender's store after his visit to the
half-breed camp. The police-officer looked weary. And the dejected
expression on his face had drawn from his companion the hesitating
superlative.
"Have you got anything to eat?" Horrocks retorted quickly, ignoring the
other's commands. "I am famished. Had nothing since I set out from
Stormy Cloud. I can't talk on an empty stomach."
Lablache struck a table bell sharply, and one of his clerks, all of whom
were still working in the store, entered. The money-lender's clerks
always worked early and late. It was part of the great man's creed to
sweat his _employees_.
"Just go over to the saloon, Markham, and tell them to send supper for
one--something substantial," he called out after the man, who hastened
to obey with the customary precipitance of all who served the flinty
financier.
The man disappeared in a twinkling and Lablache turned to his visitor
again.
"They'll send it over at once. There's some whisky in that bottle,"
pointing to a small cabinet, through the glass door of which gleamed the
white label of "special Glenlivet." "Help yourself. It'll buck you up."
Horrocks obeyed with alacrity, and the genial spirit considerably
refreshed him. He then reseated himself opposite to his host, who had
faced round from his desk.
"My news is not the--worst, as you seem to anticipate; although,
perhaps, it might have been better," the officer began. "In fact, I am
fairly well pleased with the result of my day's work."
"Which means, I take it, that you have discovered a clew."
Lablache's heavy eyes gleamed.
"Rather more than a clew," Horrocks went on reflectively. "My
information relates more to the man than to the beasts. We shall, I
think, lay our hands on this--Retief."
"Good--good," murmured the money-lender, inclining his heavy jowled
head. "Find the man and we shall recover the cattle."
"I am not so sure of that," put in the other. "However, we shall see."
Lablache looked slightly disappointed. The capture of Retief seemed to
him synonymous with the recovery of his stock. However, he waited for
his visitor to proceed. The money-lender was essentially a man to draw
his own conclusions after hearing the facts, and no opinion of another
was likely to influence him when once those conclusions were arrived at.
Lablache was a strong man mentally and physically. And few cared to
combat his decisions or opinions.
For a moment further talk was interrupted by the entry of a man with
Horrocks's supper. When the fellow had withdrawn the police-officer
began his repast and the narration of his story at the same time.
Lablache watched and listened with an undisturbed concentration. He lost
no point, however small, in the facts as stated by the officer. He
refrained from interruption, excepting where the significance of certain
points in the story escaped him, and, at the conclusion, he was as
conversant with the situation as though he had been present at the
investigation. The great man was profoundly impressed with what he
heard. Not so much with the shrewdness of the officer as with the simple
significance of the loss of further trace of the cattle at the edge of
the muskeg. Up to this point of the story he felt assured that Horrocks
was to be perfectly relied upon, but, for the rest, he was not so sure.
He felt that though this man was the finest tracker in the country the
delicate science of deduction was not necessarily an accompaniment to
his prairie abilities. Therefore, for the moment, he concentrated his
thoughts upon the features surrounding the great keg.
"It is a curious thing," he said retrospectively, as the policeman
ceased speaking, "that in all previous raids of this Retief we have
invariably tracked the lost stock down to this point. Of course, as you
say, there is not the slightest doubt that the beasts have been herded
over the keg. Everything seems to me to hinge on the discovery of that
path. That is the problem which confronts us chiefly. How are we to find
the secret of the crossing?"
"It cannot be done," said Horrocks, simply but with decision.
"Nonsense," exclaimed the other, with a heavy gasp of breath. "Retief
knows it, and the others with him. Those cattle could not have been
herded over single-handed. Now to me it seems plain that the crossing is
a very open secret amongst the Breeds."
"And I presume you consider that we should work chiefly on that
hypothesis?"
"Exactly."
"And you do not consider the possible capture of Retief as being the
most important feature of the case?"
"Important--certainly. But, for the moment, of minor consideration. Once
we discover the means by which he secretes his stock--and the
hiding-place--we can stop his depredations and turn all our energies to
his capture. You follow me? At first I was inclined to think with you
that the capture of the man would be the best thing. But now it seems to
me that the easiest method of procedure will be the discovery of that
path."
The rasping tone in which Lablache spoke conveyed to the other his
unalterable conviction. The prairie man, however, remained unconvinced.
"Well," he replied, after a moment's deliberation, "I cannot say I agree
with you. Open secret or not, I've a notion that we'd stand a better
chance of discovering the profoundest of state secrets than elicit
information, even supposing them to possess it, of this description from
the Breeds. I expect Gautier here in a few minutes; we shall hear what
he has to say."
"I trust he _may_ have something to say."
Lablache snapped his reply out in that peculiar tone of his which spoke
volumes. It never failed to anger him to have his opinions gainsaid.
Then his manner changed slightly, and his mood seemed to become
contemplative. Horrocks observed the change and wondered what was
coming. The money-lender cleared his throat and spat into the stove.
Then he spoke with that slow deliberation which was his when thinking
deeply.
"Two years ago, when Retief did what he liked in this part of the
country, there were many stories going about as to his relationship with
a certain lady in this settlement."
"Miss Allandale--yes, I have heard."
"Just so; some said that she--er--was very partial to him. Some, that
they were distantly connected. All were of opinion that she knew a great
deal of the man if she only chose to tell. These stories were
gossip--merely. These small places are given to gossip. But I must
confess to a belief that gossip is often--always, in fact--founded on a
certain amount of fact."
There was no niceness of feeling about this mountain of obesity in
matters of business. He spoke as callously of the girl, for whom he
entertained his unholy passion, as he would speak of a stranger. He
experienced no compunction in linking her name with that of an outlaw.
His gross nature was of too low an order to hold anything sacred where
his money-bags were affected.
"Perhaps you--er--do not know," he pursued, carefully lighting his pipe
and pressing the charred tobacco down with the tip of his little finger,
"that this girl is the daughter of a Breed mother?"
"Guess I hadn't a notion."
Horrocks's keen eyes flashed with interest. He too lit his pipe as he
lounged back in his chair.
"She is a quarter-breed, and, moreover, the esteem in which she is held
by the skulking inhabitants of the camp inclines me to the belief
that--er--judicious--er--handling--"
"You mean that through her we might obtain the information we require?"
Horrocks punctuated the other's deliberate utterances with hasty
eagerness. Lablache permitted a vague smile about the corners of his
mouth, his eyes remained gleaming coldly.
"You anticipate me. The matter would need delicate handling. What Miss
Allandale has done in the past will not be easy to find out. Granting,
of course, that gossip has not wronged her," he went on doubtfully. "On
second thoughts, perhaps you had better leave that source of information
to me."
He relapsed apparently into deep thought. His pensive deliberation was
full of guile. He had a purpose to achieve which necessitated the
suggestion which he had made to this representative of the law. He
wished to impress upon his companion a certain connivance on the part
of, at least, one member of the house of Allandale with the doings of
the raider. He merely wished to establish a suspicion in the mind of the
officer. Time and necessity might develop it, if it suited Lablache's
schemes that such should occur. In the meantime he knew he could direct
this man's actions as he chose.
The calm superiority of the money-lender was not lost upon his
companion. Horrocks was nettled, and showed it.
"But you'll pardon me, Mr. Lablache. You have offered me a source of
information which, as a police-officer, it is my duty to sound. As you
yourself admit, the old stories of a secret love affair may have some
foundation in fact. Accept that and what possibilities are not opened
up? Had I been employed on the affairs of Retief, during his previous
raids, I should certainly have worked upon so important a clew."
"Tut, tut, man," retorted the other, sharply. "I understood you to be a
keen man at your business. A single ill-timed move in the direction we
are discussing and the fat will be in the fire. The girl is as smart as
paint; at the first inkling of your purpose she'll curl up--shut up like
a rat trap. The Breeds will be warned and we shall be further off
success than ever. No, no, when it comes to handling Jacky Allandale you
leave it to me--Ah!"
Lablache's ejaculation was the result of the sudden apparition of a dark
face peering in at his window. He swung round with lightning rapidity,
and before Horrocks could realize what he was doing his fat hand was
grasping the butt of a revolver. Then, with a grunt of annoyance, he
turned back to his guest.
"That's your Breed, I take it. For the moment I thought it was some one
else; it's always best in these parts to shoot first and inquire
afterwards. I occasionally get some strange visitors."
The policeman laughed as he went to the door. His irritation at the
money-lender's manner was forgotten. The strangeness of the sight of
Lablache's twenty stone of flesh moving with lightning rapidity
astonished him beyond measure. Had he not seen it nothing would have
convinced him of the man's marvelous agility when roused by emergency.
It was something worth remembering.
Sure enough, the face on the other side of the window belonged to
Gautier, and, as Horrocks opened the door, the Breed pushed his way
stealthily in.
"It's all right, boss," said the man, with some show of anxiety, "I've
slipped 'em. I'm watched pretty closely, but--good evening, sir," he
went on, turning to Lablache with obsequious politeness. "This is bad
medicine--this business we're on."
Lablache cleared his throat and spat, but deigned no reply. He intended
to take no part in the ensuing conversation. He only wished to observe.
Horrocks at once became the officer to the subordinate. He turned
sharply on the Breed.
"Cut the cackle and come to business. Have you anything to tell us about
this Retief? Out with it sharp."
"That depends, boss," said the man, with a cunning smile. "As you sez.
Cut the cackle and come to business. Business means a deal, and a deal
means 'cash pappy.' Wot's the figger?"
There was no obsequious politeness about the fellow now. He was about as
bad a specimen of the Breed as could well be found. Hence his late
employment by the authorities. "The worse the Breed the better the spy,"
was the motto of those whose duty it was to investigate crime. Gautier
was an excellent spy, thoroughly unscruplous and rapacious. His
information was always a saleable commodity, and he generally found his
market a liberal one. But with business instincts worthy of Lablache
himself he was accustomed to bargain first and impart after.
"See here," retorted Horrocks, "I don't go about blind-folded. Neither
am I going to fling bills around without getting value for 'em. What's
your news? Can you lay hands on Retief, or tell us where the stock is
hidden?"
"Guess you're looking fer somethin' now," said the man, impudently. "Ef
I could supply that information right off some 'un 'ud hev to dip deep
in his pocket fur it. I ken put you on to a good even trail, an' fifty
dollars 'ud be small pay for the trouble an' the danger I'm put to. Wot
say? Fifty o' the best greenbacks?"
"Mr. Lablache can pay you if he chooses, but until I know that your
information's worth it I don't part with fifty cents. Now then, we've
had dealings before, Gautier--dealings which have not always been to
your credit. You can trust me to part liberally if you've anything
worth telling, but mind this, you don't get anything beforehand, and if
you don't tell us all you know, in you go to Calford and a diet of
skilly'll be your lot for some time to come."
The man's face lowered considerably at this. He knew Horrocks well, and
was perfectly aware that he would be as good as his word. There was
nothing to be gained by holding out. Therefore he accepted the
inevitable with as bad a grace as possible. Lablache kept silence, but
he was reading the Breed as he would a book.
"See hyar, sergeant," said Gautier, sulkily, "you're mighty hard on the
Breeds, an' you know it. It'll come back on you, sure, one o' these
days. Guess I'm going to play the game square. It ain't fur me to bluff
men o' your kidney, only I like to know that you're going to treat me
right. Well, this is what I've got to say, an' it's worth fifty as
you'll 'low."
Horrocks propped himself upon the corner of the money-lender's desk and
prepared to listen. Lablache's lashless eyes were fixed with a steady,
unblinking stare upon the half-breed's face. Not a muscle of his own
pasty, cruel face moved. Gautier was talking to, at least, one man who
was more cunning and devilish than himself.
The dusky ruffian gave a preliminary cough and then launched upon his
story with all the flowery embellishments of which his inventive fancy
was capable. What he had to tell was practically the same as Horrocks
had overheard. There were a few items of importance which came fresh to
the police-officer's ears. It stuck Lablache that the man spoke in the
manner of a lesson well learned, and, in consequence, his keen interest
soon relaxed. Horrocks, however, judged differently, and saw in the
man's story a sound corroboration of his own information. As the story
progressed his interest deepened, and at its conclusion he questioned
the half-breed closely.
"This pusky. I suppose it will be the usual drunken orgie?"
"I guess," was the laconic rejoinder.
"Any of the Breeds from the other settlements coming over?"
"Can't say, boss. Like enough, I take it."
"And what is Retief's object in defraying all expenses--in giving the
treat, when he knows that the white men are after him red-hot?"
"Mebbe it's bluff--cheek. Peter's a bold man. He snaps his fingers at
the police," replied Gautier, illustrating his words with much
appreciation. He felt he was getting a smack at the sergeant.
"Then Peter's a fool."
"Guess you're wrong thar. Peter's the slickest 'bad man' I've heerd tell
of."
"We'll see. Now what about the keg? Of course the cattle have crossed
it. A secret path?"
"Yup."
"Who knows the secret of it?"
"Peter."
"Only?"
The Breed hesitated. His furtive eyes shifted from one face to the other
of his auditors. Then encountering the fixed stare of both men he
glanced away towards the window. He seemed uncomfortable under the mute
inquiry. Then he went on doubtfully.
"I guess thar's others. It's an old secret among the Breeds. An' I've
heerd tell as some whites knows it."
A swift exchange of meaning glances passed between the two listeners.
"Who?"
"Can't say."
"Won't--you mean?"
"No, boss. Ef I knew it 'ud pay me well to tell. Guess I don't know.
I've tried to find out."
"Now look you. Retief has always been supposed to have been drowned in
the keg. Where's he been all the time?"
The half-breed grinned. Then his face became suddenly serious. He began
to think the cross-questioning was becoming too hot He decided to draw
on his imagination.
"Peter was no more drowned than I was. He tricked you--us all--into that
belief. Gee!--but he's slick. Peter went to Montana. When the States got
too sultry fur 'im he jest came right back hyar. He's been at the camp
fur two weeks an' more."
Horrocks was silent after this. Then he turned to Lablache.
"Anything you'd like to ask him?"
The money-lender shook his head and Horrocks turned back to his man.
"I guess that's all. Here's your fifty," he went on, taking a roll of
bills from his pocket and counting out the coveted greenbacks. "See and
don't get mad drunk and get to shooting. Off you go. If you learn
anything more I'm ready to pay for it."
Gautier took the bills and hastily crammed them into his pocket as if he
feared he might be called upon to return them. Then he made for the
door. He hesitated before he passed out.
"Say, sergeant, you ain't goin' fur to try an' take 'im at the pusky?"
he asked, with an appearance of anxiety.
"That's my business. Why?"
The Breed shrugged.
"Ye'll feed the coyotes, sure as--kingdom come. Say they'll jest flay
the pelt off yer."
"Git!"
The rascal "got" without further delay or evil prophecy. He knew
Horrocks.
When the door closed, and the officer had assured himself of the man's
departure, he turned to his host.
"Well?"
"Well?" retorted Lablache.
"What do you make of it?"
"An excellent waste of fifty dollars."
Lablache's face was expressive of indifference mixed with incredulity.
"He told you what you already knew," he pursued, "and drew on his
imagination for the rest. I'll swear that Retief has not been seen at
the Breed camp for the last fortnight. Moreover, that man was reciting a
carefully-thought-out tale. I fancy you have something yet to learn in
your business, Horrocks. You have not the gift of reading men."
The police-officer's face was a study. As he listened to the masterful
tone of his companion his color came and went. His dark skin flushed and
then rapidly paled. A blaze of anger leapt into his keen, flashing eyes.
Lablache had flicked him sorely. He struggled to keep cool.
"Unfortunately my position will not allow me to fall out with you," he
said, with scarcely-suppressed heat, "otherwise I should call you
sharply to account for your insulting remarks. For the moment we will
pass them over. In the meantime, Mr. Lablache, let me tell you, my
experience leads me to trust largely to the story of that man. Gautier
has sold me a good deal of excellent information in the past, and I am
convinced that what I have now heard is not the least of his efforts in
the law's behalf. Rascal--scoundrel--as he is, he would not dare to set
me on a false scent--"
"Not if backed by a man like Retief--and all the half-breed camp? You
surprise me."
Horrocks gritted his teeth but spoke sharply. Lablache's supercilious
tone of mockery drove him to the verge of madness.
"Not even under these circumstances. I shall attend that pusky and
effect the arrest. I understand these people better than you give me
credit for. I presume your discretion will not permit you to be present
at the capture?"
It was Horrocks's turn to sneer now. Lablache remained unmoved. He
merely permitted the ghost of a smile.
"My discretion will not permit me to be present at the pusky. There will
be no capture, I fear."
"Then I'll bid you good-night. There is no need to further intrude upon
your time."
"None whatever."
The money-lender did not attempt to show the policeman any
consideration. He had decided that Horrocks was a fool, and when
Lablache formed such an opinion of a man he rarely attempted to conceal
it, especially when the man stood in a subordinate position.
After seeing the officer off the premises, Lablache moved heavily back
to his desk. The alarm clock indicated ten minutes to nine. He stood for
some moments gazing with introspective eyes at the timepiece. He was
thinking hard. He was convinced that what he had just heard was a mere
fabrication, invented to cover some ulterior motive. That motive puzzled
him. He had no fear for Horrocks's life. Horrocks wore the uniform of
the Government. Lawless and all as the Breeds were, he knew they would
not resist the police--unless, of course, Retief were there. Having
decided in his mind that Retief would not be there he had no misgivings.
He failed to fathom the trend of affairs at all. In spite of his outward
calm he felt uneasy, and he started as though he had been shot when he
heard a loud knocking at his private door.
The money-lender's hand dropped on to the revolver lying upon the desk,
and he carried the weapon with him when he went to answer the summons.
His alarm was needless. His late visitor was "Poker" John.
The old rancher came in sheepishly enough. There was no mistaking the
meaning of his peculiar crouching gait, the leering upward glance of his
bloodshot eyes. To any one who did not know him, his appearance might
have been that of a drink-soaked tramp, so dishevelled and bleared he
looked. Lablache took in the old man's condition in one swift glance
from his pouched and fishy eyes. His greeting was cordial--too cordial.
Any other but the good-hearted, simple old man would have been
suspicious of it. Cordiality was not Lablache's nature.
"Ah, John, better late than never," he exclaimed gutturally. "Come in
and have a smoke."
"Yes, I thought I'd just come right down and--see if you'd got any
news."
"None--none, old friend. Nothing at all. Horrocks is a fool, I'm
thinking. Take that chair," pointing to the basket chair. "You're not
looking up to the mark. Have a nip of Glenlivet."
He passed the white-labeled bottle over to his companion, and watched
the rancher curiously as he shakily helped himself to a liberal "four
fingers." "Poker" John was rapidly breaking up. Lablache fully realized
this.
"No news--no news," murmured John, as he smacked his lips over his "tot"
of whisky. "It's bad, man, very bad. We're not safe in this place whilst
that man's about. Dear, dear, dear."
The senility of the rancher was painfully apparent. Doubtless it was the
result of his recent libations and excesses. The money-lender was quite
aware that John had not come to him to discuss the "hustler." He had
come to suggest a game of cards, but for reasons of his own the former
wished to postpone the request. He had not expected that "Poker" John
would have come this evening; therefore, certain plans of his were not
to have been put into execution until the following day. Now, however,
it was different. John's coming, and his condition, offered him a chance
which was too good to be missed, and Lablache was never a man to miss
opportunities.
CHAPTER XVII
THE NIGHT OF THE PUSKY
Presently the old man drew himself up a little. The spirit had a bracing
effect upon him. The dull leering eyes assumed a momentary brightness,
and he almost grew cheerful. The change was not lost upon Lablache. It
was a veritable game of the cat and the mouse.
"This is the first time your stock has been touched," said John,
meaninglessly. His thoughts were running upon the game of cards he had
promised himself. An unaccountable lack of something like moral courage
prevented him talking of it. Possibly it was the iron influence of his
companion which forbade the suggestion of cards. "Poker" John was
inwardly chafing at his own weakness.
"Yes," responded the other, "I have not been touched before." Then,
suddenly, he leant forward, and, for the moment, the money-lender's face
lit up with something akin to kindliness. It was an unusual sight, and
one not to be relied upon. "How many years is it, John, that we have
struggled side by side in this benighted land?"
The rancher looked at the other, then his eyes dropped. He scarcely
comprehended. He was startled at the expression of that leathery, puffed
face. He shifted uneasily with the curious weakly restlessness of a
shattered nerve.
"More years, I guess, than I care to think of," he murmured at last.
"Yes, yes, you're right, John--quite right. It doesn't do to look back
too far. We're getting on. But we're not old men yet. We're rich, John,
rich in land and experience. No, not so old. We can still give the
youngsters points, John. Ha, ha!"
Lablache laughed hollowly at his own pleasantry. His companion joined
in the laugh, but without mirth. Poker--he could think of nothing but
poker. The money-lender insinuatingly pushed the whisky bottle closer to
the senile rancher. Almost unconsciously the old man helped himself.
"I wonder what it would be like living a private, idle life?" Lablache
went on, as though speaking to himself. Then directly to his companion,
"Do you know, old friend, I'm seriously thinking of selling out all my
interests and retiring. I've worked very hard--very hard. I'm getting
tired of it all. Sometimes I feel that rest would be good. I have
amassed a very large fortune, John--as you know."
The confidences of the money-lender were so unusual that "Poker" John,
in a dazed way, mildly wondered. The whisky had roused him a good deal
now, and he felt that it was good to talk like this. He felt that the
money-lender was a good fellow, and much better than he had thought. He
even experienced compunction for the opinions which, at times, he had
expressed of this old companion. Drink plays strange pranks with one's
better judgment at times. Lablache noted the effect of his words
carefully.
"Yes," said John, "you have worked hard--we have both worked hard. Our
lives have not been altogether without pleasure. The occasional game of
cards we have had together has always helped to relieve monotony, eh,
Lablache? Yes--yes. No one can say we have not earned rest. But
there--yes, you have been more fortunate than I. I could not retire."
Lablache raised his sparse eyebrows. Then he helped himself to some
whisky and pushed the bottle over to the other. When John had again
replenished his glass the money-lender solemnly raised his and waved it
towards the gray-headed old man. John responded unsteadily.
"How!"
"How!" replied the rancher.
Both men drank the old Indian toast. Simple honesty was in one heart,
while duplicity and low cunning filled the other.
"You could not retire?" said Lablache, when they had set their empty
glasses upon the desk.
"No--no," answered the other, shaking his head with ludicrous
mournfulness, "not retire; I have responsibilities--debts. You should
know. I must pay them off. I must leave Jacky provided for."
"Yes, of course. You must pay them off. Jacky should be your first
consideration."
Lablache pursed his sensual lips. His expression was one of deep
concern. Then he apparently fell into a reverie, during which John was
wondering how best to propose the longed-for game of cards. The other
roused himself before the desired means suggested itself to the old
gambler. And his efforts were cut short abruptly.
"Jacky ought to marry," Lablache said without preamble. "One never knows
what may happen. A good husband--a man with money and business capacity,
would be a great help to you, and would assure her future."
Lablache had touched upon the one strong point which remained in John
Allandale's character. His love for Jacky rivaled his passion for poker,
and in its pure honesty was perhaps nearly as strong as that feverish
zest. The gambler suddenly became electrified into a different being.
The signs of decay--the atmosphere of drink, as it were, fell from him
in the flashing of a second, and the old vigorous rancher, like the last
dying flame of a fire, shot up into being.
"Jacky shall marry when she chooses, and whatever man she prefers. I
will never profit by that dear child's matrimonial affairs," he said
simply.
Lablache bit his lips. He had been slightly premature. He acquiesced
with a heavy nod of the head and poured himself out some more whisky.
The example was natural and his companion followed it.
"You are quite right, John. I merely spoke from a worldly point of
view. But your decision affects me closely."
The other looked curiously at the money-lender, who thus found himself
forced to proceed. Hitherto he had chosen his own gait. Now he felt
himself being drawn. The process was new to him, but it suited his
purpose.
"How?"
Lablache sighed. It was like the breathing of an adipose pig.
"I have known that niece of yours, John, ever since she came into this
world. I have watched her grow. I understand her nature as well as you
do yourself. She is a clever, bright, winsome girl. But she needs the
guiding hand of a good husband."
"Just so. You are right. I am too old to take proper care of her. When
she chooses she shall marry."
John's tone was decisive. His words were non-committing and open to no
argument. Lablache went on.
"Supposing now a rich man, a very rich man, proposed marriage for her.
Presuming he was a man against whom there was no doubtful record--who,
from a worldly point of view, there could be no objection to--should you
object to him as a husband for Jacky?"
The rancher was still unsuspecting.
"What I have stated should answer your question. If Jacky were willing I
should have no objection."
"Supposing," the money-lender went on, "she were unwilling, but was
content to abide by your decision. What then?"
There was a passing gleam of angry protest in the rancher's eyes as he
answered.
"What I have said still holds good," he retorted a little hotly. "I will
not influence the child."
"I am sorry. I wish to marry your girl."
There was an impressive silence after this announcement. "Poker" John
stared in blank wonderment at his companion. The expectation of such a
contingency could not have been farther from his thought. Lablache--to
many his niece--it was preposterous--ludicrous. He would not take it
seriously--he could not. It was a joke--and not a nice one.
He laughed--and in his laugh there was a ring of anger.
"Of course you are joking, Lablache," he said at last. "Why, man, you
are old enough to be the girl's father."
"I was never more serious in my life. And as for age," with a shrug, "at
least you will admit my intellect is unimpaired. Her interests will be
in safe keeping."
Having recovered from his surprise the old man solemnly shook his head.
Some inner feeling made him shrink from thoughts of Lablache as a
husband for his girl. Besides, he had no intention of retreating from
the stand he had taken.
"As far as I am concerned the matter is quite impossible. If Jacky comes
to me with a request for sanction of her marriage to you, she shall have
it. But I will express no wish upon the matter. No, Lablache, I never
thought you contemplated such a thing. You must go to her. I will not
interfere. Oh, dear! oh, dear!" and the old man laughed again nervously.
Lablache remained perfectly calm. He had expected this result; although
he had hoped that it might have been otherwise. Now he felt that he had
paved the way to methods much dearer to his heart. This refusal of
John's he intended to turn to account. He would force an acceptance from
Jacky, and induce her uncle, by certain means, to give his consent.
The money-lender remained silent while he refilled his pipe. "Poker"
John seized the opportunity.
"Come, Lablache," he said jocosely, "let us forget this little matter.
Have a drink of your own whisky--I'll join you--and let us go down to
the saloon for a gentle flutter."
He helped himself to the spirit and poured out a glass for his
companion. They silently drank, and then Lablache coughed, spat and lit
his pipe. He fumbled his hat on to his head and moved to the door.
"Come on, then," he said gutturally. And John Allandale followed him
out.
The two days before the half-breed pusky passed quickly enough for some
of those who are interested, and dragged their weary lengths all too
slowly for others. At last, however, in due course the day dawned, and
with it hopes and fears matured in the hearts of not a few of the
denizens of Foss River and the surrounding neighborhood.
To all appearance the most unconcerned man was the Hon. Bunning-Ford,
who still moved about the settlement in his cheery, _débonnaire_
fashion, ever gentlemanly and always indolent. He had taken up his
residence in one of the many disused shacks which dotted round the
market-place, and there, apparently, sought to beguile the hours and eke
out the few remaining dollars which were his. For Lablache, in his
sweeping process, had still been forced to hand over some money, over
and above his due, as a result of the sale of the young rancher's
property. The trifling amount, however, was less than enough to keep
body and soul together for six months.
Lablache, too, staunch to his opinions, did not trouble himself in the
least. For the rest, all who knew of the meditated _coup_ of Horrocks
were agitated to a degree. All hoped for success, but all agreed in a
feeling of pessimism which was more or less the outcome of previous
experiences of Retief. Did not they know, only too well, of the traps
which had been laid and which had failed to ensnare the daring desperado
in days gone by? Horrocks they fondly believed to be a very smart man,
but had not some of the best in the Canadian police been sent before to
bring to justice this scourge of the district?
Amongst those who shared these pessimistic views Mrs. Abbot was one of
the most skeptical. She had learnt all the details of the intended
arrest in the way she learned everything that was going on. A few
judicious questions to the doctor and careful observations never left
her long in the dark. She had a natural gift for absorbing information.
She was a sort of social amalgam which never failed to glean the golden
particles of news which remained after the "panning up" of daily events
in Foss River. Nothing ever escaped this dear old soul, from the details
of a political crisis in a distant part of the continent down to the
number of drinks absorbed by some worthless half-breed in "old man"
Smith's saloon. She had one of those keen, active brains which refuses
to become dull and torpid in an atmosphere of humdrum monotony. Luckily
her nature never allowed her to become a mischievous busybody. She was
too kindly for that--too clever, tactful.
After duly weighing the point at issue she found Horrocks's plans
wanting, hence her unbelief, but, at the same time, her old heart
palpitated with nervous excitement as might the heart of any younger and
more hopeful of those in the know.
As for the Allandales, it would be hard to say what they thought. Jacky
went about her duties with a placidity that was almost worthy of the
great money-lender himself. She showed no outward sign, and very little
interest. Her thoughts she kept severely to herself. But she had
thoughts on the subject, thoughts which teemed through her brain night
and day. She was in reality aglow with excitement, but the Breed nature
in her allowed no sign of emotion to appear. "Poker" John was beyond a
keen interest. Whisky and cards had done for him what morphine and opium
does for the drug fiend. He had no thoughts beyond them. In lucid
intervals, as it were, he thought, perhaps, as well as his poor dulled
brain would permit him, but the result of his mental effort would
scarcely be worth recording.
And so the time drew near.
Horrocks, since his difference of opinion with Lablache, had made the
ranch his headquarters, leaving the money-lender as much as possible out
of his consultations. He had been heartily welcomed by old John and his
niece, the latter in particular being very gracious to him. Horrocks
was not a lady's man, but he appreciated comfort when he could get it,
and Jacky spared no trouble to make him comfortable now. Had he known
the smiling thought behind her beautiful face his appreciation might
have lessened.
As the summer day drew to a close signs of coming events began to show
themselves. First of all Aunt Margaret made her appearance at the
Allandales' house. She was hot and excited. She had come up for a
gossip, she said, and promptly sat down with no intention of moving
until she had heard all she wanted to know. Then came "Lord" Bill,
cheerily monosyllabic. He always considered that long speeches were a
disgusting waste of time. Following closely upon his heels came the
doctor and Pat Nabob, with another rancher from an outlying ranch. Quite
why they had come up they would have hesitated to say. Possibly it was
curiosity--possibly natural interest in affairs which nearly affected
them. Horrocks, they knew, was at the ranch. Perhaps the magnetism which
surrounds persons about to embark on hazardous undertakings had
attracted them thither.
As the hour for supper drew near the gathering in the sitting-room
became considerable, and as each newcomer presented himself, Jacky, with
thoughtful hospitality, caused another place to be set at her bountiful
table. No one was ever allowed to pass a meal hour at the ranch without
partaking of refreshment. It was one of the principal items provided for
in the prairie creed, and the greatest insult to be offered at such time
would have been to leave the house before the repast.
At eight o'clock the girl announced the meal with characteristic
heartiness.
"Come right along and feed," she said. "Who knows what to-night may
bring forth? I guess we can't do better than drink success to our
friend, Sergeant Horrocks. Whatever the result of his work to-night we
all allow his nerve's right. Say, good people, there's liquor on the
table--and glasses; a bumper to Sergeant Horrocks."
The wording of the girl's remarks was significant. Truly Horrocks might
have been the leader of a forlorn hope. Many of those present certainly
considered him to be such. However, they were none the less hearty in
their toast, and Jacky and Bill were the two first to raise their
glasses on high.
The toast drunk, tongues were let loose and the supper began. Ten
o'clock was the time at which Horrocks was to set out. Therefore there
were two hours in which to make merry. Never was a merrier meal taken at
the ranch. Spirits were at bursting point, due no doubt to the current
of excitement which actuated each member of the gathering.
Jacky was in the best of spirits, and even "Poker" John was enjoying one
of his rare lucid intervals. "Lord" Bill sat between Jacky and Mrs.
Abbot, and a more charming companion the old lady thought she had never
met. It was Jacky who led the talk, Jacky who saw to every one's wants,
Jacky whose spirits cheered everybody, by her light badinage, into, even
against their better judgment, a feeling of optimism. Even Horrocks felt
the influence of her bright, winsome cheeriness.
"Capture this colored scoundrel, Sergeant Horrocks," the girl exclaimed,
with a laughing glance, as she helped him to a goodly portion of baked
Jack-rabbit, "and we'll present you with the freedom of the settlement,
in an illuminated address inclosed in a golden casket. That's the mode,
I take it, in civilized countries, and I guess we are civilized
hereabout, some. Say, Bill, I opine you're the latest thing from England
here to-night. What does 'freedom' mean?"
Bill looked dubious. Everybody waited for his answer.
"Freedom--um. Yes, of course--freedom. Why, freedom means banquets. You
know--turtle soup--bile--indigestion. Best champagne in the mayor's
cellar. Police can't run you in if you get drunk. All that sort of
thing, don'tcherknow."
"An excellent definition," laughed the doctor.
"I wish somebody would present me with 'freedom,'" said Nabob,
plaintively.
"It's a good thing we don't go in for that sort of thing extensively in
Canada," put in Horrocks, as the representative of the law. "The
peaceful pastime of the police would soon be taken from them. Why, the
handling of 'drunks' is our only recreation."
"That, and for some of them the process of lowering four per cent.
beer," added the doctor, quietly.
Another laugh followed the doctor's sally.
When the mirth had subsided Aunt Margaret shook her head. This levity
rather got on her nerves. This Retief business, as she understood it,
was a very serious affair, especially for Sergeant Horrocks. She was
keenly anxious to hear the details of his preparations. She knew most of
them, but she liked her information first hand. With this object in view
she suggested, rather than asked, what she wanted to know.
"But I don't quite understand. I take it you are going single-handed
into the half-breed camp, where you expect to find this Retief, Sergeant
Horrocks?"
Horrocks's face was serious as he looked over at the old lady. There was
no laughter in his black, flashing eyes. He was not a man given to
suavity. His business effectually crushed any approach to that sort of
thing. He was naturally a stern man, too.
"I am not quite mad, madam," he said curtly. "I set some value upon my
life."
This crushing rejoinder had no effect upon Aunt Margaret. She still
persisted.
"Then, of course, you take your men with you. Four, you have, and smart
they look, too. I like to see well-set-up men. I trust you will succeed.
They--I mean the Breeds--are a dangerous people."
"Not so dangerous as they're reckoned, I guess," said Horrocks,
disdainfully. "I don't anticipate much trouble."
"I hope it will turn out as you think," replied the old lady,
doubtfully.
Horrocks shrugged his shoulders; he was not to be drawn.
There was a moment's silence after this, which was at length broken by
"Poker" John.
"Of course, Horrocks," he said, "we shall carry out your instructions to
the letter. At three in the morning, failing your return or news of you,
I set out with my ranch hands to find you. And woe betide those black
devils if you have come to harm. By the way, what about your men?"
"They assemble here at ten. We leave our horses at Lablache's stables.
We are going to walk to the settlement."
"I think you are wise," said the doctor.
"Guess horses would be an encumbrance," said Jacky.
"An excellent mark for a Breed's gun," added Bill. "Seems to me you'll
succeed," he went on politely. His eagle face was calmly sincere. The
gray eyes looked steadily into those of the officer's. Jacky was
watching her lover keenly. The faintest suspicion of a smile was in her
eyes.
"I should like to be there," she said simply, when Bill had finished.
"It's mean bad luck being a girl. Say, d'you think I'd be in the way,
sergeant?"
Horrocks looked over at her, and in his gaze was a look of admiration.
In the way he knew she would be, but he could not tell her so. Such
spirit appealed to him.
"There would be much danger for you, Miss Jacky," he said. "My hands
would be full, I could not look after you, and besides--" He broke off
at the recollection of the old stories about this girl. Suddenly he
wondered if he had been indiscreet. What if the stories were true. He
ran cold at the thought. These people knew his plans. Then he looked
into the girl's beautiful face. No, it must be false. She could have
nothing in common with the rascally Breeds.
"And besides--what?" Jacky said, smiling over at the policeman.
Horrocks shrugged.
"When Breeds are drunk they are not responsible."
"That settles it," the girl's uncle said, with a forced laugh. He did
not like Jacky's tone. Knowing her, he feared she intended to be there
to see the arrest.
Her uncle's laugh nettled the girl a little, and with a slight elevation
of her head, she said,--
"I don't know."
Further talk now became impossible, for, at that moment the troopers
arrived. Horrocks discovered that it was nearly ten o'clock. The moment
for the start had come, and, with one accord, everybody rose from the
table. In the bustle and handshaking of departure Jacky slipped away.
When, she returned the doctor and Mrs. Abbot were in the hall alone with
"Lord" Bill. The latter was just leaving. "Poker" John was on the
veranda seeing Horrocks off.
As Jacky came downstairs Aunt Margaret's eyes fell upon the ominous
holster and cartridge belt which circled the girl's hips. She was
dressed for riding. There could be no mistaking the determined set of
her face.
"Jacky, my dear," said the old lady in dismay. "What are you doing?
Where are you going?"
"Guess I'm going to see the fun--I've a notion there'll be some."
"But--"
"Don't 'but' me, Aunt Margaret, I take it you aren't deaf."
The old lady relapsed into dignified silence, but there was much concern
and a little understanding in her eyes as she watched the girl pass out
to the corrals.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE PUSKY
A pusky is a half-breed dance. That is the literal meaning of the word.
The practical translation, however, is often different. In reality it is
a debauch--a frightful orgie, when all the lower animal instincts--and
they are many and strong in the half-breed--are given full sway. When
drunkenness and bestial passions rule the actions of these worse than
savages. When murder and crimes of all sorts are committed without
scruple, without even thought. Latterly things have changed, and these
orgies are less frequent among the Breeds, or, at least, conducted with
more regard for decorum. But we are talking of some years ago, at a time
when the Breeds had to learn the meaning of civilization--before good
order and government were thoroughly established in this great Western
country; in the days when Indian "Sun" dances, and other barbarous
functions were held. In the days of the Red River Jig, when a good
fiddler of the same was held to be a man of importance; when the method
of tuning the fiddle to the necessary pitch for the playing of that
curious dance was a secret known only to a privileged few. Some might
call them the "good" old days. "Bad" is the adjective which best
describes that period.
When Horrocks and his men set out for the Breed camp they had discarded
their police clothes and were clad in the uncouth garb of the
half-breeds. They had even gone to the length of staining their faces to
the coppery hue of the Indians. They were a ragged party, these hardy
riders of the plains, as they embarked on their meditated capture of the
desperate raider. All of the five were "tough" men, who regarded their
own lives lightly enough--men who had seen many stirring times, and
whose hairbreadth escapes from "tight" corners would have formed a
lengthy narrative in themselves. They were going to they knew not what
now, but they did not shrink from the undertaking. Their leader was a
man whose daring often outweighed his caution, but, as they well knew,
he was endowed with a reckless man's luck, and they would sooner follow
such as he--for they were sure of a busy time--than work with one of his
more prudent colleagues.
At the half-breed camp was considerable bustle and excitement. The
activity of the Breed is not proverbial; they are at best a lazy lot,
but now men and women came and went bristling with energy to their
finger tips. Preparations were nearing completion. The chief item of
importance was the whisky supply, and this the treasurer, Baptiste, had
made his personal care. A barrel of the vilest "rot-gut" that was ever
smuggled into prohibition territory had been procured and carefully
secreted. This formed the chief refreshment, and, doubtless, the
"bluestone" with which its fiery contents were strengthened, would work
the passionate natures, on which it was to play, up to the proper
crime-committing pitch.
The orgie was to be held in a barn of considerable dimensions. It was a
ramshackle affair, reeking of old age and horses. The roof was decidedly
porous in places, being so lame and disjointed that the starry
resplendence of the summer sky was plainly visible from beneath it.
This, however, was a trifling matter, and of much less consequence than
the question of space. What few horse stalls had once occupied the
building had been removed, and the mangers alone remained, with the odor
of horse, to remind the guests of the original purpose of their
ballroom. A careful manipulation of dingy Turkey red, and material which
had once been white, struggled vainly to hide these mangers from view,
while coarse, rough boards which had at one time floored some of the
stalls, served to cover in the tops and convert them into seats. The
result was a triumph of characteristic ingenuity. The barn was converted
into a place of the necessary requirements, but rendered hideous in the
process.
Next came the disguising of the rafters and "collar-ties" of the
building. This was a process which lent itself to the curiously warped
artistic sense of the benighted people. Print--I mean cotton rags--was
the chief idea of decoration. They understood these stuffs. They were
cheap--or, at least, as cheap as anything sold at Lablache's store.
Besides, print decorated the persons of the buxom Breed women, therefore
what more appropriate than such stuff to cover the nakedness of the
building. Festoons of print, flags of print, rosettes of print: these
did duty for the occasion. The staring patterns gleamed on every beam,
or hung in bald draping almost down to the height of an ordinary man's
head. The effect was strangely reminiscent of a second-hand clothes
shop, and helped to foster the nauseating scent of the place.
A row of reeking oil lamps, swinging in crazy wire swings, were
suspended down the center from the moldering beams, and in the diamond
window spaces were set a number of black bottles, the neck of each being
stuffed with a tallow candle.
One corner of the room was set apart for the fiddler, and here a daïs of
rough boarding, also draped in print stuff, was erected to meet the
requirements of that honored personage. Such was the uncouth place where
the Breeds proposed to hold their orgie. And of its class it was an
excellent example.
At ten o'clock the barn was lit up, and strangely bizarre was the
result. The draught through the broken windows set the candles
a-guttering, until rivers of yellow fat decorated the black bottles in
which they were set. The stench from these, and from the badly-trimmed
coal oil lamps down the center, blended disgustingly with the native
odor of the place, until the atmosphere became heavy, pungent, revolting
in the nostrils, and breathing became a labor after the sweet fresh air
of the prairie outside.
Soon after this the dancers began to arrive. They came in their strange
deckings of glaring colors, and many and varied were the types which
soon filled the room. There were old men and there were young men. There
were girls in their early teens, and toothless hags, decrepit and
faltering. Faces which, in wild loveliness, might have vied with the
white beauty of the daughters of the East. Faces seared and crumpled
with weight of years and nights of debauchery. Men were there of superb
physique, whilst others crouched huddled, with shuffling gait towards
the manger seats, to seek rest for their rotting bones, and ease for
their cramping muscles.
Many of the faces were marred by disease; small-pox was a prevalent
scourge amongst these people. The effect of the pure air of the prairie
was lost upon the germ-laden atmosphere which surrounded these dreadful
camps. Crime, too, was stamped on many of the faces of those gathering
in the reeking ballroom. The small bullet head with low, receding
forehead; the square set jaws and sagging lips; the shifty, twinkling
little eyes, narrow-set and of jetty hue; such faces were plentiful. Nor
were these features confined to the male sex alone. Truly it was a
motley gathering, and not pleasant to look upon.
All, as they came, were merry with anticipation; even the hags and the
rheumatism-ridden male fossils croaked out their quips and coarse
pleasantries to each other with gleeful unctuousness, inspired by
thoughts of the generous contents of the secreted barrel. Their watery
eyes watered the more, as, on entering the room, they glanced round
seeking to discover the fiery store of liquor, which they hoped to help
to dispose of. It was a loathsome sight to behold these miserable
wretches gathering together with no thought in their beast-like brains
but of the ample food and drink which they intended should fall to their
share. Crabbed old age seeking rejuvenation in gut-burning spirit.
The room quickly filled, and the chattering of many and strange tongues
lent an apish tone to the function. The French half-breed predominated,
and these spoke their bastard lingo with that rapidity and bristling
elevation of tone which characterizes their Gallic relatives. It seemed
as though each were trying to talk his neighbor down, and the process
entailed excited shriekings which made the old barn ring again.
Baptiste, with a perfect understanding of the people, served out the
spirit in pannikins with a lavish hand. It was as well to inspire these
folk with the potent liquor from the start, that their energies might be
fully aroused for the dance.
When all, men and women alike, had partaken of an "eye-opener," Baptiste
gave the signal, and the fiddler struck up his plaintive wail. The reedy
strings of his instrument shrieked out the long-drawn measure of a
miserable waltz, the company paired off, and the dance began.
Whatever else may be the failings of the Breeds they can dance. Dancing
is as much a part of their nature as is the turning of a dog twice
before he lies down, a feature of the canine race. Those who were
physically incapable of dancing lined the walls and adorned the manger
seats. For the rest, they occupied the sanded floor, and danced until
the dust clouded the air and added to the choking foulness of the
atmosphere.
The shrieking fiddle lured this savage people, and its dreadful tone was
music of the sweetest to their listening ears. This was a people who
would dance. They would dance so long as they could stand.
More drink followed the first dance. Baptiste had not yet recognized the
pitch of enthusiasm which must promise a successful evening. The
quantities of liquor thus devoured were appalling. The zest increased.
The faces wearing an habitual frown displayed a budding smile. The
natural smiler grinned broadly. All warmed to the evening's amusement.
Now came the festive barn dance. The moccasined feet pounded the filthy
floor, and the dust gathered thick round the gums of the hard-breathing
dancers. The noise of coarse laughter and ribald shoutings increased.
All were pleased with themselves, but more pleased still with the fiery
liquid served out by Baptiste. The scene grew more wild as time crept
on, and the effect of the liquor made itself apparent. The fiddler
labored cruelly at his wretched instrument. His task was no light one,
but he spared himself no pains. His measure must be even, his tone
almost unending to satisfy his countrymen. He understood them, as did
Baptiste. To fail in his work would mean angry protests from those he
served, and angry protests amongst the Breeds generally took the form of
a shower of leaden bullets. So he scraped away with aching limbs, and
with heavy foot pounding out the time upon the crazy daïs. He must play
until long after daylight, until his fingers cramped, and his old eyes
would remain open no longer.
Peter Retief had not as yet put in an appearance. Horrocks was at his
post viewing the scene from outside one of the broken windows. His men
were hard by, concealed at certain points in the shelter of some
straggling bush which surrounded the stable. Horrocks, with
characteristic energy and disregard for danger, had set himself the task
of spying out the land. He had a waiting game to play, but the result he
hoped would justify his action.
The scene he beheld was not new to him, his duties so often carried him
within the precincts of a half-breed camp. No one knew the Breeds better
than did this police officer.
Time passed. Again and again the fiddle ceased its ear-maddening screams
as refreshment was partaken of by the dancers. Wilder and wilder grew
the scene as the potent liquor took hold of its victims. They danced
with more and more reckless abandon as each time they returned to step
it to the fiddler's patient measure. Midnight approached and still no
sign of Retief. Horrocks grew restless and impatient.
Once the fiddle ceased, and the officer watching saw all eyes turn to
the principal entrance to the barn. His heart leapt in anticipation as
he gazed in the direction. Surely this sudden cessation could only
herald the coming of Retief.
He saw the door open as he craned forward to look. For the moment he
could not see who entered; a crowd obscured his view. He heard a cheer
and a clapping of hands, and he rejoiced. Then the crowd parted and he
saw the slim figure of a girl pass down the center of the reeking den.
She was clad in buckskin shirt and dungaree skirt. At the sight he
muttered a curse. The newcomer was Jacky Allandale.
He watched her closely as she moved amongst her uncouth surroundings.
Her beautiful face and graceful figure was like to an oasis of stately
flora in a desert of trailing, vicious brambles, and he marveled at the
familiarity with which she came among these people. Moreover, he became
beset with misgivings as he remembered the old stories which linked this
girl's name with that of Retief. He struggled to fathom the meaning of
what he saw, but the real significance of her coming escaped him.
The Breeds once more returned to their dancing, and all went on as
before. Horrocks followed Jacky's movements with his eyes. He saw her
standing beside a toothless old woman, who wagged her cunning, aged head
as she talked in answer to the girl's questions. Jacky seemed to be
looking and inquiring for some one, and the officer wondered if the
object of her solicitude was Retief. He would have been surprised had he
known that she was inquiring and looking for himself. Presently she
seated herself and appeared to be absorbed in the dance.
The drink was flowing freely now, and a constant demand was being made
upon Baptiste. Whilst the fiery spirit scorched down the hardened
throats, strange, weird groans came from the fiddler's woeful
instrument. The old man was tuning it down for the plaintive
requirements of the Red River Jig.
The dance of the evening was about to begin. Men and women primed
themselves for the effort. Each was eager to outdo his or her neighbor
in variety of steps and power of endurance. All were prepared to do or
die. The mad jig was a national contest, and the one who lasted the
longest would be held the champion dancer of the district--a coveted
distinction amongst this strange people.
At last the music began again, and now the familiar "Ragtime" beat
fascinatingly upon the air. Those who lined the walls took up the
measure, and, with foot and clapping hands, marked the time for the
dancers. Those who competed leapt to the fray, and soon the reeking room
became stifling with dust.
The fiddler's time, slow at the commencement, soon grew faster, and the
dancers shook their limbs in delighted anticipation. Faster and faster
they shuffled and jigged, now opposite to partners, now round each
other, now passing from one partner to another, now alone, for the
admiration of the onlookers. Nor was there pause or hesitation. An
instant's pause meant dropping out of that mad and old time "hoe-down,"
and each coveted the distinction of champion. Faster and more wildly
they footed it, and soon the speed caused some of the less agile to drop
out. It was a giddy sight to watch, and the strange clapping of the
spectators was not the least curious feature of the scene.
The crowd of dancers grew thinner as the fiddler, with a marvelous
display of latent energy, kept ever-increasing his speed.
In spite of himself Horrocks became fascinated. There was something so
barbarous--heathenish--in what he beheld. The minutes flew by, and the
dance was rapidly nearing its height. More couples fell out, dead beat
and gasping, but still there remained a number who would fight it out to
the bitter end. The streaming faces and gaping lips of those yet
remaining told of the dreadful strain. Another couple dropped out, the
woman actually falling with exhaustion. She was dragged aside and left
unnoticed in the wild excitement. Now were only three pairs left in the
center of the floor.
The police-officer found himself speculating as to which would be the
winner of the contest.
"That brown-faced wench, with the flaming red dress, 'll do 'em all," he
said to himself. The woman he was watching had a young Breed of great
agility for her _vis-à-vis_. "She or her partner 'll do it," he went on,
almost audibly. "Good," he was becoming enthusiastic, "there's another
couple done," as two more suddenly departed, and flung themselves on the
ground exhausted. "Yes, they'll do it--crums, but there goes her
partner! Keep it up, girl--keep it up. The others won't be long. Stay
with--"
He broke off in alarm as he felt his arm suddenly clutched from behind.
Simultaneously he felt heavy breathing blowing upon his cheek. Quick as
a flash his revolver was whipped out and he swung round.
"Easy, sergeant," said the voice of one of his troopers. "For Gawd's
sake don't shoot. Say, Retief's down at the settlement. A messenger's
jest come up to say he's 'hustled' all our horses from Lablache's
stable, and the old man himself's in trouble. Come over to that bluff
yonder, the messenger's there. He's one of Lablache's clerks."
The police-officer was dumbfounded, and permitted himself to be
conducted to the bluff without a word. He was wondering if he were
dreaming, so sudden and unexpected was the announcement of the disaster.
When he halted at the bluff, the clerk was still discussing the affair
with one of the troopers. As yet the other two were in their places of
concealment, and were in ignorance of what had happened.
"It's dead right," the clerk said, in answer to Horrocks's sharply-put
inquiry. "I'd been in bed sometime when I was awakened by a terrible
racket going on in the office. It's just under the room I sleep in.
Well, I hopped out of bed and slipped on some clothes, and went
downstairs, thinking the governor had been taken with a fit or
something. When I got down the office was in darkness, and quiet as
death. I went cautiously to work, for I was a bit scared. Striking a
light I made my way in, expecting to find the governor laid out, but,
instead, I found the furniture all chucked about and the room empty. It
wasn't two shakes before I lit upon this sheet of paper. It was lying on
the desk. The governor's writing is unmistakable. You can see for
yourself; here it is--"
Horrocks took the sheet, and, by the light of a match read the scrawl
upon it. The writing had evidently been done in haste, but its meaning
was clear.
"Retief is here," it ran. "I am a prisoner. Follow up with all speed.
LABLACHE."
After reading, Horrocks turned to the clerk, who immediately went on
with his story.
"Well, I just bolted out to the stables intending to take a horse and go
over to 'Poker' John's. But when I got there I found the doors open, an'
every blessed horse gone. Yes, your horses as well--and the governor's
buckboard too. I jest had a look round, saw that the team harness had
gone with the rest, then I ran as hard as I could pelt to the Foss River
Ranch. I found old John up, but he'd been drinking, so, after a bit of
talk, I learned from him where you were and came right along. That's
all, sergeant, and bad enough it is too. I'm afraid they'll string the
governor up. He ain't too popular, you know."
The clerk finished up his breathless narrative in a way that left no
doubt in the mind of his hearers as to his sincerity. He was trembling
with nervous excitement still. And even in the starlight the look upon
his face spoke of real concern for his master.
For some seconds the officer did not reply. He was thinking rapidly. To
say that he was chagrined would hardly convey his feelings. He had been
done--outwitted--and he knew it. Done--like the veriest tenderfoot. He,
an officer of wide experience and of considerable reputation. And worst
of all he remembered Lablache's warning. He, the money-lender, had been
more far-seeing--had understood something of the trap which he,
Horrocks, had plunged headlong into. The thought was as worm-wood to the
prairie man, and helped to cloud his judgment as he now sought for the
best course to adopt. He saw now with bitter, mental self-reviling, how
the story that Gautier had told him--and for which he had paid--and
which had been corroborated by the conversation he had heard in the
camp, had been carefully prepared by the wily Retief; and how he, like a
hungry, simple fish, had deliberately risen and devoured the bait. He
was maddened by the thought, too, that the money-lender had been right
and he wrong, and took but slight solace from the fact that the chief
disaster had overtaken that great man.
However, it was plain that something must be done at once to assist
Lablache, and he cast about in his mind for the best means to secure the
money-lender's release. In his dilemma a recollection came to him of the
presence of Jacky Allandale in the barn, and a feeling nearly akin to
revenge came to him. He felt that in some way this girl was connected
with, and knew of, the doings of Retief.
With a hurried order to remain where they were to his men he returned to
his station at the window of the barn. He looked in, searching for the
familiar figure of the girl. Dancing had ceased, and the howling Breeds
were drinking heavily. Jacky was no longer to be seen, and, with bitter
disappointment, he turned again to rejoin his companions. There was
nothing left to do but to hasten to the settlement and procure fresh
horses.
He had hardly turned from the window when several shots rang out on the
night air. They came from the direction in which he was moving.
Instantly he comprehended that an attack was being made upon his
troopers. He drew his pistol and dashed forward at a run. Three paces
sufficed to terminate his race. Silence had followed the firing of the
shots he had heard. Suddenly his quick ears detected the hiss of a
lariat whistling through the air. He spread out his arms to ward it off.
He felt something fall upon them. He tried to throw it off, and, the
next instant the rope jerked tight round his throat, and he was hurled,
choking, backwards upon the ground.
CHAPTER XIX
LABLACHE'S MIDNIGHT VISITOR
Lablache was alone in his office. He was more alone than he had ever
been in his life; or, at least, he felt more alone--which amounted to
much the same thing. Possibly, had he been questioned on the subject, he
would have pooh-poohed the idea, but, nevertheless, in his secret heart
he felt that, in spite of his vast wealth, he was a lonely man. He knew
that he had not a single friend in Foss River; and in Calford, another
center of his great wealth, things were no better. His methods of
business, whilst they brought him many familiar acquaintances--a large
circle of people who were willing to trade, repelled all approach to
friendship. Besides, his personality was against him. His flinty
disposition and unscrupulous love of power were all detrimental to human
affection.
As a rule, metaphorically speaking, he snapped his fingers at these
things. Moreover, he was glad that such was the case; he could the more
freely indulge his passion for grab. Hated, he could work out his
peculiar schemes without qualms of conscience; loved, it would have been
otherwise. Yes, Lablache preferred this social ostracism.
But the great money-lender had his moments of weakness--moments when he
rebelled against his solitary lot. He knew that his isolated position
had been brought about by himself--fostered by himself, and he knew he
preferred that it should be so. But, nevertheless, at times he felt very
lonely, and in these moments of weakness he wondered if he obtained full
consolation in his great wealth for his marooned position. Generally the
result of these reflections brought him satisfaction. How? is a
question. Possibly he forced himself, by that headstrong power with
which he bent others who came into contact with him to his will, to such
a conclusion. Lablache was certainly a triumph of relentless purpose
over flesh and feelings.
Lablache was nearly fifty, and had lived alone since he was in his
teens. Now he pined as all who live a solitary life must some day pine,
for a companion to share his loneliness. He craved not for the society
of his own sex. With the instinct in us all he wanted a mate to share
with him his golden nest. But this mass of iron nerve and obesity was
not as other men. He did not weakly crave, and then, with his wealth,
set out to secure a wife who could raise him in the social scale, or add
to the bags which he had watched grow in bulk from flattened folds of
sacking, to the distended proportions of miniature balloons. No, he
desired a girl, the only relation of a man whom he had helped to ruin--a
girl who could bring him no social distinction, and who could not add
one penny piece to his already enormous wealth. Moreover, strangely
enough, he had conceived for her a passion which was absolutely unholy
in its intensity. It is needless, then, to add, when, speaking of such a
man, that, willing or not, he intended that Jacky Allandale should be
his.
Thoughts of this wild, quarter-breed girl filled his brain as he sat
solitary in his little office on the night of the pusky. He sat in his
favorite chair, in his favorite position. He was lounging back with his
slippered feet resting on the burnished steel foot-rests of the stove.
There was no fire in the stove, of course, but from force of habit he
gazed thoughtfully at the mica sides which surrounded the firebox.
Probably in this position he had thought out some of his most dastardly
financial schemes and therefore most suitable it seemed now as he
calculated his chances of capturing the wild prairie girl for his mate.
He had given up all thoughts of ever obtaining her willing consent, and,
although his vanity had been hurt by her rejection of his advances,
still he was not the man to be easily thwarted. His fertile brain had
evolved a means by which to achieve his end, and, to his scheme-loving
nature, the process was anything but distasteful. He had always, from
the first moment he had decided to make Jacky Allandale his wife, been
prepared for such a contingency as her refusal, and had never missed an
opportunity of ensnaring her uncle in his financial toils. He had
understood the old man's weakness, and, with satanic cunning, had set
himself to the task of wholesale robbery, with crushing results to his
victim. This had given him the necessary power to further prosecute his
suit. As yet he had not displayed his hand. He felt that the time was
barely ripe. Before putting the screw on the Allandales it had been his
object to rid the place, and his path, of his only stumbling block. In
this he had not quite succeeded as we have seen. He quite understood
that the Hon. Bunning-Ford must be removed from Foss River first. Whilst
he was on hand Jacky would be difficult to coerce. Instinctively he knew
that "Lord" Bill was her lover, and, with him at hand to advise her,
Jacky would hold out to the last. However, he believed that in the end
he must conquer. Bunning-Ford's resources were very limited he knew, and
soon his hated rival must leave the settlement and seek pastures new.
Lablache was but a clever scheming mortal. He did not credit others with
brains of equal caliber, much less cleverer and more resourceful than
his own. It had been better for him had his own success in life been
less assured, for then he would have been more doubtful of his own
ability to do as he wished, and he would have given his adversaries
credit for a cleverness which he now considered as only his.
After some time spent in surveying and considering his plans his
thoughts reverted to other matters. This was the night of the half-breed
pusky. His great face contorted into a sarcastic smile as he thought of
Sergeant Horrocks. He remembered with vivid acuteness every incident of
his interview with the officer two nights ago. He bore the man no
malice now for the contradiction of himself, for the reason that he was
sure his own beliefs on the subject of Retief would be amply realized.
His lashless eyes quivered as his thoughts invoked an inward mirth. No
one realized more fully than did this man the duplicity and cunning of
the Breed. He anticipated a great triumph over Horrocks the next time he
saw him.
As the time passed on he became more himself. His loneliness did not
strike him so keenly. He felt that after all there was great
satisfaction to be drawn from a watcher's observance of men. Isolated as
he was he was enabled to look on men and things more critically than he
otherwise would be.
He reached over to his tobacco jar, which stood upon his desk, and
leisurely proceeded to fill his pipe. It was rarely he indulged himself
in an idle evening, but to-night he somehow felt that idleness would be
good. He was beginning to feel the weight of his years.
He lit his heavy briar and proceeded to envelop himself in a cloud of
smoke. He gasped out a great sigh of satisfaction, and his leathery
eyelids half closed. Presently a gentle tap came at the glass door,
which partitioned off the office from the store. Lablache called out a
guttural "Come in," at the same time glancing at the loud ticking
"alarm" on the desk. He knew who his visitor was.
One of the clerks opened the door.
"It is past ten, sir, shall I close up?" he asked.
"Yes, close up. Whose evening off is it?"
"Rodgers, sir. He is still out. He'll be in before midnight, sir."
"Ah, down at the saloon, I expect," said Lablache, drily. "Well, bolt
the front door. Just leave it on the spring latch. I shall be up until
he comes in. What are you two boys going to do?"
"Going to bed, sir."
"All right; good-night."
"Good-night, sir."
The door closed quietly after the clerk, and Lablache heard his two
assistants close up the store and then go upstairs to their rooms. The
money-lender was served well. His employees in the store had been with
him for years. They were worked very hard and their pay was not great,
but their money was sure, and their employment was all the year round.
So many billets upon the prairie depended upon the seasons--opulence one
month and idleness the next. On the ranches it was often worse. There is
but little labor needed in the winter. And those who have the good
fortune to be employed all the year round generally experience a
reduction in wages at the end of the fall round-up, and find themselves
doing the "chores" when winter comes on.
After the departure of the clerk Lablache re-settled himself and went on
smoking placidly. The minutes ticked slowly away. An occasional groan
from the long-suffering basket chair, and the wreathing clouds of smoke
were the only appreciable indication of life in that little room.
By-and-by the great man reached a memorandum tablet from his desk and
dotted down a few hurried figures. Then he breathed a great sigh, and
his face wore a look of satisfaction. There could be no doubt as to the
tenor of his thoughts. Money, money. It was as life to him.
The distant rattle of the spring lock of the store front door being
snapped-to disturbed the quiet of the office. Lablache heard the sound.
Then followed the bolting of the door. The money-lender turned again to
his figures. It was the return of Rodgers, he thought, which had
disturbed him. He soon became buried in further calculations. While
figuring he unconsciously listened for the sound of the clerk's
footsteps on the stairs as he made his way up to his room. The sound did
not come. The room was clouded with tobacco smoke, and still Lablache
belched out fresh clouds to augment the reek of the atmosphere. Suddenly
the glass door opened. The money-lender heard the handle move.
"Eh, what is it, Rodgers?" he said, in a displeased tone. As he spoke
he peered through the smoke.
"What d'you want?" he exclaimed angrily. Then he rubbed his eyes and
craned forward only to fall back again with a muttered curse. He had
stared into the muzzle of a heavy six-shooter.
He moved his hand as though to throw his memorandum pad on the desk, but
instantly a stern voice ordered him to desist and the threatening
revolver came closer.
"Jest stay right thar, pard." The words were spoken in an exaggerated
Western drawl. "My barker's mighty light in the trigger. I guess it
don't take a hundred-weight to loose it. And I don't cotton to mucking
up this floor with yer vitals."
Lablache remained still. He saw before him the tall thin figure of a
half-breed. He had black lank hair which hung loosely down almost on to
his shoulders. His face was the color of mud, and he was possessed of a
pair of keen gray eyes and a thin-hooked nose. His face wore a lofty
look of command, and was stamped by an expression of the unmost
resolution. He spoke easily and showed not the smallest haste.
"Guess we ain't met before, boss--not familiar-like, leastways. My
name's Retief--Peter Retief, an' I take it yours is Lablache. Now I've
jest come right along to do biz with you--how does that fit your
bowels?"
The compelling ring of metal faced the astonished money-lender. For the
moment he remained speechless.
"Wal?" drawled the other, with elaborate significance.
Lablache struggled for words. His astonishment--dismay made the effort a
difficult one.
"You've got the drop on me you--you damned scoundrel," he at last burst
out, his face for the moment purpling with rage. "I'm forced to listen
to you now," he went on more gutturally, as the paroxysm having found
vent began to pass, "but watch yourself that you make no bad reckoning,
or you'll regret this business until the rope's round your neck. You'll
get nothing out of me--but what you take. Now then, be sharp. What are
you going to do?"
The half-breed grinned.
"You're mighty raw oh the hide jest now, I guess. But see hyar, my
reckonin's are nigh as slick as yours. An' jest slant yer tongue some.
'Damned scoundrel' sliden' from yer flannel face is like a coyote
roundin' on a timber wolf, an' a coyote ain't as low down as a skunk. I
opine I want a deal from you," Retief went on, with a hollow laugh, "and
wot I want I mostly git, in these parts."
Lablache was no coward. And even now he had not the smallest fear for
his life. But the thought of being bluffed by the very man he was
willing to pay so much for the capture of riled him almost beyond
endurance. The Breed noted the effect of his words and pushed his pistol
almost to within arm's reach of the money-lender's face.
The half-breed's face suddenly became stem.
"That's a dandy ranch of yours down south. Me an' my pards 'ave taken a
notion to it. Say, you're comin' right along with us. Savee? Guess we'll
show you the slickest round up this side o' the border. Now jest sit
right thar while I let my mates in."
Retief took no chances. Lablache, under pistol compulsion, was forced to
remain motionless in his chair. The swarthy Breed backed cautiously to
the door until his hand rested upon the spring catch. This, with deft
fingers, he turned and then forced back, and the next moment he was
joined by two companions as dark as himself and likewise dressed in the
picturesque garb of the prairie "hustler." The money-lender, in spite of
his predicament, was keenly alert, and lost no detail of the new-comers'
appearance. He took a careful mental photograph of each of the men,
trusting that he might find the same useful in the future. He wondered
what the next move would be. He eyed the Breed's pistol furtively, and
thought of his own weapon lying on his desk at the corner farthest from
him. He knew there was no possible chance of reaching it. The slightest
unbidden move on his part would mean instant death. He understood, only
too well, how lightly human, life was held by these people. Implicit
obedience alone could save him. In those few thrilling moments he had
still time to realize the clever way in which both he and Horrocks had
been duped. He had never for a moment believed in Gautier's story, but
had still less dreamed of such a daring outrage as was now being
perpetrated. He had not long to wait for developments. Directly the two
men were inside, and the door was again closed, Retief pointed to the
money-lender.
"Hustle, boys--the rope. Lash his feet."
One of the men produced an old lariat In a trice the great man's feet
were fast.
"His hands?" said one of the men.
"Guess not. He's goin' to write, some."
Lablache instantly thought of his cheque-book. But Retief had no fancy
for what he considered was useless paper.
The hustler stepped over to the desk. His keen eyes spotted the
money-lender's pistol lying upon the far corner of it. He had also noted
his prisoner casting furtive glances in the direction of it. To prevent
any mischance he picked the gleaming weapon up and slipped it into his
hip pocket. After that he drew a sheet of foolscap from the stationery
case and laid it on the blotting pad. Then he turned to his comrades.
"Jest help old money-bags over," he said quietly. He was thoroughly
alert, and as calmly indifferent to the danger of discovery as if he
were engaged on the most righteous work.
When Lablache had been hoisted and pushed into position at the desk the
raider took up a pen and held it out towards him.
"Write," he said laconically.
Lablache hesitated. He looked from the pen to the man's leveled pistol.
Then he reluctantly took the pen. The half-breed promptly dictated, and
the other wrote. The compulsion was exasperating, and the great man
scrawled with all the pettishness of a child.
The message read--
"Retief is here. I am a prisoner. Follow up with all speed."
"Now sign," said the Breed, when the message was written.
Lablache signed and flung down the pen.
"What's that for?" he demanded huskily.
"For?" His captor shrugged. "I guess them gophers of police are snugly
trussed by now. Mebbe, though, one o' them might 'a' got clear away.
When they find you're gone, they'll light on that paper. I jest want 'em
to come right along after us. Savee? It'll 'most surprise 'em when they
come along." Then he turned to his men. "Now, boys, lash his hands, and
cut his feet adrift. Then, into the buckboard with him. Guess his
carcase is too bulky for any 'plug' to carry. Get a hustle on, lads.
We've hung around here long enough."
The men stepped forward to obey their chief, but, at that moment,
Lablache gave another display of that wonderful agility of his of which,
at times, he was capable. His rage got the better of him, and even under
the muzzle of his captor's pistol he was determined to resist. We have
said that the money-lender was no coward; at that moment he was
desperate.
The nearest Breed received a terrific buffet in the neck, then, in spite
of his bound feet, Lablache seized his heavy swivel chair, and, raising
it with all his strength he hurled it at the other. Still Relief's
pistol was silent. The money-lender noticed the fact, and he became even
more assured. He turned heavily and aimed a blow at the "hustler." But,
even as he struck, he felt the weight of Retief's hand, and struggling
to steady himself--his bound feet impeding him--he overbalanced and fell
heavily to the ground. In an instant the Breeds were upon him. His own
handkerchief was used to gag him, and his hands were secured. Then,
without a moment's delay, he was hoisted from the floor--his great
weight bearing his captors down--and carried bodily out of the office
and thrown into his own buckboard, which was waiting at the door. Retief
sprang into the driving seat whilst one of the Breeds held the prisoner
down, some other dark figures leapt into the saddles of several waiting
horses, and the party dashed off at a breakneck speed.
The gleaming stars gave out more than sufficient light for the desperate
teamster. He swung the well-fed, high-mettled horses of the money-lender
round, and headed right through the heart of the settlement. The
audacity of this man was superlative. He lashed the animals into a
gallop which made the saddle horses extend themselves to keep up. On, on
into the night they raced, and almost in a flash the settlement was
passed. The sleepy inhabitants of Foss River heard the mad racing of the
horses but paid no heed. The daring of the raider was his safeguard.
Lablache knew their destination. They were traveling southward, and he
felt that their object was his own ranch.
CHAPTER XX
A NIGHT OF TERROR
That midnight drive was one long nightmare to the unfortunate captive.
He had been thrown, sprawling, into the iron-railed "carryall" platform
at the back of the buckboard, and lay on the nut-studded slats, where he
was jolted and bumped about like the proverbial pea on a drum.
When the raider changed his direction, and turned off the trail on to
the open prairie, the horrors of the prisoner's position were
intensified a hundredfold. Alone, there was insufficient room for the
suffering man in the limited space of the "carryall," but beside him
sat, or rather crouched, a burly Breed, ready at a moment's notice to
quash any attempt at escape on the part of the wretched money-lender.
Thus he was borne along, mile after mile, southward towards his own
ranch. Sometimes during that terrible ride Lablache found time to wonder
what was the object of these people in thus kidnapping him. Surely if
they only meant to carry off his cattle, such a task could have been
done without bringing him along with them. It seemed to him that there
could be only one interpretation put upon the matter, and, in spite of
his present agonies, the great man shuddered as he thought.
Courageous as he was, he endured a period of mental agony which took all
the heart out of him. He understood the methods of the prairie so well
that he feared the very worst. A tree--a lariat--and he saw, in fancy, a
crowd of carrion swarming round his swinging body. He could conceive no
other object, and his nerves became racked almost to breaking pitch.
The real truth of the situation was beyond his wildest dreams. The
significance of the fact that this second attack was made against him
was lost upon the wretched man. He only seemed to realize with natural
dread that Retief--the terror of the countryside--was in this, therefore
the outcome must surely be the very worst.
At length the horses drew up at Lablache's lonely ranch. His nearest
neighbor was not within ten miles of him. With that love of power and
self aggrandisement which always characterized him, the money-lender had
purchased from the Government a vast tract of country, and retained
every acre of it for his own stock. It might have stood him in good
stead now had he let portions of his grazing, and so settled up the
district. As it was, his ranch was characteristic of himself--isolated;
and he knew that Retief could here work his will with little chance of
interference.
As Lablache was hoisted from the buckboard and set upon his feet, and
the gag was removed from his mouth, the first thing he noticed was the
absolute quiescence of the place. He wondered if his foreman and the
hands were yet sleeping.
He was not long left in doubt. Retief gave a few rapid orders to his
men, and as he did so Lablache observed, for the first time, that the
Breeds numbered at least half-a-dozen. He felt sure that not more than
four besides their chief had traveled with them, and yet now the number
had increased.
The obvious conclusion was that the others were already here at the time
of the arrival of the buckboard, doubtless with the purpose of carrying
out Retief's plans.
The Breeds moved off in various directions, and their chief and the
money-lender were left alone. As soon as the others were out of earshot
the raider approached his captive. His face seemed to have undergone
some subtle change. The lofty air of command had been replaced by a look
of bitter hatred and terrible cruelty.
"Now, Lablache," he said coldly, "I guess you're goin' to see some fun.
I ain't mostly hard on people. I like to do the thing han'some. Say
I'll jest roll this bar'l 'long so as you ken set. An' see hyar, ef
you're mighty quiet I'll loose them hands o' yours."
Lablache deigned no reply, but the other was as good as his word.
"Sulky, some, I guess," the half-breed went on. "Wal, I'm not goin' back
on my word," he added as he rolled the barrel up to his prisoner and
scotched it securely. "Thar, set."
The money-lender didn't move.
"Set!" This time the word conveyed a command and the other sat down on
the barrel.
"Guess I can't stand cantankerous cusses. Now, let's have a look at yer
bracelets."
He sat beside his captive and proceeded to loosen the rope which bound
his wrists. Then he quietly drew his pistol and rested it on his knee.
Lablache enjoyed his freedom, but wondered what was coming next.
There was a moment of silence while the two men gazed at the corrals and
buildings set out before them. Away to the right, on a rising ground,
stood a magnificent house built of red pine lumber. Lablache had built
this as a dwelling for himself. For the prairie it was palatial, and
there was nothing in the country to equal it. This building alone had
cost sixty thousand dollars. On a lower level there were the great
barns. Four or five of these stood linked up by smaller buildings and
quarters for the ranch hands. Then there was a stretch of low buildings
which were the boxes built for the great man's thoroughbred stud horses.
He was possessed of six such animals, and their aggregate cost ran into
thousands of pounds, each one having been imported from England.
Then there were the corrals with their great ten-foot walls, all built
of the finest pine logs cut from the mountain forests. These corrals
covered acres of ground and were capable of sheltering five thousand
head of cattle without their capacity being taxed. It was an ideal place
and represented a considerable fortune. Lablache noticed that the
corrals were entirely empty. He longed to ask his captor for
explanation, but would not give that swarthy individual the satisfaction
of imparting unpleasant information.
However, Retief did not intend to let the money-lender off lightly. The
cruel expression of his face deepened as he followed the direction of
Lablache's gaze.
"Fine place, this," he said, with a comprehensive nod. "Cost a pile o'
dollars, I take it."
No answer.
"You ain't got much stock. Guess the boys 'ave helped themselves
liberal."
Lablache turned his face towards his companion. He was fast being drawn.
"Heard 'em gassin' about twenty thousand head some days back. Guess
they've borrowed 'em," he went on indifferently.
"You villain!" the exasperated prisoner hissed at last.
If ever a look conveyed a lust for murder Lablache's lashless eyes
expressed it.
"Eh? What? Guess you ain't well." The icy tones mocked at the distraught
captive.
The money-lender checked his wrath and struggled to keep cool.
"My cattle are on the range. You could never have driven off twenty
thousand head. It would have been impossible without my hearing of it.
It is more than one night's work."
"That's so," replied the half-breed, smiling sardonically. "Say, your
hands and foreman are shut up in their shack. They've bin taking things
easy fur a day or two. Jest to give my boys a free hand. Guess we've
been at work here these three days."
The money-lender groaned inwardly. He understood the Breed's meaning
only too well. At last his bottled-up rage broke out again.
"Are you man or devil that you spirit away great herds like this.
Across the keg, I know, but how--how? Twenty thousand! My God, you'll
swing for this night's work," he went on impotently. "The whole
countryside will be after you. I am not the man to sit down quietly
under such handling. If I spend every cent I'm possessed of, you shall
be hounded down until you dare not show your face on this side of the
border."
"Easy, boss," the Breed retorted imperturbably. "Ef you want to see that
precious store o' yours again a civil tongue 'll help you best. I'm
mostly a patient man--easy goin'-like. Now jest keep calm an' I'll let
you see the fun. Now that's a neat shack o' yours," he went on, pointing
to the money-lender's mansion. "Wonder ef I could put a dose o' lead
into one o' the windows from here."
Lablache began to think he was dealing with a madman. He remained
silent, and the Breed leveled his pistol in the direction of the house
and fired. A moment's silence followed the sharp report. Then Retief
turned to his captive.
"Guess I didn't hear any glass smash. Likely I missed it," and he
chuckled fiendishly. Lablache sat gazing moodily at the building. Then
the half-breed's voice roused him. "Hello, wot's that?" He was pointing
at the house. "Why, some galoot's lightin' a bonfire! Say, that's
dangerous Lablache. They might fire your place."
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.
Lablache was gasping heavily. The mental strain was almost more than he
could bear, and his crushed and hopeless attitude brought a satanic
smile on the cruel face beside him.
"You don't seem to fancy things much," Retief went on. "Guess you ain't
enjoyin' yerself. Brace up, pard; you won't git another sight like this
fur some time. Why, wot's ailing yer?" as the barrel on which they were
seated moved and Lablache nearly rolled over backwards. "I hadn't a
notion yer wouldn't enjoy yerself. Say, jest look right thar. Them
barns," he added, pointing, towards the fire, "was built mighty solid.
They're on'y jest cavin'."
Lablache remained silent. Words, he felt, would be useless. In fact it
is doubtful if he would have been equal to expression. His spirit was
crushed and he feared the man beside him as he had never feared any
human being before. Such was the nervous strain put upon him that the
sense of his loss was rapidly absorbed in a dread for his own personal
safety. The conflagration had lost its fascination for him, and at every
move--every word--of his captor he dreaded the coming of his own end. It
was a physical and mental collapse, and bordered closely on frenzied
terror. It was no mental effort of his own that kept him from hurling
himself upon the other and biting and tearing in a vain effort to rend
the life out of him. The thought--the fever, desire, craving--was there,
but the will, the personality, of the Breed held him spellbound, an
inert mass of flesh incapable of physical effort--incapable almost of
thought, but a prey to an overwhelming terror.
The watching half-breed at length rose from his seat and shrugged his
thin, stooping shoulders. He had had enough of his pastime, and time was
getting on. He had other work to do before daylight. He put his hand to
his mouth and imitated the cry of the coyote. An instant later answering
cries came from various directions, and presently the Breeds gathered
round their chief.
"Say, bring up the 'plugs,' lads. The old boy's had his bellyfull. I
guess we'll git on." Then he turned upon the broken money-lender and
spoke while he re-charged the chambers of his pistol.
"See hyar, Lablache, this night's work is on'y a beginning. So long as
you live in Foss River Settlement so long will I hunt you out an' hustle
yer stock. You talked of houndin' me, but I guess the shoe's on the
other foot. I ain't finished by a sight, an' you'll hear from me agin'.
I don't fancy yer life," he went on with a grin. "Et's too easy, I
guess. Et's yer bills I'm after. Ye've got plenty an' to spare. But
bills is all-fired awk'ud to handle when they pass thro' your dirty
hands. So I'll wait till you've turned 'em into stock. Savee? I'm jest
goin' right on now. Thar's a bunch o' yer steers waitin' to be taken
off. Happen I'm goin' to see to 'em right away. One o' these lads'll
jest set some bracelets on yer hands, and leave yer tucked up and
comfortable so you can't do any harm, and you can set right thar an'
wait till some 'un comes along an' looses yer. So long, pard, an'
remember, Foss River's the hottest place outside o' hell fur you, jest
now."
Some of the half-breeds had brought up the horses whilst Retief was
talking, and, as he finished speaking, the hustler vaulted on to the
back of the great chestnut, Golden Eagle, and prepared to ride away.
Whilst the others were getting into their saddles he took one look at
the wretched captive whose hands had been again secured. There was a
swift exchange of glances--malevolent and murderous on the part of the
money-lender, and derisive on the part of the half-breed--then Retief
swung his charger round, and, at the head of his men, galloped away out
into the starry night.
CHAPTER XXI
HORROCKS LEARNS THE SECRET OF THE MUSKEG
The rope which brought Horrocks to the ground came near to strangling
him. He struggled wildly as he fell, and, as he struggled, the grip of
the rope tightened. He felt that the blood was ready to burst from his
temples and eyes. Then everything seemed to swim about him and he
believed consciousness was leaving him. Everything was done in a moment
and yet he seemed to be passing through an eternity of time.
The lariat is a handy weapon, but to truly appreciate its merits one
must be a prairie man. The Breeds are prairie men. They understand fully
the uses to which a "rope" may be put. For criminal purposes they
appreciate its silent merits, and the dexterity with which they can use
it makes its value equal to, and even surpass, the noisier and more
tell-tale pistol.
The next thing that the policeman knew was that he was stretched on his
back upon the ground, disarmed, and with a great bandanna secured about
his eyes and mouth, and his hands tied behind his back. Then a gruff
voice bade him rise, and, as he silently obeyed, he was glad to feel
that the gripping lariat was removed from his throat. Truly had the
officer's pride gone before a fall. And his feelings were now of the
deepest chagrin. He stood turning his head from side to side, blindly
seeking to penetrate the bandage about his eyes. He knew where he was,
of course, but he would have given half his year's salary for a sight of
his assailants.
He was not given long for his futile efforts. The same rough voice
which had bade him rise now ordered him to walk, and he found himself
forced forward by the aid of a heavy hand which gripped one of his arms.
The feeling of a blindfold walk is not a happy one, and the officer
experienced a strange sensation of falling as he was urged he knew not
whither. After a few steps he was again halted, and then he felt himself
seized from behind and lifted bodily into a conveyance.
He quickly realized that he was in a buckboard. The slats which formed
the body of it, as his feet lit upon them, told him this. Then two men
jumped in after him and he found himself seated between them. And so he
was driven off.
In justice to Horrocks it must be said that he experienced no fear.
True, his chagrin was very great. He saw only too plainly what want of
discretion he had displayed in trusting to the Breed's story, but he
felt that his previous association with the rascal warranted his
credulity, and the outcome must be regarded as the fortune of war. He
only wondered what strange experience this blindfold journey was to
forerun. There was not the least doubt in his mind as to whose was the
devising of this well-laid and well-carried-out plot. Retief, he knew,
must be answerable for the plan, and the method displayed in its
execution plainly showed him that every detail had been carefully
thought out, and administered by only too willing hands. That there was
more than ordinary purpose in this blindfold journey he felt assured,
and he racked his brains to discover the desperado's object. He even
found time to speculate as to how it had fared with his men, only here
he was even more at a loss than in the case of his own ultimate fate.
In less than half an hour from the time of his capture the buckboard
drew up beside some bush. Horrocks knew it was a bluff. He could hear
the rustle of the leaves as they fluttered in the gentle night air. Then
he was unceremoniously hustled to the ground, and, equally
unceremoniously, urged forward until his feet trod upon the stubbly,
breaking undergrowth. Next he was brought to a stand and swung round,
face about, his bonds were removed, and four powerful hands gripped his
arms. By these he was drawn backwards until he bumped against a
tree-trunk. His hands were then again made fast, but this time his arms
embraced the tree behind him. In this manner he was securely trussed.
Now from behind--his captors were well behind him--a hand reached over,
and, by a swift movement, removed the bandage from before his eyes.
Then, before he had time to turn his head, he heard a scrambling through
the bush, and, a moment later, the sound of the creaking buckboard
rapidly receding. He was left alone; and, after one swift, comprehensive
survey, to his surprise, he found himself facing the wire-spreading
muskeg, at the very spot where he had given up further pursuit of the
cattle whose "spur" he had traced down to the brink of the viscid mire.
His astonishment rendered him oblivious to all else. He merely gazed out
across that deceptive flat and wondered. Why--why had this thing been
done, and what strange freak had induced the "hustler" to conceive such
a form of imprisonment for his captive? Horrocks struggled with his
confusion, but he failed to fathom the mystery, and never was a man's
confusion worse confounded than was his.
Presently he bethought him of his bonds, and he cautiously tried them.
They were quite unyielding, and, at each turn of his arms, they caused
him considerable pain. The Breeds had done their work well, and he
realized that he must wait the raider's pleasure. He was certain of one
thing, however, which brought him a slight amount of comfort. He had
been brought here for a definite purpose. Moreover, he did not believe
that he was to be left here alone for long. So, with resignation induced
by necessity, he possessed himself of what patience he best could
summon.
How long that solitary vigil lasted Horrocks had no idea. Time, in that
predicament, was to him of little account. He merely wondered and
waited. He considered himself more than fortunate that his captors had
seen fit to remove the bandage from his eyes. In spite of his painful
captivity he felt less helpless from the fact that he could see what
might be about him.
From a general survey his attention soon became riveted upon the muskeg
spread out before him, and, before long, his thoughts turned to the
secret path which he knew, at some point near by, bridged the silent
horror. All about him was lit by the starry splendor of the sky. The
scent of the redolent grass of the great keg hung heavily upon the air
and smelt sweet in his nostrils. He could see the ghostly outline of the
distant peaks of the mountains, he could hear the haunting cries of
nightfowl and coyote; but these things failed to interest him.
Familiarity with the prairie made them, to him, commonplace. The
path--the secret of the great keg. That was the absorbing thought which
occupied his waiting moments. He felt that its discovery would more than
compensate for any blunders he had made. He strained his keen eyes as he
gazed at the tall waving grass of the mire, as though to tear from the
bosom of the awful swamp the secret it so jealously guarded. He slowly
surveyed its dark surface, almost inch by inch, in the hopes of
discovering the smallest indication or difference which might lead to
the desired end.
There was nothing in what he saw to guide him, nothing which offered the
least suggestion of a path. In the darkness the tall waving grass took a
nondescript hue which reached unbroken for miles around. Occasionally
the greensward seemed to ripple in the breeze, like water swayed by a
soft summer zephyr, but beyond this the outlook was uniform--darkly
mysterious--inscrutable.
His arms cramped under the pressure of the restraining bonds and he
moved uneasily. Now and again the rustling of the leaves overhead caused
him to listen keenly. Gradually his fancy became slightly distorted,
and, as time passed, the sounds which had struck so familiarly upon his
ears, and which had hitherto passed unheeded, began to get upon his
nerves.
By-and-by he found himself listening eagerly for the monotonous
repetition of the prairie scavenger's dismal howl, and as the cries
recurred they seemed to grow in power and become more plaintively
horrible. Now, too, the sighing of the breeze drew more keen attention
from the imprisoned man, and fancy magnified it into the sound of many
approaching feet. These matters were the effect of solitude. At such
times nerves play curious pranks.
In spite of his position, in spite of his anxiety of mind, the
police-officer began to grow drowsy. The long night's vigil was telling,
and nature rebelled, as she always will rebel when sleep is refused and
bodily rest is unobtainable. A man may pace his bedroom for hours with
the unmitigated pain of toothache. Even while the pain is almost
unendurable his eyes will close and he will continue his peregrinations
with tottering gait, awake, but with most of his faculties drowsily
faltering. Horrocks found his head drooping forward, and, even against
his will, his eyes would close. Time and again he pulled himself
together, only the next instant to catch himself dozing off again.
Suddenly, however, he was electrified into life. He was awake now, and
all drowsiness had vanished. A sound--distant, rumbling, but
distinct--had fallen upon his, for the moment, dulled ears. For awhile
it likened to the far-off growl of thunder, blending with a steady rush
of wind. But it was not passing. The sound remained and grew steadily
louder. A minute passed--then another and then another. Horrocks stared
in the direction, listening with almost painful intensity. As the
rumbling grew, and the sound became more distinct, a light of
intelligence crept into the prisoner's face. He heard and recognized.
"Cattle!" he muttered, and in that pronouncement was an inflection of
joy. "Cattle--and moving at a great pace."
He was alert now, as alert as he had ever been in his life. Was he at
last going to discover the coveted secret? Cattle traveling fast at this
time of night, and in the vicinity of the great keg. What could it mean?
To his mind there could only be one construction which he could
reasonably put upon the circumstance. The cattle were being "hustled,"
and the hustler must be the half-breed Retief.
Then, like a douche of cold water, followed the thought that he had been
purposely made a prisoner at the edge of the muskeg. Surely he was not
to be allowed to see the cattle pass over the mire and then be permitted
to go free. Even Retief in his wildest moments of bravado could not
meditate so reckless a proceeding. No, there was some subtle purpose
underlying this new development--possibly the outcome was to be far more
grim than he had supposed. He waited horrified, at his own thoughts, but
fascinated in spite of himself.
The sound grew rapidly and Horrocks's face remained turned in the
direction from which it proceeded. He fancied, even in the uncertain
light, that he could see the distant crowd of beasts silhouetted against
the sky-line. His post of imprisonment was upon the outskirts of the
bush, and he had a perfect and uninterrupted view of the prairie along
the brink of the keg, both to the north and south.
It was his fancy, however, which designed the silhouette, and he soon
became aware that the herd was nearer than he had supposed. The noise
had become a continuous roar as the driven beasts came on, and he saw
them loom towards him a black patch on the dark background of the
dimly-lit prairie. The bunch was large, but his straining eyes as yet
could make no estimate of its numbers. He could see several herders, but
these, too, were as yet beyond recognition.
Yet another surprise was in store for the waiting man. So fixed had his
attention been upon the on-coming cattle that he had not once removed
his eyes from the direction of their approach. Now, however, a prolonged
bellow to the right of him caused him to turn abruptly. To his utter
astonishment he saw, not fifty yards from him, a solitary horseman
leading a couple of steers by ropes affixed to their horns. He wondered
how long this strange apparition had been there. The horse was calmly
nibbling at the grass, and the man was quietly resting himself with
elbows propped upon the horn of his saddle. He, too, appeared to be
gazing in the direction of the on-coming cattle. Horrocks tried hard to
distinguish the man's appearance, but the light was too uncertain to
give him more than the vaguest idea of his personality.
The horse seemed to be black or very dark brown. And the general outline
of the rider was that of a short slight man, with rather long hair which
flowed from beneath the brim of his Stetson hat. The most curious
distinguishable feature was his slightness. The horse was big and the
man, was so small that, as he sat astride of his charger, he looked to
be little more than a boy of fifteen or sixteen.
Horrocks's survey was cut short, however, for now the herd of cattle was
tearing down upon him at a desperate racing pace. He saw the solitary
rider gather up his lines and move his horse further away from the edge
of the muskeg. Then the herd of cattle came along. They raced past the
bluff where the officer was stationed, accompanied by four swarthy
drivers, one of which was mounted upon a great chestnut horse whose
magnificent stride and proportions fixed the captive's attention. He had
heard of "Golden Eagle," and he had no doubt in his mind that this was
he and the rider was the celebrated cattle-thief. The band and its
drovers swept by, and Horrocks estimated that the cattle numbered many
hundreds.
After awhile he heard the sound of voices. Then the beasts were driven
back again over their tracks, only at a more gentle pace. Several times
the performance was gone through, and each time, as they passed him,
Horrocks noticed that their pace was decreased, until by the sixth time
they passed their gait had become a simple mouche, and they leisurely
nipped up the grass as they went, with bovine unconcern. It was a
masterly display of how cattle can be handled, and Horrocks forgot for a
while his other troubles in his interest in the spectacle.
After passing him for the sixth time the cattle came to a halt; and then
the strangest part of this strange scene was enacted. The horseman with
the led steers, whom, by this time, Horrocks had almost forgotten, came
leisurely upon the field of action. No instructions were given. The
whole thing was done in almost absolute silence. It seemed as if long
practice had perfected the method of procedure.
The horseman advanced to the brink of the muskeg, exactly opposite to
the bluff where the captive was tied, and with him the two led steers.
Horrocks held his breath--his excitement was intense. The swarthy
drivers roused the tired cattle and headed them towards the captive
steers. Horrocks saw the boyish rider urge his horse fearlessly on to
the treacherous surface of the keg. The now docile and exhausted cattle
followed leisurely. There was no undue bustle or haste. It was a
veritable "follow my leader." Where it was good enough for the captive
leaders to go it was good enough for the weary beasts to follow, and so,
as the boy rider moved forward, the great herd followed in twos and
threes. The four drivers remained until the end, and then, as the last
steer set foot on the dreadful mire, they too joined in the silent
procession.
Horrocks exerted all his prairie instinct as he watched the course of
that silent band. He was committing to memory, as far as he was capable,
the direction of the path across the keg, for, when opportunity offered,
he was determined to follow up his discovery and attempt the journey
himself. He fancied in his own secret heart that Retief had at last
overreached himself, and in thus giving away his secret he was paving
the way to his own capture.
It was not long before the cattle and their drivers passed out of sight,
but Horrocks continued to watch, so that he should lose no chance detail
of interest. At length, however, he found that his straining gaze was
useless, and all further interest passed out of his lonely vigil.
Now he busied himself with plans for his future movements, when he
should once more be free. And in such thought the long night passed, and
the time drew on towards dawn.
The surprises of the night were not yet over, however, for just before
the first streaks of daylight shot athwart the eastern sky he saw two
horsemen returning across the muskeg. He quickly recognized them as
being the raider himself and the boyish rider who had led the cattle
across the mire. They came across at a good pace, and as they reached
the bank the officer was disgusted to see the boy ride off in a
direction away from the settlement, and the raider come straight towards
the bluff. Horrocks was curious about the boy who seemed so conversant
with the path across the mire, and was anxious to have obtained a
clearer view of him.
The raider drew his horse up within a few yards of the captive. Horrocks
had a good view of the man's commanding, eagle face. In spite of himself
he could not help but feel a strange admiration for this lawless Breed.
There was something wonderfully fascinating and lofty in the hustler's
direct, piercing gaze as, proudly disdainful, he looked down upon his
discomfited prisoner.
He seemed in no hurry to speak. A shadowy smile hovered about his face
as he eyed the officer. Then he turned away and looked over to the
eastern horizon. He turned back again and drawled out a greeting. It was
not cordial but it was characteristic of him.
"Wal?"
Horrocks made no reply. The Breed laughed mockingly, and leant forward
upon the horn of his saddle.
"Guess you've satisfied your curiosity--some. Say, the boys didn't
handle you too rough, I take it. I told 'em to go light."
Horrocks was constrained to retort.
"Not so rough as you'll be handled when you get the law about you."
"Now I call that unfriendly. Guess them's gopher's words. But say, pard,
the law ain't got me yet. Wot d'ye think of the road across the keg?
Mighty fine trail that." He laughed as though enjoying a good joke.
Horrocks felt that he must terminate this interview. The Breed had a
most provoking way with him. His self-satisfaction annoyed his hearer.
"How much longer do you intend to keep me here?" Horrocks exclaimed
bitterly. "I suppose you mean murder; you'd better get on with it and
stop gassing. Men of your kidney don't generally take so much time over
that sort of business."
Retief seemed quite unruffled.
"Murder? Why, man, I didn't bring you here to murder you. Guess ef I'd a
notion that way you'd 'a' been done neat long ago. No, I jest wanted to
show you what you wanted to find out. Now I'm goin' to let you go, so
you, an' that skunk Lablache'll be able to chin-wag over this night's
doin's. That's wot I'm here fer right now."
As he finished speaking the Breed circled Golden Eagle round behind the
tree, and, bending low down from the saddle, he cut the rope which held
the policeman's wrists. Horrocks, feeling himself freed, stepped quickly
from the bush into the open, and faced about towards his liberator. As
he did so he found himself looking up into the muzzle of Retief's
revolver. He stood his ground unflinchingly.
"Now, see hyar, pard," said Retief, quietly, "I've a mighty fine respect
for you. You ain't the cuckoo that many o' yer mates is. You've got
grit, anyway. But that ain't all you need. 'Savee's' a mighty fine
thing--on occasions. Now you need 'Savee.' I'll jest give yer a piece of
advice right hyar. You go straight off down to Lablache's ranch. You'll
find him thar. An' pesky uncomfortable you'll find him. You ken set him
free, also his ranch boys, an' when you've done that jest make tracks
for Stormy Cloud an' don't draw rein till you git thar. Ef ever you see
Retief on one trail, jest hit right off on to another. That's good sound
sense right through fur you. Say, work on that, an' you ain't like to
come to no harm. But I swear, right hyar, ef you an' me ever come to
close quarters I'll perforate you--'less you git the drop on me. An' to
do that'll keep you humpin'. So long, pard. It's jest gettin' daylight,
ah' I don't calc'late to slouch around hyar when the sun's shinin'.
Don't go fur to forget my advice. I don't charge nothin' fur it, but
it's good, pard--real good, for all that. So long."
He swung his horse round, and before Horrocks had time to collect
himself, much less to speak, he was almost out of sight.
Half dazed and still wondering at the strangeness of the desperate
Breed's manner he mechanically began to walk slowly in the direction of
the Foss River Settlement.
CHAPTER XXII
THE DAY AFTER
Morning broke over a disturbed and restless community at Foss River. The
chief residents who were not immediately concerned in the arrest of
Retief--only deeply interested, and therefore skeptical--had gone to bed
over-night eager for the morning light to bring them news. Their broken
slumbers ceased as daylight broadened into sunrise, and, without waiting
for their morning coffee, the majority set out to gather the earliest
crumbs of news obtainable. There were others, of course, who were not in
the know, or, at least, had only heard vague rumors. These were less
interested, and therefore failed to rise so early.
Amongst the earliest abroad was Doctor Abbot. Aunt Margaret's interest
was not sufficient to drag her from her downy couch thus early, but,
with truly womanly logic, she saw no reason why the doctor should not
glean for her the information she required. Therefore the doctor rose
and shivered under the lightness of his summer apparel in the brisk
morning air.
The market-place, upon which the doctor's house looked, was almost
deserted when he passed out of his door. He glanced quickly around for
some one whom he might recognize. He saw that the door of "Lord" Bill's
shack was open, but it was too far off for him to see whether that lazy
individual was yet up. A neche was leisurely cleaning up round
Lablache's store, whilst the local butcher was already busy swabbing out
the little shed which did duty for his shop. As yet there was no other
sign of life abroad, and Doctor Abbot prepared to walk across to the
butcher for a gossip, and thus wait for some one else to come along.
He stepped briskly from his house, for he was "schrammed" with cold in
his white drill clothing. As he approached the energetic butcher, he saw
a man entering the market-place from the southern extremity of the
settlement. He paused to look closely at the new-comer. In a moment he
recognized Thompson, one of the clerks from Lablache's store. He
conjectured at once that this man might be able to supply him with the
information he desired, and so changed his direction and went across to
meet him.
"Mornin', Thompson," he said, peering keenly into the pale, haggard face
of the money-lender's employee. "What's up with you? You look positively
ill. Have you heard how the arrest went off last night?"
There was a blunt directness about the doctor which generally drove
straight to the point. The clerk wearily passed his hand across his
forehead. He seemed half asleep, and, as the doctor had asserted,
thoroughly ill.
"Arrest, doctor? Precious little arrest there's been. I've been out on
the prairie all night. What, haven't you heard about the governor? Good
lor'! I don't know what's going to happen to us all. Do you think we're
safe here?"
"Safe here? What do you mean, man?" the doctor answered, noting the
other's fearful glances round. "Why, what ails you? What about
Lablache?"
Others had now appeared upon the market-place and Doctor Abbot saw
"Lord" Bill, dressed in a gray tweed suit, and looking as fresh as if he
had just emerged from the proverbial bandbox, coming leisurely towards
him.
"What about Lablache, eh?" replied Thompson, echoing the doctor's
question ruefully. "A pretty nice thing Horrocks and his fellows have
let themselves, and us, in for."
Bill had come up now and several others had joined the group. They stood
by and listened while the clerk told his story. And what a story it was
too. It was vividly sanguinary, and enough to strike terror into the
hearts of his audience.
He told with great gusto of how Lablache had been abducted. How the
police horses and the money-lender's had been stolen from the stables at
the store. He dwelt on the frightful horrors committed up at the Breed
camp. How he had seen the police shot down before his very eyes, and he
became expansive on the fact that, with his own hands, Retief had
carried off Horrocks, and how he had heard the raider declare his
intention of hanging him. It was a terrible tale of woe, and his
audience was thrilled and horrified. "Lord" Bill alone appeared unmoved.
A close observer even might have noticed the faintest suspicion of a
smile at the corners of his mouth. The smile broadened as the sharp
doctor launched a question at the narrator of terrible facts.
"How came you to see all this, and escape?"
Thompson was at no loss. He told how he had been sent up by "Poker" John
to find Horrocks and tell him about Lablache. How he arrived in time to
see the horrors perpetrated, and how he only managed to escape with his
own life by flight, under cover of the darkness, and how, pursued by the
bloodthirsty Breeds, he had managed to hide on the prairie, where he
remained until daylight, and then by a circuitous route got back to the
settlement.
"I tell you what it is, doctor," he finished up consequentially, "the
Breeds are in open rebellion, and, headed by that devil, Retief, intend
to clear us whites out of the country. It's the starting of another Riel
rebellion, and if we don't get help from the Government quickly, it's
all up with us. That's my opinion," and he gazed patronizingly upon the
crowd, which by this time had assembled.
"Nonsense, man," said the doctor sharply. "Your opinion's warped.
Besides, you're in a blue funk. Come on over to 'old man' Smith's and
have a 'freshener.' You want bucking-up. Coming, Bill?" he went on,
turning to Bunning-Ford. "I want an 'eye-opener' myself. What say to a
'Collins'?"
The three moved away from the crowd, which they left horrified at what
it had heard, and eagerly discussing and enlarging upon the sanguinary
stories of Thompson.
"Poker" John was already at the saloon when the three reached the door
of "old man" Smith's reeking den. The proprietor was sweeping the bar,
in a vain effort to clear the atmosphere of the nauseating stench of
stale tobacco and drink. John was propped against the bar mopping up his
fourth "Collins." He usually had a thirst that took considerable
quenching in the mornings now. His over-night potations were deep and
strong. Morning "nibbling" had consequently become a disease with him.
"Old man" Smith, with a keen eye to business, systematically mixed the
rancher's morning drinks good and strong.
Bill and the doctor were not slow to detect the condition of their old
friend, and each felt deeply on the subject. Their cheery greetings,
however, were none the less hearty. Smith desisted in his dusty
occupation and proceeded to serve his customers.
"We're having lively times, John," said the doctor, after emptying his
"long sleever." "Guess Retief's making things 'hum' in Foss River."
"Hum? Shout is more like it," drawled Bill. "You've heard all the news,
John?"
"I've enough news of my own," growled the rancher.
"Been up all night. I see you've got Thompson with you. What did
Horrocks do after you told him about Lablache?" he went on, turning to
the clerk.
Bill and the doctor exchanged meaning glances. The clerk having found a
fresh audience again repeated his story. "Poker" John listened
carefully. At the close of the narrative he snorted disdainfully and
looked from the clerk to his two friends. Then he laughed loudly. The
clerk became angry.
"Excuse me, Mr. Allandale, but if you doubt my word--"
"Doubt your word, boy?" he said, when his mirth had subsided. "I don't
doubt your word. Only I've spent most of the night up at the Breed camp
myself."
"And were you there, sir, when Horrocks was captured?"
"No, I was not. After you came to my place and went on to the camp, I
was very uneasy. So, after a bit, I got my 'hands' together and prepared
to follow you up there. Just as I was about to set out," he went on,
turning to the doctor and Bill, "I met Jacky coming in. Bless you if she
hadn't been to see the pusky herself. You know," with a slight frown,
"that child is much too fond of those skulking Breeds. Well, anyway, she
said everything was quiet enough while she was there and," turning again
to Thompson, "she had seen nothing of Retief or Horrocks or any of the
latter's men. We just put our heads together, and she convinced me that
I was right, after what had occurred at the store, and had better go up.
So up I went. We searched the whole camp. I guess we were there for nigh
on three hours. The place was quiet enough. They were still dancing and
drinking, but not a blessed sign of Horrocks could we find."
"I expect he'd gone before you got there, sir," put in Thompson.
"Did you find the bodies of the murdered police?" asked the doctor
innocently.
"Not a sign of 'em," laughed John. "There were no dead policemen, and,
what's more, there was no trace of any shooting."
The three men turned on the clerk, who felt that he must justify
himself.
"There was shooting enough, sir; you mark my words. You'll hear of it
to-day, sure."
"Lord" Bill walked away towards the window in disgust. The clerk annoyed
him.
"No, boy, no. I'm thinking you are mistaken. I should have discovered
some trace had there been any shooting. I don't deny that your story's
true, but in the excitement of the moment I guess you got rattled--and
saw things."
Old John laughed and turned away. At that instant Bill called them all
over to the window. The bar window overlooked the market-place, and the
front of Lablache's store was almost opposite to it.
Bill pointed towards the store as the three men gathered round. "Old
man" Smith also ranged himself with the others.
"Look!" Bill smiled grimly.
A buckboard had just drawn up outside Lablache's emporium and two people
were alighting. A crowd had gathered round the arrivals. There was no
mistaking one of the figures. The doctor was the first to give
expression to the thought that was in the mind of each of the interested
spectators.
"Lablache!" he exclaimed in astonishment
"And Horrocks," added "Lord" Bill quietly.
"Guess he wasn't hung then after all," said "Poker" John, turning as he
spoke. But Thompson had taken his departure. This last blow was too
much. And he felt that it was an advantageous moment in which to retire
to his employer's store, and hide his diminished head amongst the bales
of dry goods and the monumental ledgers to be found there.
"That youth has a considerable imagination." The Hon. Bunning-Ford
turned from the window and strolled leisurely towards the door.
"Where are you going?" exclaimed "Poker" John.
"To cook some breakfast."
"No, no, you must come up to the ranch with me. Let's go right over to
the store first, and hear what Lablache has to say. Then we'll go and
feed."
Bill shrugged. Then,--
"Lablache and I are not on the best of terms," he said doubtfully. He
wished to go notwithstanding his demur. Besides he was anxious to go on
to the ranch to see Jacky. The doubt in his tone gave John his cue, and
the old man refused to be denied.
"Come along," he said, and linking his arm within the other's, he led
the way over to the store; the doctor, equally eager, bringing up the
rear.
Bill suffered himself to be thus led. He knew that in such company
Lablache could not very well refuse him admission to his office. He had
a decided wish to be present when the money-lender told his tale.
However, in this he was doomed to disappointment. Lablache had already
decided upon a plan of action.
At the store the three friends made their way through the crowd of
curious people who had gathered on the unexpected return of the chief
actors in last night's drama; they made their way quickly round to the
back where the private door was.
Lablache was within, and with him Horrocks. The heavy voice of the
money-lender answered "Poker" John's summons.
"Come in."
He was surprised when the door opened, and he saw who his visitors were.
John and the doctor he was prepared for, but "Lord" Bill's coming was a
different matter. For an instant he seriously meditated an angry
objection. Then he altered his mind, a thing which was rare with him.
After all the man's presence could do no harm, and he felt that to
object to him, would be to quarrel with the rancher. On second thoughts
he would tolerate what he considered the intrusion.
Lablache was ensconced in his basket chair, and Horrocks was at the
great man's desk. Neither moved as their visitors entered. The troubles
of the previous night were plainly written on both men's faces. There
was a haggard look in their eyes, and a generally dishevelled appearance
about their dress. Lablache in particular looked unwashed and untidy.
Horrocks looked less troubled, and there was a strong air of
determination about his face.
"Poker" John showed no niceness in broaching the subject of his visit.
His libations had roused him to the proper pitch for plain speaking.
"Well, what happened to you last night, Lablache? I guess you're looking
about as blue as they make 'em. Say, I thought sure Retief was going to
do for you when I heard about it."
"Ah. Who told you about--about me?"
"Your clerk."
"Rodgers?"
"No, Thompson."
"Ah! Have you seen Rodgers at all?"
"No." John turned to the other two. "Have you?"
Neither of the men had seen the clerk, and old John turned again to
Lablache.
"Why, what's happened to Rodgers?"
"Oh, nothing. I haven't seen him since I have been back--that's all."
"Well, now tell us all about last night," went on the rancher. "This
matter is going to be cleared up. I have been thinking of a vigilance
committee. We can't do better."
Lablache shook his great head. To the doctor and "Lord" Bill there
seemed to be an utter hopelessness conveyed in the motion.
"I have nothing to tell. Neither has Horrocks. What happened last night
concerns ourselves alone. You may possibly hear more later on, but the
telling by us now will do no good, and probably a lot of harm. As for
your vigilance committee, form it if you like, but I doubt that you will
do any good with it."
This refusal riled the old rancher. He was just in that condition when
it would take little to make him quarrel. He was about to rap out an
angry retort when a knock came at the partition door. It was Thompson.
He had come to say that the troopers had returned, and wanted to see the
sergeant. Also to say that Rodgers was with them. Horrocks immediately
went out to see them, and, before John could say a word, Lablache turned
on him.
"Look here, John, for the present my lips are sealed. It is Horrocks's
wish. He has a plan which he wishes to carry out quietly. The result of
his plan largely depends upon silence. Retief seems to have sources of
information everywhere. Walls have ears, man. Now, I shall be glad if
you will leave me. I--I must get cleaned up."
John's anger died within him. He saw that Lablache was upset. He looked
absolutely ill. The old man's good nature would not allow him to press
this companion of his ranching life further. There was nothing left for
him to do but leave.
As he rose to go, the money-lender unbent still further.
"I'll see you later, John, I may then be able to tell you more. Perhaps
it may interest you to know that Horrocks has discovered the path across
the keg, and--he's going to cross it. Good-by. So long, Doc."
"Very well, I shall be up at the ranch. Come along, Bill. Jacky, I
expect, is waiting breakfast for us."
Lablache heard the old man's remark as the latter passed out, and a
bitter feeling of resentment rose within him. He felt that everything
was against him. His evil nature, however, would not let him remain long
desponding. He ground his teeth and cursed bitterly. It had only wanted
a fillip such as this to rouse him from the curious lethargic
hopelessness into which the terrible night's doings had cast him.
The moment the three men got away from the store, Doctor Abbot drew
attention to the money-lender's words.
"Going to cross the keg, eh? Well, if he's really discovered the path
it's certainly the best thing to do. He's a sharp man is Horrocks."
"He's a fool!"
Bill's words were so emphatic that both men stared at him. If they were
startled at his words, they were still more startled at the set
expression of his face. Doctor Abbot thought he had never seen the
_insouciant_ Bill so roused out of himself.
"Why--how?"
"How? I tell you, man, that no one knows that path
except--except--Retief, and, supposing Horrocks has discovered it, if he
attempts to cross, there can only be one result to his mad folly. I tell
you what it is, the man should be stopped. It's absolute
suicide--nothing more nor less."
Something in the emphasis of "Lord" Bill's words kept the others silent
until the doctor left them at his home. Then as the two men hurried out
across the prairie towards the ranch, the conversation turned back to
the events of the previous evening.
At the ranch they found Jacky awaiting the old man's return, on the
veranda. She was surprised when she saw who was with him. Her surprise
was a pleasant one, however, and she extended her hand in cordial
welcome.
"Come right in, Bill. Gee, but you look fit--and slick."
The two young people smiled into each other's faces, and no onlooker,
not even the observant Aunt Margaret, could have detected the
understanding which passed in that look. Jacky was radiant. Her sweet,
dark face was slightly flushed. There were no tell-tale rings about her
dark eyes. For all sign she gave to the contrary she might have enjoyed
the full measure of a night's rest. Her visit to the Breed camp, or, for
that matter, any other adventures which had befallen her during the
night, had left no trace on her beautiful face.
"I've brought the boy up to feed," said old John. "I guess we'll get
right to it. I've got a 'twist' on me that'll take considerable to
satisfy."
The meal passed pleasantly enough. The conversation naturally was
chiefly confined to the events of the night. But somehow the others did
not respond very eagerly to the old rancher's evident interest and
concern. Most of the talking--most of the theorizing--most of the
suggestions for the stamping out of the scourge, Retief, came from him,
the others merely contenting themselves with agreeing to his suggestions
with a lack of interest which, had the old man been perfectly sober, he
could not have failed to observe. However, he was especially obtuse this
morning, and was too absorbed in his own impracticable theories and
suggestions to notice the others' lack of interest.
At the conclusion of the meal the rancher took himself off down to the
settlement again. He must endeavor to draw Lablache, he said. He would
not wait for him to come to the ranch.
Jacky and Bill went out on to the veranda, and watched the old man as he
set out with unsteady gait for the settlement.
"Bill," said the girl, as soon as her uncle was out of earshot, "what
news?"
"Two items of interest One, the very best, and the other--the very
worst."
"Which means?"
"No one has the least suspicion of us; and Horrocks, the madman, intends
to attempt the passage of the keg."
"Lord" Bill jaws shut with a snap as he ceased speaking. The look which
accompanied his last announcement was one of utter dejection. Jacky did
not reply for an instant, her great eyes had taken on a look of deep
anxiety as she gazed towards the muskeg.
"Bill, can nothing be done to stop him?" She gazed appealingly up into
the face of the tall figure beside her. "He is a brave man, if foolish."
"That's just it, dear. He's headstrong and means to see this thing
through. Had I thought that he would ever dream of contemplating such a
suicidal feat as attempting that path, I'd never have let him see the
cattle cross last night. My God! it turns me sick to think of it."
"Hush, Bill, don't talk so loud. Do you think any one could dissuade
him? Lablache, or--or uncle, for instance."
Bunning-Ford shook his head. His look was troubled.
"Horrocks is not the man to be turned from his purpose," he replied.
"And besides, Lablache would not attempt such a thing. He is too keen to
capture--Relief," with a bitter laugh. "A life more or less would not
upset that scoundrel's resolve. As for your uncle," with a shrug, "I
don't think he's the man for the task. No, Jacky," he went on, with a
sigh, "we must let things take their course now. We have embarked on
this business. We mustn't weaken. His blood be upon his own head."
They relapsed into silence for some moments. "Lord" Bill lit a
cigarette, and leant himself against one of the veranda posts. He was
worried at the turn events had taken. He had no grudge against Horrocks;
the man was but doing his duty. But his meditated attempt he considered
to be an exaggerated sense of that duty. Presently he spoke again.
"Jacky--do you know, I feel that somehow the end of this business is
approaching. What the end is to be I cannot foretell. One thing,
however, is clear. Sooner or later we must run foul of people, and when
that occurs--well," throwing his cigarette from him viciously, "it
simply means shooting. And--"
"Yes, Bill, I know what you would say. Shooting means killing, killing
means murder, and murder means swinging. You're right, but," and the
girl's eyes began to blaze, "before that, Lablache must go under.
Whatever happens, Bill, before we decorate any tree with our bodies, if
our object is not already obtained, I'll shoot him with my own pistol. I
guess we're embarked on a game that we're going to see through."
"That's so. We'll see it through. Do you know what stock we've taken,
all told? Close on twenty thousand head, and--all Lablache's. They're
snug over at 'Bad Man's' Hollow, and a tidy fine bunch they are. The
division with the boys is a twentieth each, and the balance is ours. Our
share is ten thousand." He ceased speaking. Then presently he went on,
harking back to the subject of Horrocks. "I wish that man could be
stayed. His failure must precipitate matters. Should he drown, as he
surely will, the whole countryside will join in the hue and cry. It is
only his presence here that keeps the settlers in check. Well, so be it.
It's a pity. But I'm not going to swing. They'll never take me alive."
"If it comes to that, Bill, you'll not be alone, I guess. You can gamble
your soul, when it comes to open warfare I'm with you, an' I guess I can
shoot straight."
Bill looked at the girl in astonishment. He noted the keen deep eyes,
the set little mouth. The fearless expression on her beautiful face. Her
words had fairly taken his breath away, but he saw that she had meant
what she said.
"No, no, girlie. No one will suspect you. Besides, this is my affair.
You have your uncle."
"Say, boy, I love my uncle--I love him real well. I'm working for him,
we both are--and we'll work for him to the last. But our work together
has taught me something, Bill, and when I cotton to teaching there's
nothing that can knock what I learn out of my head. I've just learned to
love you, Bill. And, as the Bible says, old Uncle John's got to take
second place. That's all. If you go under--well, I guess I'll go under
too."
Jacky gave her lover no chance to reply. As he opened his lips to
expostulate and took a step towards her she darted away, and disappeared
into the sitting-room. He followed her in, but the room was empty.
He paused. Then a smile spread over his face.
"I don't fancy we shall go under, little woman," he muttered, "at least,
not if I can help it."
He turned back to the veranda and strolled away towards the settlement.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE PAW OF THE CAT
Lablache was alone. Horrocks had left him to set out on his final effort
to discover Retief's hiding-place. The great man was eagerly waiting for
his return. Evening was drawing on and the officer had not yet put in an
appearance, neither had the money-lender received any word from him. In
consequence he was beginning to hope that Horrocks had succeeded.
All day the wretched man had been tortured by horrid fears. And, as time
passed and evening drew on, his mood became almost a panic. The
money-lender was in a deplorable state of mind; his nerves were shaken,
and he was racked by a dread of he scarce knew what. What he had gone
through the night before had driven him to the verge of mental collapse.
No bodily injury could have thus reduced him; for, whatever might have
been his failings, physical cowardice was not amongst the number. Any
moral weakness which might have been his had been so obscured by long
years of success and prosperity, that no one knowing him would have
believed him to be so afflicted. No, in spite of his present condition
Lablache was a strong man.
But the frightful mental torture he had endured at Retief's hands had
told its tale. The attack of the last twenty-four hours had been made
against him alone; at least, so Lablache understood it. Retief's efforts
were only in his direction; the raider had robbed him of twenty thousand
head of cattle; he had burnt his beautiful ranch out, in sheer
wantonness it seemed to the despairing man; what then would be his next
move if he were not stopped? What else was there of
his--Lablache's--that the Breed could attack? His store--yes--yes; his
store! That was all that was left of his property in Foss River. And
then--what then? There was nothing after that, except, perhaps--except
his life.
Lablache stirred in his seat and wheezed heavily as he arrived at this
conclusion. His horrified thoughts were expressed in the look of fear
that was in his lashless eyes.
His life--yes! That must be the raider's culminating object. Or would he
leave him that, so that he might further torture him by burning him out
of Calford. He pondered fearfully, and hard, practical as was his
nature, the money-lender allowed his imagination to run riot over
possibilities which surely his cooler judgment would have scoffed at.
Lablache rose hurriedly from his chair. It only wanted a quarter to
five. Putting his head through the partition doorway he ordered his
astonished clerks to close up. He felt that he could not--dare not keep
the store open longer. Then he inspected the private door of his office.
The spring catch was fast. He locked his safe. All the time he moved
about fearfully--like some hunted criminal. At last he returned to his
seat. His bilious eyes roved over the various objects in the room. A
hunted look was in them. His mind seemed fixed on one thought alone--the
coming of Retief.
After this he grew more calm. Perhaps the knowledge that the store was
secure now against any intruder helped to steady his nerves. Then he
started--was the store secure? He rose again and went to the window to
put up the shutter. He gazed out towards the Foss River Ranch, and, as
he gazed, he saw some one riding fast towards the settlement.
The horseman came nearer; the sight fascinated the great man. Now the
traveler had reached the market place, and was coming on towards the
store. Suddenly the money-lender recognized in the horseman one of
Horrocks's troopers, mounted on a horse from John Allandale's stable. A
wild hope leapt up in his heart. Then, as the man drew nearer and
Lablache saw the horrified expression of his face, hope went from him,
and he feared the worst.
The clatter of hoofs ceased outside the office door. Lablache stepped
heavily forward and threw it open. He stood framed in the doorway as the
man gasped out his terrible news.
"He's drowned, sir, drowned before our eyes. We tried, but couldn't save
him. He would go, sir; we tried to persuade him, but he would go. No
more than fifty yards from the bank, and then down he went. He was out
of sight in two minutes. It was horrible, sir, and him never uttered a
sound. I'm going in to Stormy Cloud to report an' get instructions.
Anything I can do, sir?"
So the worst was realized. For the moment the money-lender could find no
words. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. His last hope--the
last barrier between him and the man whom he considered his arch enemy,
Retief, seemed to have been shattered. He thought not of the horror of
the policeman's drowning; he felt no sorrow at the reckless man's
ghastly end. He merely thought of himself. He saw only how the man's
death affected his personal interests. At last he gurgled out some
words. He scarce knew what he said.
"There's nothing to be done. Yes--no--yes, you'd better go up to the
Allandales," he went on uncertainly. "They'll send a rescue party."
The trooper dashed off and Lablache securely fastened the door. Then he
put the shutter over the window, and, notwithstanding that it was broad
daylight still, he lit the lamp.
Once more he returned to his protesting chair, into which he almost
fell. To him this last catastrophe was as the last straw. What was now
to become of the settlement; what was to become of him? Horrocks gone;
the troopers withdrawn, or, at least, without a guiding hand, what
might Retief not be free to do while the settlement awaited the coming
of a fresh detachment of police. He impotently cursed the raider. The
craven weakness, induced by his condition of nervous prostration, was
almost pitiable. All the selfishness which practically monopolized his
entire nature displayed itself in his terror. He cared nothing for
others. He believed that Retief was at war with him alone. He believed
that the raider sought only his wealth--his wealth which his years of
hard work and unscrupulous methods had laboriously piled up--the wealth
he loved and lived for--the wealth which was to him as a god. He thought
of all he had already lost. He counted it up in thousands, and his eyes
grew wide with horror and despair as the figures mounted up, up, until
they represented a great fortune.
The long-suffering chair creaked under him as he flung himself back in
it, his pasty, heavy-jowled face was ghastly under the lash of
despairing thought. Only a miser, one of those wretched creatures who
live only for the contemplation of their hoarded wealth, could
understand the feelings of the miserable man as he lay back in his
chair.
The man who had thus reduced the money-lender must have understood his
nature as did the inquisitors of old understand the weaknesses of their
victims. For surely he could have found no other vulnerable spot in the
great man's composition.
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.
The money-lender set out for the ranch bristling with eagerness to put
into execution his hastily conceived plan.
He found the old rancher in his sanctum. He was alone brooding over the
calamity which had befallen the police-officer, and stimulating his
thought with silent "nippings" at the whisky bottle. He was in a
semi-maudlin condition when the money-lender entered, and greeted his
visitor with almost childish effusion.
Lablache saw and understood, and a sense of satisfaction came to him. He
hoped his task would be easier than he had anticipated. His evil nature
rose to the occasion, and, for the moment, his own troubles and fears
were forgotten. There was a cat-like licking of the lips as he
contemplated the pitiful picture before him.
"Well?" said old John, looking into the other's face with a pair of
bloodshot eyes, as he re-seated himself after rising to greet his
visitor. "Well, poor Horrocks has gone--gone, a victim to his sense of
duty. I guess, Lablache, there are few men would have shown his grit."
"Grit! Yes, that's so." The money-lender had been about to say "folly,"
but he checked himself. He did not want to offend "Poker" John--now.
"Yes. The poor fellow was too good for his work," he went on, in tones
of commiseration. "'Tis indeed a catastrophe, John. And we are the
losers by it. I regret now that I did not altogether agree with him when
he first came amongst us."
John wagged his head. He looked to be near weeping. His companion's
sympathetic tone was almost too much for his whisky-laden heart. But
Lablache had not come here to discuss Horrocks, or, for that matter, to
sympathize with the gray-headed wreck of manhood before him. He wished
to find out first of all if anybody was about whom his plans concerned,
and then to force his proposition upon his old companion. He carefully
led the rancher to talk of other things.
"The man has gone into Stormy Cloud to report?"
"Yes."
"And who are they likely to send down in place--ah--of the unfortunate
Horrocks, think you?"
"Can't say. I guess they'll send a good man. I've asked for more men."
The old man roused somewhat from his maudlin state.
"Ah, that's a good move, John," said the money-lender. "What does Jacky
think about--these things?"
The question was put carelessly. John yawned, and poured out a "tot" of
whisky for his friend.
"Guess I haven't seen the child since breakfast. She seemed to take it
badly enough then."
"Thanks. Aren't you going to have one?" as John pushed the glass over to
the other.
"Why, yes, man. Never shirk my liquor."
He dashed a quantity of raw spirit into his glass and drank it off.
Lablache looked on with intense satisfaction. John rose unsteadily, and,
supporting himself against the furniture as he went, moved over to the
French window and closed it. Then he lurched heavily back into his chair
again. His eyes half closed. But he roused at the sound of Lablache's
guttural tones.
"John, old friend." Muddled as he was the rancher started at the term.
"I've come to have a long chat with you. This morning I could not talk.
I was too broken up--too, too ill. Now listen and you shall hear of all
that happened last night, and then you will the better be able to judge
of the wisdom of my decision."
John listened while Lablache told his tale. The money-lender embellished
the facts slightly so as the further to emphasize them. Then, at the
conclusion of the story of his night's doings, he went on to matters
which concerned his future.
"Yes, John, there is nothing left for me but to get out of the country.
Mind this is no sudden determination, but a conclusion I have long
arrived at. These disastrous occurrences have merely hastened my plans.
I am not so young as I was, you know," with an attempt at lightness, "I
simply dare not stay. I fear that Retief will soon attempt my life."
He sighed and looked for sympathy. Old John seemed too amazed to
respond. He had never realized that the raider's efforts were solely
directed against Lablache. The money-lender went on.
"And that is why I have come to you, my oldest friend. I feel you should
be the first to know, for with no one else in Foss River have I lived in
such perfect harmony. And, besides, you are the most interested."
The latter was in the tone of an afterthought. Strangely enough the
careless way in which it was spoken carried the words well home to the
rancher's muddled brain.
"Interested?" he echoed blankly.
"Why, yes. Certainly, you are the most interested. I mean from a
monetary point of view. You see, the winding up of my business will
entail the settling up of--er--my books."
"Yes," said the rancher, with doubtful understanding.
"Then--er--you take my meaning as to how--er--how you are interested."
"You mean my arrears of interest," said the gray headed old man dazedly.
"Just so. You will have to meet your liabilities to me."
"But--but--man." The rancher spluttered for words to express himself.
This was the money-lender's opportunity, and he seized it.
"You see, John, in retiring from business I am not altogether a free
agent. My affairs are so mixed up with the affairs of the Calford Trust
and Loan Co. The period of one of your mortgages, for instance--the
heaviest by the way--has long expired. It has not been renewed. The
interest is in arrears. This mortgage was arranged by me jointly with
the Calford Trust and Loan Co. When I retire it will have to be settled
up. Being my friend I have not troubled you, but doubtless the company
will have no sentiment about it. As to the others--they are debts of
honor. I am afraid these things will have to be settled, John. You will
of course be able to meet them."
"God, man, but I can't," old John exclaimed. "I tell you I can't," he
reiterated in a despairing voice.
Lablache shrugged his obese shoulders.
"That is unfortunate."
"But, Lablache," said the rancher, gazing with drunken earnestness into
the other's face, "you will not press me?"
"Why no, John, of course not--as far as I am personally concerned. I
have known you too long and have too much regard for you and--yours. No,
no, John; of course I am a business man, but I am still your friend.
Friend--eh, John--your friend."
The rancher looked relieved, and helped himself to more whisky. Lablache
joined him and they silently drank. "Poker" John set his empty glass
down first.
"Now Lablache, about these lia-liabilities," he said with a hiccup.
"What is to be done?"
"Well, John, we are friends of such old standing that I don't like to
retire from business and leave you inconvenienced by the process.
Perhaps there is a way by which I can help you. I am very wealthy--and
wealth is a great power--a very great power even in this wild region.
Now, suppose I make a proposition to you."
CHAPTER XXIV
"POKER" JOHN ACCEPTS
"Ah!"
There was a tone of drunken suspicion about the exclamation which was
not lost on Lablache.
"If you were suddenly called upon to meet your liabilities to me, John,"
said the money-lender, smiling, "how would it fix you?"
"It would mean ruin," replied John, hoarsely.
Lablache cleared his throat and snorted. Then he smiled benignly upon
his old companion.
"That's just what I thought. Well, you're not going to be ruined--by me.
I'm going to burn the mortgages and settle with the Calford Trust and
Loan Co. myself--"
The rancher feared to trust his ears.
"That is if you are willing to do something for me."
In his eager hope John Allandale had leant forward so as not to miss a
word the other said. Now, however, he threw himself back in his chair.
Some suspicion was in his mind. It might have been intuition. He knew
Lablache well. He laughed cynically.
"That's more like you," he said roughly.
"One moment," said the money-lender; the smile vanished from his lips.
"Fair play's good medicine. We'll wipe out your debts if you'll tell
your niece that you want her to marry me."
"I'll--I'll--"
"Hold on, John," with upraised hand, as the old man purpled with rage
and started to shout.
"I'll see you damned first!" The rancher had lurched on to his feet and
his fist came down with a crash upon the corner of the table. Lablache
remained unmoved.
"Tut tut, man; now listen to me." The old man towered unsteadily over
him. "I can't understand your antipathy to me as a husband for your
niece. Give your consent--she'll do it for you--and, on my wedding day,
I burn those mortgages and I'll settle 100,000 dollars upon Jacky.
Besides this I'll put 200,000 dollars into your ranch to develop it, and
only ask ten per cent, of the profits. Can I speak fairer? That girl of
yours is a good girl, John; too good to kick about the prairie. I'll
make her a good husband. She shall do as she pleases, live where she
likes. You can always be with us if you choose. It's no use being riled,
John, I'm making an honest proposition."
The rancher calmed. In the face of such a generous proposal he could not
insult Lablache. He was determined, however. It was strange, perhaps,
that any suggestion for his influence to be used in his niece's choice
of a husband should have such a violent effect upon him. But "Poker"
John was a curious mixture of weakness and honor. He loved his niece
with a doting affection. She was the apple of his eye. To him the
thought of personal benefit at the cost of her happiness was a
sacrilege. Lablache understood this. He knew that on this point the
rancher's feelings amounted to little short of mania. And yet he
persisted. John's nature was purely obstinate, and obstinacy is
weakness. The money-lender knew that obstinacy could be broken down by
steady determination. However, time, with him, was now everything. He
must clinch the deal with as little delay as possible if he would escape
from Foss River and the ruinous attacks of Retief. This thought was ever
present with him and urged him to press the old man hard. If John
Allandale would not be reasonable, he, Lablache, must force an
acceptance of his terms from him.
The rancher was mollified. His dulled brain suddenly saw a loop-hole of
escape.
"I guess you mean well enough, Lablache. But say, ask the child
yourself."
The other shook his massive head.
"I have--she has refused."
"Then why in thunder do you come to me?"
The angry light was again in the rancher's bloodshot eyes.
"Why? Because she will marry me if you choose. She can't refuse--she
dare not."
"Then, by God, I'll refuse for her--"
He paused disconcertedly in his wrath. Lablache's cold eyes fixed him
with their icy stare.
"Very well, John," said Lablache, with a contemptuous shrug. "You know
the inevitable result of such a hasty decision. It means ruin to
you--beggary to that poor child." His teeth snapped viciously. Then he
smiled with his mouth. "I can only put your de--refusal down to utter,
unworthy selfishness."
"Not selfishness, Lablache--not that. I would sacrifice everything in
the world for that child--"
"Except your own pleasure--your own personal comforts. Bah, man!" with
scathing contempt, "your object must be plain to the veriest fool. You
do not wish to lose her. You fear to lose your best servant lest in
consequence you find the work of the ranch thrust upon your own hands.
You would have no time to indulge your love of play. You would no longer
be able to spend three parts of your time in 'old man' Smith's filthy
bar. Your conduct is laudable, John--it is worthy of you."
Lablache had expected another outburst of anger, but John only leered in
response to the other's contempt. Drunk as he was, the rancher saw the
absurdity of the attack.
"Piffle!" he exclaimed. "Now see, when Jacky comes in you shall hear
what she has to say."
"Poker" John smiled with satisfaction at his own 'cuteness. He felt that
he had outwitted the astute usurer. His simplicity, however, was of an
infantile order.
"That would be useless." Lablache did not want to be confronted with
Jacky. "My mind is quite made up. The Calford Trust will begin
proceedings at once, unless--"
"Unless I give my consent."
The satisfaction had suddenly died out of John Allandale's face. Even in
his maudlin condition he understood the relentless purpose which backed
the money-lender's proposal. To his credit be it said that he was
thinking only of Jacky--the one being who was dearer to him than all
else in the world. For himself he had no thought--he did not care what
happened. But he longed to save his niece from the threatened
catastrophe. His seared old face worked in his distress. Lablache beheld
the sign, and knew that he was weakening.
"Why force me to extremities, John?" he said presently. "If you would
only be reasonable, I feel sure you would have no matter for regret.
Now, suppose I went a step further."
"No--no," weakly. There followed a pause. John Allandale avoided the
other's eyes. To the old man the silence of the room became intolerable.
He opened his lips to speak. Then he closed them--only to open them
again. "But--but what step do you propose? Is--is it honest?"
"Perfectly." Lablache was smiling in that indulgent manner he knew so
well how to assume. "And it might appeal to you. Pressure is a thing I
hate. Now--suppose we leave the matter to--to chance."
"Chance?" The rancher questioned the other doubtfully.
"Yes--why not?" The money-lender's smile broadened and he leaned forward
to impress his hearer the more surely. "A little game--a game of poker,
eh?"
John Allandale shook his head. He failed to grasp the other's meaning.
"I don't understand," he said, struggling with the liquor which fogged
his dull brain.
"No, of course you don't," easily. "Now listen to me and I'll tell you
what I mean." The money-lender spoke as though addressing a wayward
child. "The stakes shall be my terms against your influence with Jacky.
If you win you keep your girl, and I cancel your mortgages; if I win I
marry your girl under the conditions I have already offered. It's wholly
an arrangement for your benefit. All I can possibly gain is your girl.
Whichever way the game goes I must pay. Saints alive--but what an old
fool I am!" He laughed constrainedly. "For the sake of a pretty face I'm
going to give you everything--but there," seriously, "I'd do more to win
that sweet child for my wife. What d'you say, John?"
There could be no doubt that Lablache meant what he said, only he might
have put it differently. Had he said that there was nothing at which he
would stop to secure Jacky, it would have been more in keeping with the
facts, He meant to marry the girl. His bilious eyes watered. There was a
sensual look in them. His heavy lips parted and closed with a sucking
smack as though expressing appreciation of a tasty morsel.
John remained silent, but into his eyes had leapt a gleam which told of
the lust of gaming aroused. His look--his whole face spoke for him.
Lablache had primed his hook with an irresistible bait. He knew his man.
"See," he went on, as the other remained silent, "this is the way we can
arrange it. We will play 'Jackpots' only. The best seven out of
thirteen. It will be a pretty game, in which, from an outsider's point
of view, I alone can be the loser. If I win I shall consider myself
amply repaid. If I lose--well," with an expressive movement of the
hands, "I will take my chance--as a sportsman should. I love your niece,
John, and will risk everything to win her. Now, think of it. It will be
the sweetest, prettiest gamble. And, too, think of the stake. A fortune,
John--a fortune for you. And for me a bare possibility of realizing my
hopes."
The old gambler's last vestige of honor struggled to make itself
apparent in a negative movement of the head. But the movement would not
come. His thoughts were of the game, and ere yet the last words of the
money-lender had ceased to sound, he was captured. The satanic cunning
of the proposal was lost upon his sodden intellect. It was a
contemptible, pitiable piece of chicanery with which Lablache sought to
trap the old man into giving his consent and assistance. The
money-lender had no intention of losing the game. He knew he must win.
He was merely resorting to this means because he knew the gambling
spirit of the rancher. He knew that "Poker" John's obstinacy was proof
against any direct attack; that no persuasion would induce the consent
he desired. The method of a boxer pounding the body of an opponent whom
he knows to be afflicted with some organic weakness of the heart is no
more cowardly than was Lablache's proposal.
The rancher still remained silent. Lablache moved in his chair; one of
his great fat hands rested for a moment on John's coat sleeve.
"Now, old friend," he said, with a hoarse, whistling breath. "Shall you
play--play the game? It will be a grand finale to the
many--er--comfortable games we have played together. Well? Thirteen
'Jackpots,' John--yes?"
"And--and if I consented--mind, I only say 'if.'" The rancher's face
twitched nervously.
"You would stand to win a fortune--and also one for your niece."
"Yes--yes. I might win. My luck may turn."
"It must--you cannot always lose."
"Quite right--I must win soon. It is a great offer--a splendid stake."
"It is."
"Yes--yes, Lablache, I will play. God, man! I will play you!"
Beads of sweat stood on John Allandale's forehead as he literally hurled
his acceptance at his companion. He accepted in the manner of one who
knows he is setting at defiance all honesty and right, urged to such a
course by an all-mastering passion, which he is incapable of resisting.
Strange was the nature of this man. He knew himself as it is given to
few weak men to know themselves. He knew that he wished to do this
thing. He knew, also, that he was doing wrong. Moreover he knew that he
wished to stand by Jacky and be true to his great affection for her. He
was under the influence of potent spirit, and yet his thoughts and
judgment were clear upon the subject. His mania had possessed him and he
would play from choice; and all the while he could hear the voice of
conscience rating him. He would have preferred to play now, but then he
remembered the quantity of spirit he had consumed. He must take no
chances. When he played Lablache he must be sober. The delay of one
night, however, he knew would bring him agonies of remorse, therefore he
would settle everything now so that in the throes of conscience he could
not refuse to play. He feared delay. He feared the vacillation which the
solitary hours of the night might bring to him. He leant forward and
thickly urged the money-lender.
"When shall it be? Quick, man, let us have no delay. The time,
Lablache--the time and place."
Lablache wheezed unctuously.
"That's the spirit I like, John," he said, fingering his watch-chain
with his fat hands. "To business. The place--er--yes." A moment's
thought whilst the rancher waited with impatience. "Ah, I know. That
implement shed on your fifty-acre pasture. Excellent. There is a living
room in it. You used to keep a man there. It is disused now. It will
suit us admirably. We can use that room. And the time--"
"To-morrow, Lablache. It must be to-morrow. I could not wait longer,"
broke in the other, in a voice husky with eagerness and liquor. "After
dark, when no one can see us going out to the shed. No one must know,
Lablache, mind--no one. Jacky will not dream of what we are doing."
"Very well. To-morrow, then. At eleven o'clock at night, John. And as
you say in the meantime--mum."
Lablache was pleased with the rancher's suggestion. It quite fell in
with his own ideas. Everything must be done quickly now. He must get
away from Foss River without delay.
"Yes--yes. Mum's the word." "Poker" John indicated his approval with an
upward leer as Lablache rose from his chair, and a grotesque pursing of
his lips and his forefinger at the side of his nose. Then he, too,
struggled to his feet, and, with unsteady hand, poured out two stiff
"horns" of whisky.
He held one out to the money-lender and took the other himself.
"I drink to the game," he said haltingly. "May--fortune come my way."
Lablache nodded comprehensively and slowly raised his glass.
"Fortune is yours anyhow. Therefore I trust that I win the game."
The two men silently drank. After which Lablache turned to go. He paused
at the French window and plunged his hand into his coat pocket.
The night was dark outside, and again he became a prey to his moral
terror of the half-breed raider. He drew out his revolver and opened the
chamber. The weapon was loaded. Then he turned to old John who was
staring at him.
"It's risky for me to move about at night, John. I fear Retief has not
done with me yet. Good-night," and he passed out on to the veranda.
Lablache was the victim of a foreboding. It is a custom to laugh at
forebodings and set them down to the vagaries of a disordered stomach.
We laugh too at superstition. Yet how often do we find that the
portentous significance of these things is actually realized in fact.
Lablache dreaded Retief.
What would the next twenty-four hours bring forth?
CHAPTER XXV
UNCLE AND NIECE
"Poker" John's remorse came swiftly, but not swiftly or strongly enough
to make him give up the game. After Lablache had taken his departure the
old rancher sat drinking far into the night. With each fresh potation
his conscience became less persistent in its protest. He sought no bed
that night, for gradually his senses left him and he slept where he sat,
until, towards daybreak he awoke, partially sober and shivering with
cold. Then he arose, and, wrapping himself in a heavy overcoat, flung
himself upon a couch, where he again sought sobriety in sleep.
He awoke again soon after daylight. His head was racked with pain. He,
at first, had only a dim recollection of what had occurred the night
before. There was a vague sense of something unpleasant having happened,
but he did not attempt to recall it. He went to his bedroom and douched
himself with cold water. Then he set out for the kitchen in search of
coffee with which to slack his burning thirst. It was not until he had
performed his ablutions that the whole truth of his interview with
Lablache came back to him. Immediately, now that the effect of the
liquor had passed off, he became a prey to terrible remorse.
Possibly had Jacky been at hand at that moment, the whole course of
events might have been altered. Her presence, a good breakfast, and
occupation might have given him strength to carry out the rejection of
Lablache's challenge which his remorse suggested. However, none of these
things were at hand, and John Allandale set out, from force of habit, to
get his morning "Collins" down at "old man" Smith's. Something to pull
him together before he encountered his niece, he told himself.
It was a fatal delusion. "Old man" Smith sold drink for gain. The more
he sold the better he liked it. John Allandale's "Collins" developed, as
it always did now, into three or four potent drinks. So that by the time
he returned to the ranch for breakfast his remorse was pushed well into
the background, and with feverish craving he lodged for the fateful
game.
In spite of his devotion to the bottle John Allandale usually made a
hearty breakfast. But this morning the sight of Jacky presiding at his
table upset him, and he left his food almost untasted. Remorse was
deadened but conscience was yet unsilenced within him. Every time she
spoke to him, every time he encountered her piercing gray eyes he felt
himself to be a worse than Judas. In his rough, exaggerated way he told
himself that he was selling this girl as surely as did the old slave
owners sell their slaves in bygone days. He endeavored to persuade
himself that what he was doing was for the best, and certainly that it
was forced upon him. He would not admit that his mania for poker was the
main factor in his acceptance of Lablache's terms. Gradually, however,
his thoughts became intolerable to him, and when Jacky at last remarked
on the fact that he was eating nothing and drinking only his coffee, he
could stand it no longer. He pushed his chair back and rose from the
table, and, muttering an excuse, fled from the room.
Her uncle's precipitate flight alarmed Jacky. She had seen, as anybody
with half an eye could see, that he had had a heavy night. The bleared
eyes, the puffed lids, the working, nervous face were simple enough
evidence. She knew, too, that he had already been drinking this morning.
But these things were not new to her, only painful facts which she was
unable to alter; but his strange behavior and lack of appetite were
things to set her thinking.
She was a very active-minded girl. It was not her way to sit wondering
and puzzling over anything she could not understand. She had a knack of
setting herself to unravel problems which required explanation in the
most common-sense way. After giving her uncle time to leave the
house--intuition told her that he would do so--she rose and rang the
bell. Then she moved to the window while she waited for an answer to her
summons. She saw the burly figure of her uncle walking swiftly down
towards the settlement and in the direction of the saloon.
She turned with a sigh as a servant entered.
"Did any one call last night while I was out?" she asked.
"Not for you, miss."
"Oh!"
"No, miss, but Mr. Lablache was here. He was with your uncle for a long
time--in the office."
"Did he come in with Mr. Allandale?"
"Oh, no, miss, the master didn't go out. At least not that I know of.
Mr. Lablache didn't call exactly. I think he just came straight to the
office. I shouldn't have known he was there, only I was passing the door
and heard his voice--and the master's."
"Oh, that will do--just wait a moment, though. Say, is Silas around?
Just find him and send him right along. Tell him to come to the
veranda."
The servant departed, and Jacky sat down at a writing-table and wrote a
note to "Lord" Bill. The note was brief but direct in its tone.
"Can you see me this afternoon? Shall be in after tea."
That was all she put, and added her strong, bold signature to it. Silas
came to the window and she gave him the note with instructions to
deliver it into the hands of the Hon. Bunning-Ford.
The letter dispatched she felt easier in her mind.
What had Lablache been closeted with her uncle for? This was the
question which puzzled--nay, alarmed her. She had seen her uncle early
on the previous evening, and he had seemed happy enough. She wished now,
when she had returned from visiting Mrs. Abbot, that she had thought to
see if her uncle was in. It had become such a custom for him lately to
be out all the evening that she had long ceased her childhood's custom
of saying "Good-night" to him before retiring to bed. One thing was
certain, she felt her uncle's strange behavior this morning was in some
way due to Lablache's visit. She meant to find out what that visit
meant.
To this end several plans occurred to her, but in each case were
abandoned as unsuitable.
"No," she murmured at last, "I guess I'll tax him with it. He'll tell
me. If Lablache means war, well--I've a notion he'll get a hustling he
don't consider."
Then she left the sitting-room that she might set about her day's work.
She would see her uncle at dinner-time.
Foss River had not yet risen to the civilized state of late dinners and
indigestion. Early rising and hard work demanded early meals and hearty
feeding. Dinner generally occurred at noon--an hour at which European
society thinks of taking its _déjeuner_. By rising late society can thus
avoid what little fresh, wholesome air there is to be obtained in a
large city. Civilization jibs at early rising. Foss River was still a
wild and savage country.
At noon Jacky came in to dinner. She had not seen her uncle since
breakfast. The old man had not returned from the settlement. Truth to
tell he wished to avoid his niece as much as possible for to-day. As
dinner-time came round he grew nervous and uncomfortable, and was half
inclined to accept "old man" Smith's invitation to dine at the saloon.
Then he realized that this would only alarm Jacky and set her thinking.
Therefore he plucked up the shattered remains of his moral courage and
returned to the ranch. When a man looses his last grip on his
self-respect he sinks with cruel rapidity. "Poker" John told himself
that he was betraying his niece's affection, and with this assurance he
told himself that he was the lowest-down cur in the country. The natural
consequence to a man of his habit and propensity was--drink. The one
time in his life when he should have refrained from indulgence he drank;
and with each drink he made the fatal promise to himself that it should
be the last.
When Jacky saw him swaying as he came up towards the house she could
have cried out in very anguish. It smote her to the heart to see the old
man whom she so loved in this condition. Yet when he lurched on to the
veranda she smiled lovingly up into his face and gave no sign that she
had any knowledge of his state.
"Come right along, uncle," she said gayly, linking her arm within his,
"dinner is on. You must be good and hungry, you made such a poor
breakfast this morning."
"Yes, child, I wasn't very well," he mumbled thickly. "Not very
well--now."
"You poor dear, come along," and she led him in through the open window.
During the meal Jacky talked incessantly. She talked of everything but
what had upset her uncle. She avoided any reference to Lablache with
great care. But, in spite of her cheerfulness, she could not rouse the
degenerate old man. Rather it seemed that, as the meal progressed, he
became gloomier. The truth was the girl's apparent light-heartedness
added to his self-revilings and made him feel more criminal than ever.
He ate his food mechanically, and he drank glass after glass of ale.
Jacky heaved a sigh of relief when the meal was over. She felt that she
could not much longer have kept up her light-hearted talk. Her uncle was
about to move from the table. The girl stayed him with a gesture. He had
eaten a good dinner and she was satisfied. Now she would question him.
It is strange how a woman, in whatever relationship she may stand, loves
to see a man eat well. Possibly she understands the effect of a good
dinner upon the man in whom she centers her affection; possibly it is
the natural maternal instinct for his well-being.
"Uncle, what did Lablache come to see you for last night?"
The question was abrupt. It had the effect of bringing the rancher back
to his seat with a drunken lurch.
"Eh?" he queried, blinking nervously.
"What did he come for?" Jacky persisted.
The girl could be relentless even with her uncle.
"Lablache--oh--er--talk bus--bus'ness, child--bus'ness," and he
attempted to get up from his chair again.
But Jacky would not let him go.
"Wait a moment, uncle dear, I want to talk to you. I sha'n't keep you
long." The old man looked anywhere but at his companion. A cold sweat
was on his forehead, and his cheek twitched painfully under the steady
gaze of the girl's somber eyes. "I don't often get a chance of talking
to you now," she went on, with a slight touch of bitterness. "I just
want to talk about that skunk, Lablache. I guess he didn't pass the
evening talking of Retief--and what he intends to do towards his
capture? Say, uncle, what was it about?"
The old man grasped at the suggestion.
"Yes--yes, child. It was Retief."
He kept his eyes averted. The girl was not deceived.
"All the time?"
"Poker" John remained silent. He would have lied but could not.
"Uncle!"
Her tone was a moral pressure. The old man turned for relief to his
avuncular authority.
"I must go. You've no right--question me," he stuttered. "I refu--"
"No, uncle, you won't refuse me." The girl had risen and had moved round
to where the old man sat. She fondled him lovingly and his attempt at
angry protest died within him. "Come, dear, tell me all about it. You
are worried and I can help you. What did he threaten you with? I
suppose he wants money," contemptuously. "How much?"
The old drunkard was powerless to resist her loving appeal.
He was cornered. Another might have lied and so escaped, but John
Allandale's weakness was such that he had not the courage to resort to
subterfuge. Moreover, there was a faint spark of honor nickering deep
down in his kindly heart. The girl's affectionate display was surely
fanning that spark into a flame. Would the flame grow or would it
sparkle up for one brief moment and then go out from pure lack of fuel?
Suddenly something of the truth of the cause of her uncle's distress
flashed across Jacky's mind. She knew Lablache's wishes in regard to
herself. Perhaps she was the subject of that interview.
"Uncle, it is I who am causing you this trouble. What is it that
Lablache wants of me?" She asked the question with her cheek pressed to
the old man's face. His whisky-laden breath reeked in her nostrils.
Her question took him unawares, and he started up pushing her from him.
"Who--who told you, girl?" His bleared eyes were now turned upon her,
and they gazed fearfully into hers.
"I thought so," she exclaimed, smiling back into the troubled face. "No
one told me, uncle, I guess that beast wants to marry me. Say, uncle,
you can tell me everything right here. I'll help you. He's smart, but he
can't mate with me."
"But--but--" He struggled to collect his thoughts.
"No 'buts,' dear. I've refused Lablache once. I guess I can size up the
racket he thinks to play. Money--money! He'd like to buy me, I take it.
Say, uncle, can't we frolic him some? Now--what did he say?"
"I--can't tell you, child," the old man protested desperately. Then he
weakened further before those deep, steadfast eyes. "Don't--press me.
Don'--press me." His voice contained maudlin tears. "I'm a vill'n,
girl. I'm worse. Don'--look a' me--like that.
Ja'y--Ja'y--I've--sol'--you!"
The miserable old man flung himself back in his chair and his head bowed
until his chin sank heavily upon his chest. Two great tears welled into
his bloodshot eyes and trickled slowly down his seared old cheeks. It
was a pitiable sight. Jacky looked on silently for a moment. Her eyes
took in every detail of that picture of despair. She had heard the old
man's words but took no heed of them. She was thinking very hard.
Suddenly she seemed to arrive at a decision. Her laugh rang out, and she
came and knelt at her uncle's side.
"So you've sold me, you old dear, and not a bad thing too. What's the
price?"
Her uncle raised his bowed head. Her smiling face dried his tears and
put fresh heart into him. He had expected bitter invective, but instead
the girl smiled.
Jacky's task now became a simple one. A mere matter of pumping. Sharp
questions and rambling replies. Bit by bit she learned the story of
Lablache's proposal and the manner in which an acceptance had been
forced upon her uncle. She did not relinquish her task until the
minutest detail had been gleaned. At last she was satisfied with her
cross-examination.
She rose to her feet and passed her hand with a caressing movement over
her uncle's head, gazing the while out of the window. Her mind was made
up. Her uncle needed her help now. That help should be his. She condoned
his faults; she saw nothing but that which was lovable in his weakness.
Hers was now the strength to protect him, who, in the days of his best
manhood had sheltered her from the cruel struggles of a life in the
half-breed camp, for such, at the death of her impecunious father, must
otherwise have been her lot.
Now she looked down into that worn, old face, and her brisk,
business-like tones roused him into new life.
"Uncle, you must meet Lablache and play--the game. For the rest, leave
it to me. All I ask is--no more whisky to-day. Stay right here and have
a sleep. Guess you might go an' lie down. I'll call you for supper. Then
you'll be fit. One thing you must remember; watch that ugly-faced cur
when you play. See he don't cheat any. I'll tell you more before you
start out. Come right along now and have that sleep."
The old man got up and the girl led him from the room. She saw him to
his bedroom and then left him. She decided that, for herself, she would
not leave the house until she had seen Bill. She must get her uncle
sober before he went to meet Lablache.
CHAPTER XXVI
IN WHICH MATTERS REACH A CLIMAX
Foss River Settlement was, at the time, a very small place, and of
practically no importance. It was brought into existence by the
neighborhood of one or two large ranches; these ranches employed
considerable labor. Foss River might be visited by an earthquake, and,
provided the earthquake was not felt elsewhere, the world would not be
likely to hear of it for weeks. The newspapers of the Western cities
were in their infancy, and contented themselves with the news of their
own towns and feverish criticisms of politics which were beyond the
understanding of their editors. Progress in the West was very
slow--almost at a standstill.
After the death of Horrocks the police had withdrawn to report and to
receive augmentation. No one felt alarm at their absence. The
inhabitants of Foss River were a self-reliant people--accustomed to look
to themselves for the remedy of a grievance. Besides, Horrocks, they
said, had shown himself to be a duffer--merely a tracker, a prairie-man
and not the man to bring Retief to justice. Already the younger members
of the settlement and district were forming themselves into a vigilance
committee. The elders--those to whom the younger looked for a lead in
such matters--had chosen to go to the police; now the younger of the
settlement decided to act for themselves.
This was the condition and feeling in Foss River at the time of the
death of Horrocks; this was the state of affairs when the _insouciant_
Bill leisurely strolled into the sitting-room at the Foss River Ranch,
about the time that Joaquina Allandale had finished her tea. With the
familiarity of the West, Bill entered by the French window. His lazy
smile was undisturbed. He might have been paying an ordinary call
instead of answering a summons which he knew must be a matter of
emergency, for it was understood between these two that private meetings
were tabooed, except when necessity demanded them.
Jacky's greeting was not reassuring, but her lover's expression remained
unchanged, except that his weary eyelids further unclosed.
"Guess we're side-tracked, Bill," she said meaningly. "The line's
blocked. Signals dead against us."
Bill looked into her eyes; then he turned and closed the window,
latching it securely. The door was closed. His keen eyes noted this.
"What do you mean?"
The girl shrugged.
"The next twelve hours must finish our game."
"Ah!"
"Yes," the girl went on, "it is Lablache's doing. We must settle our
reckoning with him to-night."
Bill flung himself into a chair.
"Will you explain?--I don't understand. May I smoke?"
Jacky smiled. The request was so unnecessary. She always liked Bill's
nonchalance. It conveyed such a suggestion of latent power.
"Yes, smoke, Bill; smoke and get your thinking box in order. My yarn
won't take a deal of time to tell. But it'll take a deal of thought to
upset Lablache's last move, without--shootin'."
"Um--shooting's an evil, but sometimes--necessary. What's his racket?"
The girl told her story quickly. She forgot nothing. She never allowed
herself to fall into the womanly mistake of omitting details, however
small.
Bill fully appreciated her cleverness in this direction. He could trust
what she said implicitly. At the conclusion of the story he sat up and
rolled another cigarette.
"And your uncle is upstairs in bed?"
"Yes, when he wakes I guess he'll need a bracer. He'll be sober. He must
play. Lablache means to win."
"Yes, he means to win. He has had a bad scare."
"What are we going to do?"
The girl eyed her lover keenly. She saw by his manner that he was
thinking rapidly.
"The game must be interrupted--with another scare."
"What?"
Bill shrugged and laughed.
"What are you going to do?"
"Burn him out--his store. And then--"
"And then?" eagerly.
"Retief will be present at the game. Tell him what has happened and--if
he doesn't leave Foss River--shoot him. Mortgages and all records of
debts, etc., are in his store."
"Good."
After expressing her approval the girl sat gazing into her lover's face.
They talked a little longer, then Bill rose to go.
"Eleven o'clock to-night you say is the appointed hour?"
"Yes. I shall meet you at the gate of the fifty-acre pasture."
"Better not."
"Yes, I am going to be there," with a decisive nod. "One cannot be sure.
You may need me."
"Very well. Good-by, little woman." "Lord" Bill bent and kissed her.
Then something very like a sigh escaped him. "I think with you this game
is nearly up. To-night will settle things one way or the other."
"Yes. Trouble is not far off. Say, Bill, when it comes, I want to be
with you."
Bill looked tenderly down into the upturned face.
"Is that why you insist on coming to-night?"
"Yes."
Another embrace and Bill left the house.
He sauntered leisurely down the avenue of pines. He kept straight on
towards the muskeg. Then he turned away from the settlement, and was
soon lost behind the rising ground which shored the great mire. Once out
of sight of the house he quickened his pace, gradually swinging away
from the keg, and heading towards the half-breed camp.
Foss River might have been deserted for all signs of life he
encountered. The prairie was calmly silent. Not even the call of the
birds broke the stillness around. The heat of the afternoon had lulled
all nature to repose.
He strode on swiftly until he came to a small bluff. Here he halted and
threw himself full length upon the ground in a welcome shade. He was
within sight of the half-breed camp. He shifted his position until his
head was in the sun. In this way he could see the scattered dwellings of
the prairie outcasts. Then he drew a small piece of looking-glass from
his pocket and held it out in the sun. Turning and twisting it in the
direction of the camp, as might a child who wishes to dazzle a
play-fellow's eyes. For several minutes he thus manipulated his
impromptu heliograph. Then, as he suddenly beheld an answering flash in
the distance, he desisted, and returned the glass to his pocket. Now he
drew back in the shade and composed himself to smoke.
The half-closed eyes of the recumbent man gazed steadily out towards the
camp. He had nearly finished his third cigarette when his quick ears
caught the sound of footsteps. Instantly he sat up. The steps grew
louder and then round the sheltering bush came the thick-set form of
Gautier. He was accompanied by an evil-looking dog which growled sulkily
as it espied the white man.
"Ugh! Hot walkin'," said the newcomer, by way of greeting.
"Not so hot as it'll be to-night," said the white man, quietly. "Sit
down."
"More bonfires, boss?" said the half-breed, with a meaning grin, seating
himself as he spoke.
"More bonfires. See you, I want six of the boys at Lablache's store
to-night at eleven o'clock. We are going to burn his place. It will be
quite easy. Lablache will be away, and only his clerks on the premises.
The cellar underneath the building is lit by barred windows, two under
the front, and two under the office at the back. All you have to do is
to break the glass of the window at the back and pour in a couple of
gallons of coal oil. Then push in some straw, and then light a piece of
oil-soaked rope and drop it in. The cellar is full of cases of goods and
barrels of oil. The fire will be unextinguishable. Directly it is well
lit see that the clerks are warned. We want no lives lost. You
understand? The stables are adjacent and will catch fire too. I sha'n't
be there until later. There will be no risk and lots of loot. Savee?"
The cunning face of the half-breed was lit by an unholy grin. He rubbed
his hands with the unctuous anticipation of a shop-walker. Truly, he
thought, this white man was a man after his own heart. He wagged his
head in approval.
"Easy--easy? It is childlike," he said in ecstasy. "I have long thought
of it, sure. An' thar is a big store of whisky thar, eh, boss?
Good--good! And what time will you come?"
"When the fire is lit. I go to deal with Lablache. Look you here,
Gautier, you owe that man a grudge. You would kill him but you don't
dare. I may pay off that grudge for you. Pay it by a means that is
better than killing."
"Torture," grinned the half-breed.
Bill nodded.
"Now see and be off. And don't make any mistake, or we may all swing for
it. Tell Baptiste he must go over the keg at once and bring Golden Eagle
to my shack at about half-past ten. Tell him to be punctual. Now scoot.
No mistakes, or--" and Bill made a significant gesture.
The man understood and hurried away. "Lord" Bill was satisfied that his
orders would be carried out to the letter. The service he demanded of
this man was congenial service, in so far that it promised loot in
plenty and easily acquired. Moreover, the criminal side of the
half-breed's nature was tickled. A liberal reward for honesty would be
less likely to secure good service from such as Gautier than a chance of
gain for shady work. It was the half-breed nature.
After the departure of the half-breed, Bill remained where he was for
some time. He sat with his hands clasped round his knees, gazing
thoughtfully out towards the camp. He was reviewing his forces and
mentally struggling to penetrate the pall which obscured the future. He
felt himself to be playing a winning game; at least, that his vengeance
and chastisement of Lablache had been made ridiculously easy for him.
But now he had come to that point when he wondered what must be the
outcome of it all as regarded himself and the girl he loved. Would his
persecution drive Lablache from Foss River to the security of Calford,
Where he would be able to follow him and still further prosecute his
inexorable vengeance? Or would he still choose to remain? He knew
Lablache to be a strong man, but he also knew, by the money-lender's
sudden determination to force Jacky into marriage with him, that he had
received a scare. He could not decide on the point. But he inclined to
the belief that Lablache must go after to-night. He would not spare him.
He had yet a trump card to play. He would be present at the game of
cards, and--well, time would show.
He threw away his mangled cigarette end and rose from the ground. One
glance of his keen eyes told him that no one was in sight. He strolled
out upon the prairie and made his way back to the settlement. He need
not have troubled himself about the future. The future would work itself
out, and no effort of his would be capable of directing its course. A
higher power than man's was governing the actions of the participants in
the Foss River drama.
For the rest of the day "Lord" Bill moved about the settlement in his
customary idle fashion. He visited the saloon; he showed himself on the
market-place. He discussed the doings of Retief with the butcher, the
smith, Dr. Abbot. And, as the evening closed in and the sun's power
lessened, he identified himself with others as idle as himself, and
basked in the warmth of its feeble, dying rays.
When darkness closed in he went to his shack and prepared his evening
meal with a simple directness which no thoughts of coming events could
upset. Bill was always philosophical. He ate to live, and consequently
was not particular about his food. He passed the evening between thought
and tobacco, and only an occasional flashing of his lazy eyes gave any
sign of the trend of his mental effort.
At a few minutes past ten he went into his bedroom and carefully locked
the door. Then he drew from beneath his bed a small chest; it was an
ammunition chest of very powerful make. The small sliding lid was
securely padlocked. This he opened and drew from within several articles
of apparel and a small cardboard box.
Next he divested himself of his own tweed clothes and donned the things
he had taken from the box. These consisted of a pair of moleskin
trousers, a pair of chaps, a buckskin shirt and a battered Stetson hat.
From the cardboard box he took out a tin of greasy-looking stuff and a
long black wig made of horse hair. Stepping to a glass he smeared his
face with the grease, covering his own white flesh carefully right down
to the chest and shoulders, also his hands. It was a brownish ocher and
turned his skin to the copperish hue of the Indian. The wig was
carefully adjusted and secured by sprigs to his own fair hair. This,
with the hat well jammed down upon his head, completed the
transformation, and out from the looking-glass peered the strong, eagle
face of the redoubtable half-breed, Retief.
He then filled the chest with his own clothes and relocked it. Suddenly
his quick ear caught the sound of some one approaching. He looked at his
watch; it wanted two minutes to half-past ten. He waited.
Presently he heard the rattle of a stick down the featheredged boarding
of the outer walls of the hut. He picked up his revolver belt and
secured it about his waist, and then, putting out the light, unlocked
the back door which opened out of his bedroom.
A horse was standing outside, and a man held the bridle reins looped
upon his arm.
"That you, Baptiste?"
"Yup."
"Good, you are punctual."
"It's as well."
"Yes."
"I go to join the boys," the half-breed said slowly. "And you?"
"I--oh, I go to settle a last account with Lablache," replied Bill, with
a mirthless laugh.
"Where?"
Bill looked sharply at the man. He understood the native distrust of the
Breed. Then he nodded vaguely in the direction of the Foss River Ranch.
"Yonder. In old John's fifty-acre pasture. Lablache and John meet at the
tool-shed there to-night. Why?"
"And you go not to the fire?" Baptiste's voice had a surprised ring in
it.
"Not until later. I must be at the meeting soon after eleven."
The half-breed was silent for a minute. He seemed to be calculating. At
length he spoke. His words conveyed resolve.
"It is good. Guess you may need assistance. I'll be there--and some of
the boys. We ain't goin' ter interfere--if things goes smooth."
Bill shrugged.
"You need not come."
"No? Nuthin' more?"
"Nothing. Keep the boys steady. Don't burn the clerks in the store."
"No."
"S'long."
"S'long."
"Lord" Bill vaulted into the saddle, and Golden Eagle moved restively
away.
It was as well that Foss River was a sleepy place. "Lord" Bill's
precautions were not elaborate. But then he knew the ways of the
settlement.
Dr. Abbot chanced to be standing in the doorway of the saloon. Bill's
shack was little more than a hundred yards away. The doctor was about to
step across to see if he were in, for the purpose of luring his friend
into a game. Poker was not so plentiful with the doctor now since Bill
had dropped out of Lablache's set.
He saw the dim outline of a horseman moving away from the back of "Lord"
Bill's hut. His curiosity was aroused. He hastened across to the shack.
He found it locked up, and in darkness. He turned away wondering. And as
he turned away he found himself almost face to face with Baptiste. The
doctor knew the man.
"Evening, Baptiste."
"Evening," the man growled.
The doctor was about to speak again but the man hurried away.
"Damned funny," the medical man muttered. Then he moved off towards his
own home. Somehow he had forgotten his wish for poker.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE LAST GAMBLE
The fifty-acre pasture was situated nearly a quarter of a mile away to
the left of John Allandale's house. Then, too, the whole length of it
must be crossed before the implement shed be reached. This would add
another half a mile to the distance, for the field was long and narrow,
skirting as it did the hay slough which provided the ranch with hay. The
pasture was on the sloping side of the slough, and on the top of the
ridge stretched a natural fence of pines nearly two miles in extent.
The shed was erected for the accommodation of mowers, horse-rakes, and
the necessary appurtenances for haying. At one end, as Lablache had
said, was a living-room. It was called so by courtesy. It was little
better than the rest of the building, except that there was a crazy door
to it--also a window; a rusty iron stove, small, and--when a fire burned
in it--fierce, was crowded into a corner. Now, however, the stove was
dismantled, and lengths of stove pipe were littered about the floor
around it. A rough bed, supported on trestles, and innocent of bedding,
filled one end of this abode; a table made of packing cases, and two
chairs of the Windsor type, one fairly sound and the other minus a back,
completed the total of rude furniture necessary for a "hired man's"
requirements.
A living-room, the money-lender had said, therefore we must accept his
statement.
A reddish, yellow light from a dingy oil lamp glowed sullenly, and added
to the cheerlessness of the apartment. At intervals black smoke belched
from the chimney top of the lamp in response to the draughts which blew
through the sieve-like boarding of the shed. One must feel sorry for
the hired man whose lot is cast in such cheerless quarters.
It was past eleven. Lablache and John Allandale were seated at the
table. The lurid light did not improve the expression of their faces.
"Poker" John was eager--keenly eager now that Jacky had urged him to the
game. Moreover, he was sober--sober as the proverbial "judge." Also he
was suspicious of his opponent. Jacky had warned him. He looked very old
as he sat at that table. His senility appeared in every line of his
face; in every movement of his shaking hands; in every glance of his
bleared eyes.
Lablache, also, was changed slightly, but it was not in the direction of
age; he showed signs of elation, triumph. He felt that he was about to
accomplish the object which had long been his, and, at the same time,
outwit the half-breed who had so lately come into his life, with such
disastrous results to his, the money-lender's, peaceful enjoyment of his
ill-gotten wealth.
Lablache turned his lashless eyes in the direction of the window. It was
a square aperture of about two feet in extent.
"We are not likely to be interrupted," he said wheezily, "but it never
does to chance anything. Shall we cover the window? A light in this room
is unusual--"
"Yes, let us cover it." "Poker" John chafed at the delay. "No one is
likely to come this way, though."
Lablache looked about for something which would answer his purpose.
There was nothing handy. He drew out his great bandanna and tried it. It
exactly covered the window. So he secured it. It would serve to darken
the light to any one who might chance to be within sight of the shed. He
returned to his seat. He bulged over it as he sat down, and its legs
creaked ominously.
"I have brought three packs of cards," he said, laying them upon the
table.
"So have I."
"Poker" John looked directly into the other's bilious eyes.
"Ah--then we have six packs."
"Yes--six."
"Whose shall we--" Lablache began.
"We'll cut for it. Ace low. Low wins."
The money-lender smiled at the rancher's eagerness. The two men cut in
silence. Lablache cut a "three"; "Poker" John, a "queen."
"We will use your cards, John." The money-lender's face expressed an
unctuous benignity.
The rancher was surprised, and his tell-tale cheek twitched
uncomfortably.
"For deal," said Lablache, stripping one of John's packs and passing it
to his companion. The rancher shuffled and cut--Lablache cut. The deal
went to the latter.
"We want something to score on," the money-lender said. "My memorandum
pad--"
"We'll have nothing on the table, please." John had been warned.
Lablache shrugged and smiled. He seemed to imply that the precaution was
unnecessary. "Poker" John was in desperate earnest.
"A piece of chalk--on the wall." The rancher produced the chalk and set
it on the floor close by the wall and returned to his seat.
Lablache shuffled clumsily. His fingers seemed too gross to handle
cards. And yet he could shuffle well, and his fingers were, in reality,
most sensitive. John Allandale looked on eagerly. The money-lender,
contrary to his custom, dealt swiftly--so swiftly that the bleared eyes
of his opponent could not follow his movements.
Both men picked up their cards. The old instincts of poker were not so
pronounced in the rancher as they used to be. Doubtless the game he was
now playing did not need such mask-like impassivity of expression as an
ordinary game would. After all, the pot opened, it merely became a
question of who held the best hand. There would be no betting. John's
eyes lighted up as he glanced at the index numerals. He held two
"Jacks."
"Can you?" Lablache's husky voice rasped in the stillness.
"Yes."
The dealer eyed his opponent for a second. His face was that of a graven
image.
"How many?"
"Three."
The money-lender passed three cards across the table. Then he discarded
two cards from his own hand and drew two more.
"What have you got?" he asked, with a grim pursing of his sagging lips.
"Two pairs. Jacks up."
Lablache laid his own cards on the table, spreading them out face
upwards for the rancher to see. He held three "twos."
"One to you," said John Allandale; and he went and chalked the score
upon the wall.
There was something very business-like about these two men when they
played cards. And possibly it was only natural. The quiet way in which
they played implied the deadly earnestness of their game. Their
surroundings, too, were impressive when associated with the secrecy of
their doings.
Each man meant to win, and in both were all the baser passions fully
aroused. Neither would spare the other, each would do his utmost.
Lablache was sure. John was consumed with a deadly nervousness. But John
Allandale at cards was the soul of honor. Lablache was confident in his
superior manipulation--not play--of cards. He knew that, bar accidents,
he must win. The mystery of being able to deal himself "three of a kind"
and even better was no mystery to him. He preferred his usual
method--the method of "reflection," as he called it; but in the game he
was now playing such a method would be useless for obvious reasons.
First of all, knowing his opponent's cards would only be of advantage
where betting was to ensue. Now he needed the clumsier, if more sure,
method of dealing himself a hand. And he did not hesitate to adopt it.
"Poker" John dealt The pot was not opened. Lablache again dealt. Still
the hand passed without the pot being opened. The next time John dealt
Lablache opened the pot and was promptly beaten. He drew to two queens
and missed. John drew to a pair of sevens and got a third. The game was
one all. After this Lablache won three pots in succession and the game
stood four--one, in favor of the money-lender.
The old rancher's face more than indicated the state of the game. His
features were gray and drawn. Already he saw his girl married to the man
opposite to him. For an instant his weakness led him to think of
refusing to play further--to defy Lablache and bid him do his worst.
Then he remembered that the girl herself had insisted that he must see
the game through--besides, he might yet win. He forced his thoughts to
the coming hand. He was to deal.
The deal, as far as he was concerned, was successful, His spirits rose.
Four--two.
Lablache took up the cards to deal. John was watching as though his life
depended upon what he saw. Lablache's clumsy shuffle annoyed him. The
lashless eyes of the money-lender were bent upon the cards, but he had
no difficulty in observing the old man's attention. This unusual
attention he set down to a natural excitement. He had not the smallest
idea that the old man suspected him. He passed the cards to be cut. The
rancher cut them carelessly. He had a natural cut. The pack was nearly
halved. Lablache had prepared for this.
The hand was dealt, and the money-lender won with three aces, all of
which he had drawn in a five-card draw. He had discarded a pair of nines
to make the heavy draw. It was clumsy, but he had been forced to it. The
position of the aces in the pack he had known, and--well, he meant to
win.
Five--two.
The clumsiness of that deal was too palpable. Old John suspected, but
held his tongue. His anger rose, and the drawn face flushed with the
suddenness of lightning. He was in a dangerous mood. Lablache saw the
flush, and a sudden fear gripped his heart. He passed the cards to the
other, and then, involuntarily, his hand dropped into the right-hand
pocket of his coat. It came in contact with his revolver--and stayed
there.
The next hand passed without the pot being opened--and the next.
Lablache was a little cautious. The next deal resulted in favor of the
rancher.
Five--three.
Lablache again took the cards. This time he meant to get his hand in the
deal. At that moment the money-lender would have given a cool thousand
had a bottle of whisky been on the table. He had not calculated on John
being sober. He shuffled deliberately and offered the pack to be cut.
John cut in the same careless manner, but this time he did it purposely.
Lablache picked up the bottom half of the cut. There was a terrible
silence in the room, and a deadly purpose was expressed in "Poker"
John's eyes.
The money-lender began to deal. In an instant John was on his feet and
lurched across the table. His hand fell upon the first card which
Lablache had dealt to himself.
"The ace of clubs," shouted the rancher, his eyes blazing and his body
fairly shaking with fury. He turned the card over. It was the ace of
clubs.
"Cheat!" he shouted.
He had seen the card at the bottom of the pack as the other had ceased
to shuffle.
There was an instant's thrilling pause. Then Lablache's hand flew to
his pocket. He had heard the click of a cocking revolver.
For the moment the rancher's old spirit rose superior to his senile
debility.
"God in heaven! And this is how you've robbed me, you--you bastard!"
"Poker" John's seared face was at that moment the face of a maniac. He
literally hurled his fury at the money-lender, who was now standing
confronting him.
"It is the last time, if--if I swing for it. Prairie law you need, and,
Hell take you, you shall have it!"
He swung himself half round. Simultaneously two reports rang out. They
seemed to meet in one deafening peal, which was exaggerated by the
smallness of the room. Then all was silence.
Lablache stood unmoved, his yellow eyeballs gleaming wickedly. For a
second John Allandale swayed while his face assumed a ghastly hue. Then
in deathly silence he slowly crumpled up, as it were. No sound passed
his lips and he sank in a heap upon the floor. His still smoking pistol
dropped beside him from his nerveless fingers.
The rancher had intended to kill Lablache, but the subtle money-lender
had been too quick. The lashless eyes watched the deathly fall of the
old man. There was no expression in them but that of vengeful coldness.
He was accustomed to the unwritten laws of the prairie. He knew that he
had saved his life by a hair's-breadth. His right hand was still in his
coat pocket. He had fired through the cloth of the coat.
Some seconds passed. Still Lablache did not move. There was no remorse
in his heart--only annoyance. He was thinking with the coolness of a
callous nerve. He was swiftly calculating the effect of the catastrophe
as regarded himself. It was the worst thing that could have happened to
him. Shooting was held lightly on the prairie, he knew, but--Then he
slowly drew his pistol from his pocket and looked thoughtfully at it.
His caution warned him of something. He withdrew the empty cartridge
case and cleaned out the barrel. Then he put a fresh cartridge in the
chamber and returned the pistol to his pocket. He was very deliberate,
and displayed no emotion. His asthmatical breathing, perhaps, might have
been more pronounced than usual. Then he gathered up the cards from
floor and table, and wiped out the score upon the wall. He put the cards
in his pocket. After that he stirred the body of his old companion with
his foot. There was no sound from the prostrate rancher. Then the
money-lender gently lowered himself to his knees and placed his hand
over his victim's heart. It was still. John Allandale was dead.
It was now for the first time that Lablache gave any sign of emotion. It
was not the emotion of sorrow--merely fear--susperstitious fear. As he
realized that the other was dead his head suddenly turned. It was an
involuntary movement. And his fishy eyes gazed fearfully behind him. It
was his first realization of guilt. The brand of Cain must inevitably
carry with it a sense of horror to him who falls beneath its ban. He was
a murderer--and he knew it.
Now his-movements became less deliberate. He felt that he must get away
from that horrid sight. He rose swiftly, with a display of that agility
which the unfortunate Horrocks had seen. He glanced about the room and
took his bearings. He strode to the lamp and put it out. Then he groped
his way to the window and took down his bandanna; stealthily, and with a
certain horror, he felt his way in the darkness to the door. He opened
it and passed out.
CHAPTER XXVIII
SETTLING THE RECKONING
Jacky stood at the gate of the fifty-acre pasture. She had been standing
there for some minutes. The night was quite dark; there was no moon. Her
horse, Nigger, was standing hitched to one of the fence posts a few
yards away from her and inside the pasture. The girl was waiting for
"Lord" Bill.
Not a sound broke the stillness of the night as she stood listening. A
wonderful calmness was over all. From her position Jacky had seen the
light shining through the window of the implement shed. Now the shed was
quite dark--the window had been covered. She knew that her uncle and
Lablache were there. She was growing impatient.
Every now and then she would turn her face from the contemplation of the
blackness of the distant end of the field to the direction of the
settlement, her ears straining to catch the sound of her dilatory
lover's coming. The minutes passed all too swiftly. And her impatience
grew and found vent in irritable movements and sighs of vexation.
Suddenly her ears caught the sound of distant cries coming from the
settlement. She turned in the direction. A lurid gleam was in the sky.
Then, as she watched, the glare grew brighter, and sparks shot up in a
great wreathing cloud of smoke. The direction was unmistakable. She knew
that Lablache's store had been fired.
"Good," she murmured, with a sigh of relief. "I guess Bill'll come right
along now. I wish he'd come. They've been in that shack ten minutes or
more. Why don't he come?"
The glare of the fire fascinated her, and her eyes remained glued in the
direction of it. The reflection in the sky was widespread and she knew
that the great building must be gutted, for there was no means of
putting the fire out. Then her thoughts turned to Lablache, and she
smiled as she thought of the surprise awaiting him. The sky in the
distance grew brighter. She could only see the lurid reflection; a
rising ground intervened between her and the settlement.
Suddenly against the very heart of the glare the figure of a horseman
coming towards her was silhouetted as he rode over the rising ground.
One glance sufficed the girl. That tall, thin figure was
unmistakable--her lover was hastening towards her. She turned to her
horse and unhitched the reins from the fence post.
Presently Bill came up and dismounted. He led Golden Eagle through the
gate. The greeting was an almost silent one between these two. Doubtless
their thoughts carried them beyond mere greetings. They stood for a
second.
"Shall we ride?" said Jacky, inclining her head in the direction of the
shed.
"No, we will walk. How long have they been there?"
"A quarter of an hour, I guess."
"Come along, then."
They walked down the pasture leading their two horses.
"I see no light," said Bill, looking straight ahead of him.
"It is covered--the window, I mean. What are you going to do, Bill?"
The man laughed.
"Lots--but I shall be guided by circumstances. You must remain outside,
Jacky; you can see to the horses."
"P'r'aps."
The man turned sharply.
"P'r'aps?"
"Yes, one never knows. I guess it's no use fixing things when--guided by
circumstances."
They relapsed into silence and walked steadily on. Half the distance was
covered when Jacky halted.
"Will Golden Eagle stand 'knee-haltering,' Bill?"
"Yes, why?"
"We'll 'knee-halter' 'em."
Bill stood irresolute.
"It'll be better, I guess," the girl pursued. "We'll be freer."
"All right," replied Bill. "But," after a pause, "I'd rather you didn't
come further, little woman--there may be shooting--"
"That's so. I like shootin'. What's that?"
The girl had secured her horse, Bill was in the act of securing his.
Jacky raised her hand in an attitude of attention and turned her face to
windward. Bill stood erect and listened.
"Ah!--it's the boys. Baptiste said they would come."
There was a faint rustling of grass near by. Jacky's keen ears had
detected the stealing sound at once. To others it might have passed for
the effect of the night breeze.
They listened for a few seconds longer, then Bill turned to the girl.
"Come--the horses are safe. The boys will not show themselves. I fancy
they are here to watch only--me."
They continued on towards the shed. They were both wrapt in silent
thought. Neither was prepared for what was to come. They were still
nearly a quarter of a mile from the building. Its outline was dimly
discernible in the darkness. And, too, now the light from the oil lamp
could be seen dimly shining through the red bandanna which was stretched
over the window.
Now the sound of "Poker" John's voice raised in anger reached them. They
stood still with one accord. It was astonishing how the voice traveled
all that distance. He must be shouting. A sudden fear gripped their
hearts. Bill was the first to move. With a whispered "Wait here," he ran
forward. For an instant Jacky waited, then, on a sudden impulse, she
followed her lover.
The girl had just started. Suddenly the sharp report of firearms split
the air. She came up with Bill, who had paused at the sound.
"Hustle, Bill. It's murder," the girl panted.
"Yes," and he ran forward with set face and gleaming eyes.
Murder--and who was the victim? Bill wondered, and his heart misgave
him. There was no longer any sound of voices. The rancher had been
silenced. He thought of the girl behind him. Then his whole mind
suddenly centered itself upon Lablache. If he had killed the rancher no
mercy should be shown to him.
Bill was rapidly nearing the building, and it was wrapped in an ominous
silence.
For a second he again came to a stand. He wanted to make sure. He could
hear Jacky's speeding footfalls from behind. And he could hear the
stealthy movements of those others. These were the only sounds that
reached him. He-went on again. He came to the building. The window was
directly in front of him. He tried to look into the room but the
handkerchief effectually hid the interior. Suddenly the light went out.
He knew what this meant. Turning away from the window he crept towards
the door. Jacky had come up. He motioned her into the shadow. Then he
waited.
The door opened and a great figure came out. It was Lablache. Even in
the darkness Bill recognized him. His heavy, asthmatical breathing must
have betrayed the money-lender if there had been no other means of
identification.
Lablache stepped out on to the prairie utterly unconscious of the
figures crouching in the darkness. He stepped heavily forward. Four
steps--that was all. A silent spring--an iron grip round the
money-lender's throat, from behind. A short, sharp struggle--a great
gasping for breath. Then Lablache reeled backwards and fell to the
ground with Bill hanging to his throat like some tiger. In the fall the
money-lender's pistol went off. There was a sharp report, and the bullet
tore up the ground. But no harm was done. Bill held on. Then came the
swish of a skirt. Jacky was at her lover's side. She dragged the
money-lender's pistol from his pocket. Then Bill let go his hold and
stood panting over the prostrate man. The whole thing was done in
silence. No word was spoken.
Lablache sucked in a deep whistling breath. His eyes rolled and he
struggled into a sitting posture. He was gazing into the muzzle of
Bill's pistol.
"Get up!" The stern voice was unlike Bill's, but there was nothing of
the twang of Retief about it.
The money-lender stared, but did not move--neither did he speak. Jacky
had darted into the hut. She had gone to light the lamp and learn the
truth.
"Get up!" The chilling command forced the money-lender to rise. He saw
before him the tall, thin figure of his assailant.
"Retief!" he gasped, and then stood speechless.
Now the re-lighted lamp glowed through the doorway. Bill pointed towards
the door.
"Go inside!" The relentless pistol was at Lablache's head.
"No--no! Not inside." The words whistled on a gasping breath.
"Go inside!"
Cowed and fearful, Lablache obeyed the mandate.
Bill followed the money-lender into the miserable room. His keen eyes
took in the scene in one swift glance. He saw Jacky kneeling beside the
prostrate form of her uncle. She was not weeping. Her beautiful face was
stonily calm. She was just looking down at that still form, that drawn
gray face, the staring eyes and dropped jaw. Bill saw and understood.
Lablache might expect no mercy.
The murderer himself was now looking in the direction of--but not
at--the body of his victim. He was gazing with eyes which expressed
horrified amazement at the sight of the crouching figure of Jacky
Allandale. He was trying to fathom the meaning of her association with
Retief.
Bill closed the door. Now he came forward towards the table, always
keeping Lablache in front of him.
"Is he dead?" Bill's voice was solemn.
Jacky looked up. There was a look as of stone in her somber eyes.
"He is dead--dead."
"Ah! For the moment we will leave the dead. Come, let us deal with the
living. It is time for a final reckoning."
There was a deadly chill in the tone of Bill's voice--a chill which was
infinitely more dreadful to Lablache's ears than could any passionate
outburst have been.
The door opened gently. No one noticed it, so absorbed were they in the
ghastly matter before them. Wider the door swung and several dusky faces
appeared in the opening.
The money-lender stood motionless. His gaze ignored the dead. He watched
the living. He wondered what "Lord" Bill's preamble portended. He shook
himself like one rousing from some dreadful nightmare. He summoned his
courage and tried to face the consequences of his act with an outward
calm. Struggle as he might a deadly fear was ever present.
It was not the actual fear of death--it was the moral dread of something
intangible. He feared at that moment not that which was to come. It was
the presence of the dusky-visaged raider and--the girl. He feared mostly
the icy look on Jacky's face. However, his mind was quite clear. He was
watching for a loophole of escape. And he lost no detail of the scene
before him.
A matter which puzzled him greatly was the familiar voice of the raider.
Retief, as he knew him, spoke with a pronounced accent, but now he only
heard the ordinary tones of an Englishman.
Bill had purposely abandoned his exaggerated Western drawl. Now he
removed the scarf from his neck and proceeded to wipe the yellow grease
from his face and neck. Lablache, with dismay in his heart, saw the
white skin which had been concealed beneath the paint. The truth
flashed upon him instantly. And before Bill had had time to remove his
wig his name had passed the money-lender's lips.
"Bunning-Ford?" he gasped. And in that expression was a world of moral
fear.
"Yes, Bunning-Ford, come to settle his last reckoning with you."
Bill eyed the murderer steadily and Lablache felt his last grip on his
courage relax. A terrible fear crept upon him as his courage ebbed.
Slowly Bill turned his eyes in the direction of the still kneeling
Jacky. The girl's eyes met his, and, in response to some mute
understanding which passed between them, she rose to her feet.
Bill did not speak. He merely looked at his pistol. Jacky spoke as if
answering some remark of his.
"Yes, this is my affair."
Then she turned upon the money-lender. There was no wrath in her face,
no anger in her tones; only that horrid, stony purpose which Lablache
dreaded. He wished she would hurl invective at him. He felt that it
would have been better so.
"The death which you have dealt to that poor old man is too good for
you--murderer," she said, her deep, somber eyes seeming to pass through
and through the mountain of flesh she was addressing. "I take small
comfort in the thought that he had no time to suffer bodily pain. You
will suffer--later." Bill gazed at her wonderingly. "Liar!--cheat!--you
pollute the earth. You thought to cozen that poor, harmless old man out
of his property--out of me. You thought to ruin him as you have ruined
others. Your efforts will avail you nothing. From the moment Bill
discovered the use of your memorandum pad"--Lablache started--"your fate
was sealed. We swore to confiscate your property. For every dollar you
took from us you should pay ten. But now the matter is different. There
is a justice on the prairie--a rough, honest, uncorruptible justice. And
that justice demands your life. You shall scourge Foss River no longer.
You have murdered. You shall die!--"
Jacky was about to go further with her inexorable denunciation when the
door of the shed was flung wide, and eight Breeds, headed by Gautier and
Baptiste, came in. They came in almost noiselessly, their moccasined
feet giving out scarcely any sound upon the floor of the room.
"Lord" Bill turned, startled at the sudden apparition. Jacky hesitated.
Here was a contingency which none had reckoned upon. One glance at those
dark, cruel faces warned all three that these prairie outcasts had been
silent witnesses of everything that had taken place. It was a supreme
moment, and the deadly pallor which had assumed a leadenish hue on
Lablache's face told of one who appreciated the horror of that silent
coming.
Baptiste stepped over to where Jacky stood. He looked at her, and then
his gaze passed to the dead man upon the floor. His beady, black eyes
turned fiercely upon the cowering money-lender.
"Ow!" he grunted. And his tone was the fierce expression of an Indian
roused to homicidal purpose.
Then he turned back to Jacky, and the look on his face changed to one of
sympathy and even love.
"Not you, missie--and the white man--no. The prairie is the land of the
Breed and his forefathers--the Red Man. Guess the law of the prairie'll
come best from such as he. You are one of us," he went on, surveying the
girl's beautiful face in open admiration. "You've allus been mostly one
of us--but I take it y'are too white. No, guess you ain't goin' ter muck
yer pretty hands wi' the filthy blood of yonder," pointing to Lablache.
"These things is fur the likes o' us. Jest leave this skunk to us. Death
is the sentence, and death he's goin' ter git--an' it'll be somethin'
ter remember by all who behold. An' the story shall go down to our
children. This poor dead thing was our best frien'--an' he's
dead--murdered. So, this is a matter for the Breed."
Then the half-breed turned away. Seeing the chalk upon the floor he
stooped and picked it up.
"Let's have the formalities. It is but just--"
Bill suddenly interrupted. He was angry at the interference of Baptiste.
"Hold on!"
Baptiste swung round. The white man got no further. The Breed broke in
upon him with animal ferocity.
"Who says hold on? Peace, white man, peace! This is for us. Dare to stop
us, an'--"
Jacky sprang between her lover and the ferocious half-breed.
"Bill, leave well alone," she said. And she held up a warning finger.
She knew these men, of a race to which she, in part, belonged. As well
baulk a tiger of its prey. She knew that if Bill interfered his life
would pay the forfeit. The sanguinary lust of these human devils once
aroused, they cared little how it be satisfied.
Bill turned away with a shrug, and he was startled to see that he had
been noiselessly surrounded by the rest of the half-breeds. Had Jacky's
command needed support, it would have found it in this ominous movement.
Fate had decreed that the final act in the Foss River drama should come
from another source than the avenging hands of those who had sealed
their compact in Bad Man's Hollow.
Baptiste turned away from "Lord" Bill, and, at a sign from him, Lablache
was brought round to the other side of the table--to where the dead
rancher was lying. Baptiste handed him the chalk and then pointed to the
wall, on which had been written the score of old John's last gamble.
"Write!" he said, turning back to his prisoner.
Lablache gazed fearfully around. He essayed to speak, but his tongue
clove to the roof of his mouth.
"Write--while I tell you." The Breed still pointed to the wall.
Lablache held out the chalk.
"I kill John Allandale," dictated Baptiste.
Lablache wrote.
"Now, sign. So."
Lablache signed. Jacky and Bill stood looking on silent and wondering.
"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.
On their way from the shed to the muskeg Lablache had seen the
reflection of the fire at his store in the sky. Gautier had taken
devilish satisfaction in telling the wretched man of what had been
done--mouthing the details in the manner of one who finds joy in
cruelty. He remembered past injuries, and reveled in the money-lender's
agony.
After a toilsome journey the Breeds halted at the point where the path
divided into three. Jacky and Bill sat on their horses and watched the
scene. Then, slowly, something of Baptiste's intention was borne in upon
them.
Jacky reached out and touched her lover's arm.
"Bill, what are they going to do?"
She asked the question. But the answer was already with her. Her
companion remained silent. She did not repeat her question.
Then she heard Baptiste's raucous tones as he issued his commands.
"Loose his hands!"
Jacky watched Lablache's face in the dim starlight. It was ghastly. The
whole figure of the man seemed to have shrunk. The wretched man stood
free, and yet more surely a prisoner than any criminal in a condemned
cell.
The uncertain light of the stars showed only the dark expanse of the
mire upon all sides. In the distance, ahead, the mountains were vaguely
outlined against the sky; behind and around, nothing but that awful
death-trap. Jacky had lived all her life beside the muskeg, but never,
until that moment, had she realized the awful terror of its presence.
Now Baptiste again commanded.
"Prepare for death."
It seemed to the listening girl that a devilish tone of exultation rang
in his words. She roused herself from her fascinated attention. She was
about to urge her horse forward. But a thin, powerful hand reached out
and gripped her by the arm. It was "Lord" Bill. His hoarse whisper sung
in her ears.
"Your own words--Leave well alone."
And she allowed her horse to stand.
Now she leaned forward in her saddle and rested her elbows upon the horn
in front of her. Again she heard Baptiste speak. He seemed to be in sole
command.
"We'll give yer a chance fur yer life--"
Again the fiendish laugh underlaid the words.
"It's a chance of a dog--a yellow dog," he pursued. Jacky shuddered.
"But such a chance is too good fur yer likes. Look--look, those hills.
See the three tall peaks--yes, those three, taller than the rest. One
straight in front; one to the right, an' one away to the left. Guess
this path divides right hyar--in three, an' each path heads for one of
those peaks. Say, jest one trail crosses the keg--one. Savee? The others
end sudden, and then--the keg."
The full horror of the man's meaning now became plain to the girl. She
heaved a great gasp, and turned to Bill. Her lover signed a warning. She
turned again to the scene before her.
"Now, see hyar, you scum," Baptiste went on. "This is yer chance. Choose
yer path and foller it. Guess yer can't see it no more than yer ken see
this one we're on, but you've got the lay of it. Guess you'll travel the
path yer choose to--the end. If yer don't move--an' move mighty
slippy--you'll be dumped headlong into the muck. Ef yer git on to the
right path an' cross the keg safe, yer ken sling off wi' a whole skin.
Guess you'll fin' it a ticklish job--mebbe you'll git through. But I've
a notion yer won't. Now, take yer dog's chance, an' remember, its death
if yer don't, anyway."
The man ceased speaking. Jacky saw Lablache shake his great head. Then
something made him look at the mountains beyond. There were the three
dimly-outlined peaks. They were clear enough to guide him. Jacky,
watching, saw the expression of his face change. It was as though a
flicker of hope had risen within him. Then she saw him turn and eye
Baptiste. He seemed to read in that cruel, dark face a vengeful purpose.
He seemed to scent a trick. Presently he turned again to the hills.
How plainly the watching girl read the varying emotions which beset him.
He was trying to face this chance calmly, but the dark expanse of the
surrounding mire wrung his heart with terror. He could not choose, and
yet he knew he must do so or--
Baptiste spoke again.
"Choose!"
Lablache again bent his eyes upon the hills. But his lashless lids would
flicker, and his vision became impaired. He turned to the Breed with an
imploring gesture. Baptiste made no movement. His relentless expression
remained unchanged. The wretched man turned away to the rest of the
Breeds.
A pistol was leveled at his head and he turned back to Baptiste. The
only comfort he obtained was a monosyllabic command.
"Choose!"
"God, man, I can't." Lablache gasped out the words which seemed
literally to be wrung from him.
"Choose!" The inexorable tone sent a shudder over the distraught man.
Even in the starlight the expression of the villain's face was hideous
to behold.
Baptiste's voice again rang out on the still night air.
"Move him!"
A pistol was pushed behind his ear.
"Do y' hear?"
"Mercy--mercy!" cried the distraught man. But he made no move.
There was an instant's pause. Then the loud report of the threatening
pistol rang out. It had been fired through the lobe of his ear.
"Oh, God!"
The exclamation was forced from Jacky. The torture--the horror nearly
drove her wild. She lifted her reins as though to ride to the villain's
aid. Then something--some cruel recollection--stayed her. She remembered
her uncle and her heart hardened.
The merciless torture of the Breed was allowed to pass.
To the wretched victim it seemed that his ear-drum must be split for the
shot had left him almost stone deaf. The blood trickled from the wound.
He almost leapt forward. Then he stood all of a tremble as he felt the
ground shake beneath him. A cold sweat poured down his great face.
"Choose!" Baptiste followed the terror-stricken man up.
"No--no! Don't shoot! Yes, I'll go--only--don't shoot."
The abject cowardice the great man now displayed was almost pitiable.
Bill's lip curled in disdain. He had expected that this man would have
shown a bold front.
He had always believed Lablache to be, at least, a man of courage. But
he did not allow for the circumstances--the surroundings. Lablache on
the safe ground of the prairie would have faced disaster very
differently. The thought of that sucking mire was too terrible. The oily
maw of that death-trap was a thing to strike horror into the bravest
heart.
"Which path?" Baptiste spoke, waving his hand in the direction of the
mountains.
Lablache moved cautiously forward, testing the ground with his foot as
he went. Then he paused again and eyed the mountains.
"The right path," he said at last, in a guttural whisper.
"Then start." The words rang out cuttingly upon the night air.
Lablache fixed his eyes upon the distant peak of the mountain which was
to be his guide. He advanced slowly. The Breeds followed, Jacky and Bill
bringing up the rear. The ground seemed firm and the money-lender moved
heavily forward. His breath came in gasps. He was panting, not with
exertion, but with terror. He could not test the ground until his weight
was upon it. An outstretched foot pressed on the grassy path told him
nothing. He knew that the crust would hold until the weight of his body
was upon it. With every successful step his terror increased. What would
the next bring forth?
His agony of mind was awful.
He covered about ten yards in this way. The sweat poured from him. His
clothes stuck to him. He paused for a second and took fresh bearings. He
turned his head and looked into the muzzle of Baptiste's revolver. He
shuddered and turned again to the mountains. He pressed forward. Still
the ground was firm. But this gave him no hope. Suddenly a frightful
horror swept over him. It was something fresh; he had not thought of it
before. The fact was strange, but it was so. The path--had he taken the
wrong one? He had made his selection at haphazard and he knew that there
was no turning back. Baptiste had said so and he had seen his resolve
written in his face. A conviction stole over him that he was on the
wrong path. He knew he was. He must be. Of course it was only natural.
The center path must be the main one. He stood still. He could have
cried out in his mental agony. Again he turned--and saw the pistol.
He put his foot out. The ground trembled at his touch. He drew back
with a gurgling cry. He turned and tried another spot. It was firm until
his weight rested upon it. Then it shook. He sought to return to the
spot he had left. But now he could not be sure. His mind was uncertain.
Suddenly he gave a jump. He felt the ground solid beneath him as he
alighted. His face was streaming. He passed his hand across it in a
dazed way. His terror increased a hundredfold. Now he endeavored to take
his bearings afresh. He looked out at the three mountains. The right
one--yes, that was it. The right one. He saw the peak, and made another
step forward. The path held. Another step and his foot went through. He
drew back with a cry. He tripped and fell heavily. The ground shook
under him and he lay still, moaning.
Baptiste's voice roused him and urged him on.
"Git on, you skunk," he said. "Go to yer death."
Lablache sat up and looked about. He felt dazed. He knew he must go on.
Death--death which ever way he turned. God! did ever a man suffer so?
The name of John Allandale came to his mind and he gazed wildly about,
fancying some one had whispered it to him in answer to his thoughts. He
stood up. He took another step forward with reckless haste. He
remembered the pistol behind him. The ground seemed to shake under him.
His distorted fancy was playing tricks with him. Another step. Yes, the
ground was solid--no, it shook. The weight of his body came down on the
spot. His foot went through. He hurled himself backwards again and
clutched wildly at the ground. He shuddered and cried out. Again came
Baptiste's voice.
"Git on, or--"
The distraught man struggled to his feet. He was becoming delirious with
terror. He stepped forward again. The ground seemed solid and he laughed
a horrid, wild laugh. Another step and another. He paused, breathing
hard. Then he started to mutter,--
"On--on. Yes, on again or they'll have me. The path--this is the right
one. I'll cheat 'em yet."
He strode out boldly. His foot sank in something soft He did not seem to
notice it. Another step and his foot sank again in the reeking muck.
Suddenly he seemed to realize. He threw himself back and obtained a
foothold. He stood trembling. He turned and tried another direction.
Again he sank. Again he drew back. His knees tottered and he feared to
move. Suddenly a ring of metal pressed against his head from behind. In
a state of panic he stepped forward on the shaking ground. It held. He
paused, then stepped again, his foot coming down on a reedy tuft. It
shook, but still held. He took another step. His foot sunk quickly, till
the soft muck oozed round his ankle. He cried out in terror and turned
to come back.
Baptiste stood with leveled pistol.
"On--on, you gopher. Turn again an' I wing yer. On, you bastard. You've
chosen yer path, keep to it."
"Mercy--I'm sinking."
"Git on--not one step back."
Lablache struggled to release his sinking limb. By a great effort he
drew it out only to plunge it into another yielding spot. Again he
struggled, and in his struggle his other foot slipped from its reedy
hold. It, too, sank. With a terrible cry he plunged forward. He lurched
heavily as he sought to drag his feet from the viscid muck. At every
effort he sank deeper. At last he hurled himself full length upon the
surface of the reeking mire. He cried aloud, but no one answered him.
Under his body he felt the yielding crust cave. He clutched at the
surface grass, but he only plucked the tufts from their roots. They gave
him no hold.
The silent figures on the path watched his death-struggle. It was
ghastly--horrible. The expression of their faces was fiendish. They
watched with positive joy. There was no pity in the hearts of the
Breeds.
They hearkened to the man's piteous cries with ears deafened to all
entreaty. They simply watched--watched and reveled in the watching--for
the terrible end which must come.
Already the murderer's vast proportions were half buried in the slimy
ooze, and, at every fresh effort to save himself, he sank deeper. But
the death which the Breeds awaited was slow to come. Slow--slow. And so
they would have it.
Like some hungry monster the muskeg mouths its victims with oozing
saliva, supping slowly, and seemingly revels in anticipation of the
delicate morsel of human flesh. The watchers heard the gurgling mud,
like to a great tongue licking, as it wrapped round the doomed man's
body, sucking him down, down. The clutch of the keg seemed like
something alive; something so all-powerful--like the twining feelers of
the giant cuttle-fish. Slowly they saw the doomed man's legs disappear,
and already the slimy muck was above his middle.
The minutes dragged along--the black slime rose--it was at Lablache's
breast. His arms were outspread, and, for the moment, they offered
resistance to the sucking strength of the mud. But the resistance was
only momentary. Down, down he was drawn into that insatiable maw. The
dying man's arms canted upwards as his shoulders were dragged under.
He cried--he shrieked--he raved. Down, down he went--the mud touched his
chin. His head was thrown back in one last wild scream. The watchers saw
the staring eyes--the wide-stretched, lashless lids.
His cries died down into gurgles as the mud oozed over into his gaping
mouth. Down he went to his dreadful death, until his nostrils filled and
only his awful eyes remained above the muck. The watchers did not move.
Slowly--slowly and silently now--the last of him disappeared. Once his
head was below the surface his limpened arms followed swiftly.
The Breeds reluctantly turned back from the horrid spectacle. The
fearful torture was done. For a few moments no words were spoken. Then,
at last, it was Baptiste who broke the silence. He looked round on the
passion-distorted faces about him. Then his beady eyes rested on the
horrified faces of Jacky and her lover. He eyed them, and presently his
gaze dropped, and he turned back to his countrymen. He merely said two
words.
"Scatter, boys."
The tragedy was over and his words brought down the curtain. In silence
the half-breeds turned and slunk away. They passed back over their
tracks. Each knew that the sooner he reached the camp again, the sooner
would safety be assured. As the last man departed Baptiste stepped up to
Jacky and Bill, who had not moved from their positions.
"Guess there's no cause to complain o' yer friends," he said, addressing
Jacky, and leering up into her white, set face.
The girl shivered and turned away with a look of utter loathing on her
face. She appealed to her lover.
"Bill--Bill, send him away. It's--it's too horrible."
"Lord" Bill fixed his gray eyes on the Breed.
"Scatter--we've had enough."
"Eh? Guess yer per-tickler."
There was a truculent tone in Baptiste's voice.
Bill's revolver was out like lightning.
"Scatter!"
And in that word Baptiste realized his dismissal.
His face looked very ugly, but he moved off under the covering muzzle of
the white man's pistol.
Bill watched him until he was out of sight. Then he turned to Jacky.
"Well? Which way?"
Jacky did not answer for a moment. She gazed at the mountains. She
shivered. It might have been the chill morning air--it might have been
emotion. Then she looked back in the direction of Foss River. Dawn was
already streaking the horizon.
She sighed like a weary child, and looked helplessly about. Her lover
had never seen her vigorous nature so badly affected. But he realized
the terrors she had been through.
Bill looked at her.
"Well?"
"Yonder." She pointed to the distant hills. "Foss River is no longer
possible."
"The day that sees Lablache--"
"Yes--come."
Bill gazed lingeringly in the direction of the settlement. Jacky
followed his gaze. Then she touched Nigger's flank with her spur. Golden
Eagle cocked his ears, his head was turned towards Bad Man's Hollow. He
needed no urging. He felt that he was going home.
Together they rode away across the keg.
* * * * *
Dr. Abbot had been up all night, as had most of Foss River. Everybody
had been present at the fire. It was daylight when it was discovered
that John Allandale and Jacky were missing. Lablache had been missed,
but this had not so much interested people. They thought of Retief and
waited for daylight.
Silas brought the news of "Poker" John's absence--also his niece's.
Immediately was a "hue and cry" taken up. Foss River bustled in search.
It was noon before the rancher was found. Doctor Abbot and Silas had set
out in search together. The fifty-acre pasture was Silas's suggestion.
Dr. Abbot did not remember the implement shed.
They found the old man's body. They found Lablache's confession. Silas
could not read. He took no stock in the writing and thought only of the
dead man. The doctor had read, but he said nothing. He dispatched Silas
for help.
When the foreman had gone Dr. Abbot picked up the black wig which Bill
had used. He stood looking at it for a while, then he put it carefully
into his pocket.
"Ah! I think I understand something now," he said, slowly fingering the
wig. "Um--yes. I'll burn it when I get home."
Silas returned with help. John Allandale was buried quietly in the
little piece of ground set aside for such purposes. The truth of the
disappearance of Lablache, Jacky and "Lord" Bill was never known outside
of the doctor's house.
How much or how little Dr. Abbot knew would be hard to tell. Possibly he
guessed a great deal. Anyway, whatever he knew was doubtless shared with
"Aunt" Margaret. For when the doctor had a secret it did not remain his
long. "Aunt" Margaret had a way with her. However, she was the very
essence of discretion.
Foss River settled down after its nine days' wonder. It was astonishing
how quickly the affair was forgotten. But then, Foss River was not yet
civilized. Its people had not yet learned to worry too much over their
neighbors' affairs.
THE END
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