The Story of the Foss River Ranch by Ridgwell Cullum

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"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.

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