The Story of the Foss River Ranch by Ridgwell Cullum

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"Some one just ahead of us. The track is badly broken in places. Sit
tight, I'm going to touch 'em up."

He flicked the whip over the horses' backs, and, a moment later, the
sleigh was flying along at a dangerous pace. The horses had broken into
a gallop.

"Lord" Bill seemed to liven up under the influence of speed. The wind
was howling now, and conversation was impossible, except in short, jerky
sentences. They were on the high level of the prairie and were getting
the full benefit of the open sweep of country.

"Cold?" Bill almost shouted.

"No," came the quiet response.

"Straight, down-hill trail. I'm going to let 'em have their heads."

Both of these people knew every inch of the road they were travelling.
There was no fear in their hearts.

"Put 'em along, then."

The horses raced along. The deadly gray wind had obscured all light. The
lights of the sleigh alone showed the tracks. It was a wild night and
every moment it seemed to become worse. Suddenly the man spoke again.

"I wish we hadn't got the others with us, Jacky."

"Why?"

"Because I could put 'em along faster, as it is--" His sentence remained
unfinished, the sleigh bumped and lifted on to one runner. It was within
an ace of overturning. There was no need to finish his sentence.

"Yes, I understand, Bill. Don't take too many chances. Ease 'em
up--some. They're not as young as we are--not the horses. The others."

"Lord" Bill laughed. Jacky was so cool. The word fear was not in her
vocabulary. This sort of a journey was nothing new to her. She had
experienced it all before. Possibly, however, her total lack of fear was
due to her knowledge of the man who, to use her own way of expressing
things, "was at the business end of the lines." "Lord" Bill was at once
the finest and the most fearless teamster for miles around. Under the
cloak of indolent indifference he concealed a spirit of fearlessness and
even recklessness which few accredited to him.

For some time the two remained silent. The minutes sped rapidly and half
an hour passed. All about was pitch black now. The wind was tearing and
shrieking from every direction at once. The sleigh seemed to be the
center of its attack. The blinding clouds of snow, as they swept up from
the ground, were becoming denser and denser and offered a fierce
resistance to the racing horses. Another few minutes and the two people
on the front seat knew that progress would be impossible. As it was,
"Lord" Bill was driving more by instinct than by what he could see. The
trail was obscured, as were all landmarks. He could no longer see the
horses' heads.

"We've passed the school-house," said Jacky, at last.

"Yes, I know."

A strange knowledge or instinct is that of the prairie man or woman.
Neither had seen the school-house or anything to indicate it. And yet
they knew they had passed it.

"Half a mile to Trout Creek. Two miles to Norton's. Can you do it,
Bill?"

Quietly as the words were spoken, there was a world of meaning in the
question. To lose their way now would be worse, infinitely, than to lose
oneself in one of the sandy deserts of Africa. Death was in that biting
wind and in the blinding snow. Once lost, and, in two or three hours,
all would be over.

"Yes," came the monosyllabic reply. "Lord" Bill's lips were pursed
tightly. Every now and then he dashed the snow and breath icicles from
his eyelashes. The horses were almost hidden from his view.

They were descending a steep gradient and they now knew that they were
upon Trout Creek. At the creek Bill pulled up. It was the first stop
since leaving Calford. Jacky and he jumped down. Each knew what the
other was about to do without speaking. Jacky, reins in hand, went round
the horses; "Lord" Bill was searching for the trail which turned off
from the main road up the creek to Norton's. Presently he came back.

"Animals all right?"

"Fit as fiddles," the girl replied.

"Right--jump up!"

There was no assisting this girl to her seat. No "by your leave" or
European politeness. Simply the word of one man who knows his business
to another. Both were on their "native heath."

Bill checked the horses' impetuosity and walked them slowly until he
came to the turning. Once on the right road, however, he let them have
their heads.

"It's all right, Jacky," as the horses bounded forward.

A few minutes later the sleigh drew up at Norton's, but so dark was it
and so dense the snow fog, that only those two keen watchers on the
front seat were able to discern the outline of the house.

"Poker" John and the doctor assisted the old lady to alight whilst Jacky
and "Lord" Bill unhitched the horses. In spite of the cold the sweat was
pouring from the animals' sides. In answer to a violent summons on the
storm door a light appeared in the window and "soldier" Joe Norton
opened the door.

For an instant he stood in the doorway peering doubtfully out into the
storm. A goodly picture he made as he stood lantern in hand, his rugged
old face gazing inquiringly at his visitors.

"Hurry up, Joe, let us in," exclaimed Allandale. "We are nearly frozen
to death."

"Why, bless my soul!--bless my soul! Come in! Come in!" the old man
exclaimed hastily as he recognized John Allandale's voice. "You out, and
on a night like this. Bless my soul! Come in! Down, Husky, down!" to a
bob-tail sheep-dog which bounded forward and barked savagely.

"Hold on, Joe," said "Poker" John. "Let the ladies go in, we must see to
the horses."

"It's all right, uncle," said Jacky, "we've unhitched 'em. Bill's taken
'em right away to the stables."

The whole party passed into Joe Norton's sitting-room, where the old
farmer at once set about kindling, with the aid of some coal-oil, a fire
in the great box-stove. While his host was busy John took the lantern
and went to "Lord" Bill's assistance in the stables.

The stove lighted, Joe Norton turned to his guests.

"Bless me, and to think of you, Mrs. Abbot, and Miss Jacky, too. I must
fetch the o'd 'ooman. Hi, Molly, Molly, bestir yourself, old girl. Come
on down, an' help the ladies. They've come for shelter out o' the
blizzard--good luck to it."

"Oh, no, don't disturb her, Joe," exclaimed Mrs. Abbot; "it's really too
bad, at this unearthly hour. Besides, we shall be quite comfortable here
by the stove."

"No doubt--no doubt," said the old man, cheerfully, "but that's not my
way--not my way. Any of you froze," he went on ungrammatically, "'cause
if so, out you go and thaw it out in the snow."

"I guess there's no one frozen," said Jacky, smiling into the old man's
face. "We're too old birds for that. Ah, here's Mrs. Norton."

Another warm greeting and the two ladies were hustled off to the only
spare bedroom the Nortons boasted. By this time "Lord" Bill and "Poker"
John had returned from the stables. While the ladies were removing their
furs, which were sodden with the melting snow, the farmer's wife was
preparing a rough but ample meal of warm provender in the kitchen. Such
is hospitality in the Far North-West.

When the supper was prepared the travellers sat down to the substantial
fare. None were hungry--be it remembered that it was three o'clock in
the morning--but each felt that some pretense in that direction must be
made, or the kindly couple would think their welcome was insufficient.

"An' what made you venture on the trail on such a night?" asked old
Norton, as he poured out a joram of hot whiskey for each of the men. "A
moral cert, you wouldn't strike Foss River in such a storm."

"We thought it would have held off longer," said Dr. Abbot. "It was no
use getting cooped up in town for two or three days. You know what these
blizzards are. You may have to do with us yourself during the next
forty-eight hours."

"It's too sharp to last, Doc," put in Jacky, as she helped herself to
some soup. Her face was glowing after her exposure to the elements. She
looked very beautiful and not one whit worse for the drive.

"Sharp enough--sharp enough," murmured old Norton, as if for something
to say.

"Sharp enough to bring some one else to your hospitable abode, Joe,"
interrupted "Lord" Bill, quietly; "I hear sleigh bells. The wind's
howling, but their tone is familiar."

They were all listening now. "Poker" John was the first to speak.

"It's--" and he paused.

Before he could complete his sentence Jacky filled up the missing words.

"Lablache--for a dollar."

There was a moment's silence in that rough homely little kitchen. The
expression of the faces of those around the board indexed a general
thought.

Lablache, if it were he, would not receive the cordial welcome which had
been meted out to the others. Norton broke the silence.

"Dang it! That's what I ses, dang it! You'll pardon me, ladies, but my
feelings get the better of me at times. I don't like him. Lablache--I
hates him," and he strode out of the room, his old face aflame with
annoyance, to discharge the hospitable duties of the prairie.

As the door closed behind him Dr. Abbot laughed constrainedly.

"Lablache doesn't seem popular--here."

No one answered his remark. Then "Poker" John looked over at the other
men.

"We must go and help to put his horses away."

There was no suggestion in his words, merely a statement of plain facts.
"Lord" Bill nodded and the three men rose and went to the door.

As they disappeared Jacky turned to Mrs. Norton and Aunt Margaret.

"If that's Lablache--I'm off to bed."

Her tone was one of uncompromising decision. Mrs. Abbot was less
assured.

"Do you think it polite--wise?"

"Come along, aunt. Never mind about politeness or wisdom. What do you
say, Mrs. Norton?"

"As you like, Miss Jacky. I must stay up, or--"

"Yes--the men can entertain him."

Just then Lablache's voice was heard outside. It was a peculiar,
guttural, gasping voice. Aunt Margaret looked doubtfully from Jacky to
Mrs. Norton. The latter nodded smilingly. Then following Jacky's lead
she passed up the staircase which led from the kitchen to the rooms
above. A moment later the door opened and Lablache and the other men
entered.

"They've gone to bed," said Mrs. Norton, in answer to "Poker" John's
look of inquiry.

"Tired, no doubt," put in Lablache, drily.

"And not without reason, I guess," retorted "Poker" John, sharply. He
had not failed to note the other's tone.

Lablache laughed quietly, but his keen, restless eyes shot an unpleasant
glance at the speaker from beneath their heavy lids.

He was a burly man. In bulk he was of much the same proportions as old
John Allandale. But while John was big with the weight of muscle and
frame, Lablache was flabby with fat. In face he was the antithesis of
the other. Whilst "Poker" John was the picture of florid tanning--While
his face, although perhaps a trifle weak in its lower formation, was
bold, honest, and redounding with kindly nature, Lablache's was
bilious-looking and heavy with obesity. Whatever character was there, it
was lost in the heavy folds of flesh with which it was wreathed. His
jowl was ponderous, and his little mouth was tightly compressed, while
his deep-sunken, bilious eyes peered from between heavy, lashless lids.

Such was Verner Lablache, the wealthiest man of the Foss River
Settlement. He owned a large store in the place, selling farming
machinery to the settlers and ranchers about. His business was always
done on credit, for which he charged exorbitant rates of interest,
accepting only first mortgages upon crops and stock as security. Besides
this he represented several of the Calford private banks, which many
people said were really owned by him, and there was no one more ready to
lend money--on the best of security and the highest rate of
interest--than he. Should the borrower fail to pay, he was always
suavely ready to renew the loan at increased interest--provided the
security was sound. And, in the end, every ounce of his pound of flesh,
plus not less than fifty per cent. interest, would come back to him.
After Verner Lablache had done with him, the unfortunate rancher who
borrowed generally disappeared from the neighborhood. Sometimes this
man's victims were never heard of again. Sometimes they were discovered
doing the "chores" round some obscure farmer's house. Anyway, ranch,
crops, stock--everything the man ever had--would have passed into the
hands of the money-lender, Lablache.

Hard-headed dealer--money-grubber--as Lablache was, he had a weakness.
To look at him--to know him--no one would have thought it, but he had.
And at least two of those present were aware of his secret. He was in
love with Jacky. That is to say, he coveted her--desired her. When
Lablache desired anything in that little world of his, he generally
secured it to himself, but, in this matter, he had hitherto been
thwarted. His desire had increased proportionately. He was annoyed to
think that Jacky had retired at his coming. He was in no way blind to
the reason of her sudden departure, but beyond his first remark he was
not the man to advertise his chagrin. He could afford to wait.

"You'll take a bite o' supper, Mr. Lablache?" said old Norton, in a tone
of inquiry.

"Supper?--no, thanks, Norton. But if you've a drop of something hot I
can do with that."

"We've gener'ly got somethin' o' that about," replied the old man.
"Whiskey or rum?"

"Whisky, man, whisky. I've got liver enough already without touching
rum." Then he turned to "Poker" John.

"It's a devilish night, John, devilish. I started before you. Thought I
could make the river in time. I was completely lost on the other side of
the creek. I fancy the storm worked up from that direction."

He lumped into a chair close beside the stove. The others had already
seated themselves.

"We didn't chance it. Bill drove us straight here," said "Poker" John.

"Guess Bill knew something--he generally does," as an afterthought.

"I know a blizzard when I see it," said Bunning-Ford, indifferently.

Lablache sipped his whisky. A silence fell on that gathering of
refugees. Mrs. Norton had cleared the supper things.

"Well, if you gents'll excuse me I'll go back to bed. Old Joe'll look
after you," she said abruptly. "Good-night to you all."

She disappeared up the staircase. The men remained silent for a moment
or two. They were getting drowsy. Suddenly Lablache set his glass down
and looked at his watch.

"Four o'clock, gentlemen. I suppose, Joe, there are no beds for us." The
old farmer shook his head. "What say, John--Doc--a little game until
breakfast?"

John Allandale's face lit up. His sobriquet was no idle One. He lived
for poker--he loved it. And Lablache knew it. Old John turned to the
others. His right cheek twitched as he waited the decision. "Doc" Abbot
smiled approval; "Lord" Bill shrugged indifferently. The old gambler
rose to his feet.

"That's all right, then. The kitchen table is good enough for us. Come
along, gentlemen."

"I'll slide off to bed, I guess," said Norton, thankful to escape a
night's vigil. "Good-night, gentlemen."

Then the remaining four sat down to play.

The far-reaching consequences of that game were undreamt of by the
players, except, perhaps, by Lablache. His story of the reason of his
return to Norton's farm was only partially true. He had returned in the
hopes of this meeting; he had anticipated this game.

CHAPTER III

A BIG GAME OF POKER

"What about cards?" said Lablache, as the four men sat down to the
table.

"Doc will oblige, no doubt," Bunning-Ford replied quietly. "He generally
carries the 'pernicious pasteboards' about with him."

"The man who travels in the West without them," said Dr. Abbot,
producing a couple of new packs from his pocket, "either does not know
his country or is a victim of superstition."

No one seemed inclined to refuse the doctor's statement, or enter into a
discussion upon the matter. Instead, each drew out a small memorandum
block and pencil--a sure indication of a "big game."

"Limit?" asked the doctor.

Lablache shrugged his shoulders, affectionately shuffling the cards the
while. He kept his eyes averted.

"What do the others say?"

There was a challenge in Lablache's tone. Bunning-Ford flushed slightly
at the cheek-bones. That peculiar pursing was at his lips.

"Anything goes with me. The higher the game the greater the excitement,"
he said, shooting a keen glance at the pasty face of the money-lender.

Old John was irritated. His ruddy face gleamed in the light of the lamp.
The nervous twitching of the cheek indicated his frame of mind. Lablache
smiled to himself behind the wood expression of his face.

"Twenty dollars call for fifty. Limit the bet to three thousand
dollars. Is that big enough for you, Lablache? Let us have a regulation
'ante.' No 'straddling.'"

There was a moment's silence. "Poker" John had proposed the biggest game
they had yet played. He would have suggested no limit, but this he knew
would be all in favor of Lablache, whose resources were vast.

John glanced over from the money-lender to the doctor. The doctor and
Bunning-Ford were the most to be considered. Their resources were very
limited. The old man knew that the doctor was one of those careful
players who was not likely to allow himself to suffer by the height of
the stakes. There was no bluffing the doctor. "Lord" Bill was able to
take care of himself.

"That's good enough for me," said Bunning-Ford. "Let it go at that."

Outwardly Lablache was indifferent; inwardly he experienced a sense of
supreme satisfaction at the height of the stakes.

The four men relapsed into silence as they cut for the deal. It was an
education in the game to observe each man as he, metaphorically
speaking, donned his mask of impassive reserve. As the game progressed
any one of those four men might have been a graven image as far as the
expression of countenance went. No word was spoken beyond "Raise you so
and so"--"See you that." So keen, so ardent was the game that the stake
might have been one of life and death. No money passed. Just slips of
paper; and yet any one of those fragments represented a small fortune.

The first few hands resulted in but desultory betting. Sums of money
changed hands but there was very little in it. Lablache was the
principal loser. Three "pots" in succession were taken by John
Allandale, but their aggregate did not amount to half the limit. A
little luck fell to Bunning-Ford. He once raised Lablache to the limit.
The money-lender "saw" him and lost. Bill promptly scooped in three
thousand dollars. The doctor was cautious. He had lost and won nothing.
Then a change came over the game. To use a card-player's expression, the
cards were beginning to "run."

"Lord" Bill dealt. Lablache was upon his right and next to him the
doctor.

The money-lender picked up his cards, and partially opening them glanced
keenly at the index numerals. His stolid face remained unchanged. The
doctor glanced at his and "came in." "Poker" John "came in." The dealer
remained out. The doctor drew two cards; "Poker" John, one; Lablache
drew one. The veteran rancher held four nines. "Lord" Bill gathered up
the "deadwood," and, propping his face upon his hands, watched the
betting.

It was the doctor's bet; he cautiously dropped out. He had an inkling of
the way things were going. "Poker" John opened the ball with five
hundred dollars. He had a good thing and he did not want to frighten his
opponent by a plunge. He would leave it to Lablache to start raising.
The money-lender raised him one thousand. Old John sniffed with the
appreciation of an old war-horse at the scent of battle. The nervous,
twitching cheek remained unmoved. The old gambler in him rose uppermost.

He leisurely saw the thousand, and raised another five hundred. Lablache
allowed his fishy eyes to flash in the direction of his opponent. A
moment after he raised another thousand. The gamble was becoming
interesting. The two onlookers were consumed with the lust of play. They
forgot that in the result they would not be participants. Old John's
face lost something of its impassivity as he in turn raised to the
limit. Lablache eased his great body in his chair. His little mouth was
very tightly clenched. His breathing, at times stertorous, was like the
breathing of an asthmatical pig. He saw, and again raised to the limit.
There was now over twelve thousand dollars in the pool.

It was old John's turn. The doctor and "Lord" Bill waited anxiously. The
old rancher was reputed very wealthy. They felt assured that he would
not back down after having gone so far. In their hearts they both wished
to see him relieve Lablache of a lot of money.

They need have had no fears. Whatever his faults "Poker" John was a
"dead game sport." He dashed a slip of paper into the pool. The keen
eyes watching read "four thousand dollars" scrawled upon it. He had
again raised to the limit. It was now Lablache's turn to accept or
refuse the challenge. The onlookers were not so sure of the
money-lender. Would he accept or not?

A curious thought was in the mind of that monument of flesh. He knew for
certain that he held the winning cards. How he knew it would be
impossible to say. And yet he hesitated. Perhaps he knew the limits of
John Allandale's resources, perhaps he felt, for the present, there was
sufficient in the pool; perhaps, even, he had ulterior motives. Whatever
the cause, as he passed a slip of paper into the pool merely seeing his
opponent, his face gave no outward sign of what was passing in the brain
behind it.

Old John laid down his hand.

"Four nines," he said quietly.

"Not good enough," retorted Lablache; "four kings." And he spread his
cards out upon the table before him and swept up the pile of papers
which represented his win.

A sigh, as of relief to pent-up feelings, escaped the two men who had
watched the gamble. Old John said not a word and his face betrayed no
thought or regret that might have been in his mind at the loss of such a
large amount of money. He merely glanced over at the money-lender.

"Your deal, Lablache," he said quietly.

Lablache took the cards and a fresh deal went round. Now the game became
one-sided. With that one large pull the money-lender's luck seemed to
have set in. Seemingly he could do no wrong. If he drew to "three of a
kind," he invariably filled; if to a "pair," he generally secured a
third; once, indeed, he drew to jack, queen, king of a suit and
completed a "royal flush." His luck was phenomenal. The other men's
luck seemed "dead out." Bunning-Ford and the doctor could get no hands
at all, and thus they were saved heavy losses. Occasionally, even, the
doctor raked in a few "antes." But John Allandale could do nothing
right. He was always drawing tolerable cards--just good enough to lose
with. Until, by the time daylight came, he had lost so heavily that his
two friends were eagerly seeking an excuse to break up the game.

At last "Lord" Bill effected this purpose, but at considerable loss to
himself. He had a fairly good hand, but not, as he knew, sufficiently
good to win with. Lablache and he were left in. The money-lender had in
one plunge raised the bet to the "limit." Bill knew that he ought to
drop out, but, instead of so doing, he saw his opponent. He lost the
"pot."

"Thank you, gentlemen," he said, quietly rising from the table, "my
losses are sufficient for one night. I have finished. It is daylight and
the storm is 'letting up' somewhat."

He turned as he spoke, and, glancing at the staircase, saw Jacky
standing at the top of it. How long she had been standing there he did
not know. He felt certain, although she gave no sign, that she had heard
what he had just said.

"Poker" John saw her too.

"Why, Jacky, what means this early rising?" said the old man kindly.
"Too tired last night to sleep?"

"No, uncle. Guess I slept all right. The wind's dropping fast. I take it
it'll be blowing great guns again before long. This is our chance to
make the ranch." She had been an observer of the finish of the game. She
had heard Bill's remarks on his loss, and yet not by a single word did
she betray her knowledge. Inwardly she railed at herself for having gone
to bed. She wondered how it had fared with her uncle.

Bunning-Ford left the room. Somehow he felt that he must get away from
the steady gaze of those gray eyes. He knew how Jacky dreaded, for her
uncle's sake, the game they had just been playing. He wondered, as he
went to test the weather, what she would have thought had she known the
stakes, or the extent of her uncle's losses. He hoped she was not aware
of these facts.

"You look tired, Uncle John," said the girl, solicitously, as she came
down the stairs. She purposely ignored Lablache. "Have you had no
sleep?"

"Poker" John laughed a little uneasily.

"Sleep, child? We old birds of the prairie can do with very little of
that. It's only pretty faces that want sleep, and I'm thinking you ought
still to be in your bed."

"Miss Jacky is ever on the alert to take advantage of the elements," put
in Lablache, heavily. "She seems to understand these things better than
any of us."

The girl was forced to notice the money-lender. She did so reluctantly,
however.

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