The Story of the Foss River Ranch by Ridgwell Cullum

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"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."

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