The Story of the Foss River Ranch by Ridgwell Cullum

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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 _dejeuner_. 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?"

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