The Story of the Foss River Ranch by Ridgwell Cullum

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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.

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