The Story of the Foss River Ranch by Ridgwell Cullum

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The old man grasped at the suggestion.

"Yes--yes, child. It was Retief."

He kept his eyes averted. The girl was not deceived.

"All the time?"

"Poker" John remained silent. He would have lied but could not.

"Uncle!"

Her tone was a moral pressure. The old man turned for relief to his
avuncular authority.

"I must go. You've no right--question me," he stuttered. "I refu--"

"No, uncle, you won't refuse me." The girl had risen and had moved round
to where the old man sat. She fondled him lovingly and his attempt at
angry protest died within him. "Come, dear, tell me all about it. You
are worried and I can help you. What did he threaten you with? I
suppose he wants money," contemptuously. "How much?"

The old drunkard was powerless to resist her loving appeal.

He was cornered. Another might have lied and so escaped, but John
Allandale's weakness was such that he had not the courage to resort to
subterfuge. Moreover, there was a faint spark of honor nickering deep
down in his kindly heart. The girl's affectionate display was surely
fanning that spark into a flame. Would the flame grow or would it
sparkle up for one brief moment and then go out from pure lack of fuel?
Suddenly something of the truth of the cause of her uncle's distress
flashed across Jacky's mind. She knew Lablache's wishes in regard to
herself. Perhaps she was the subject of that interview.

"Uncle, it is I who am causing you this trouble. What is it that
Lablache wants of me?" She asked the question with her cheek pressed to
the old man's face. His whisky-laden breath reeked in her nostrils.

Her question took him unawares, and he started up pushing her from him.

"Who--who told you, girl?" His bleared eyes were now turned upon her,
and they gazed fearfully into hers.

"I thought so," she exclaimed, smiling back into the troubled face. "No
one told me, uncle, I guess that beast wants to marry me. Say, uncle,
you can tell me everything right here. I'll help you. He's smart, but he
can't mate with me."

"But--but--" He struggled to collect his thoughts.

"No 'buts,' dear. I've refused Lablache once. I guess I can size up the
racket he thinks to play. Money--money! He'd like to buy me, I take it.
Say, uncle, can't we frolic him some? Now--what did he say?"

"I--can't tell you, child," the old man protested desperately. Then he
weakened further before those deep, steadfast eyes. "Don't--press me.
Don'--press me." His voice contained maudlin tears. "I'm a vill'n,
girl. I'm worse. Don'--look a' me--like that.
Ja'y--Ja'y--I've--sol'--you!"

The miserable old man flung himself back in his chair and his head bowed
until his chin sank heavily upon his chest. Two great tears welled into
his bloodshot eyes and trickled slowly down his seared old cheeks. It
was a pitiable sight. Jacky looked on silently for a moment. Her eyes
took in every detail of that picture of despair. She had heard the old
man's words but took no heed of them. She was thinking very hard.
Suddenly she seemed to arrive at a decision. Her laugh rang out, and she
came and knelt at her uncle's side.

"So you've sold me, you old dear, and not a bad thing too. What's the
price?"

Her uncle raised his bowed head. Her smiling face dried his tears and
put fresh heart into him. He had expected bitter invective, but instead
the girl smiled.

Jacky's task now became a simple one. A mere matter of pumping. Sharp
questions and rambling replies. Bit by bit she learned the story of
Lablache's proposal and the manner in which an acceptance had been
forced upon her uncle. She did not relinquish her task until the
minutest detail had been gleaned. At last she was satisfied with her
cross-examination.

She rose to her feet and passed her hand with a caressing movement over
her uncle's head, gazing the while out of the window. Her mind was made
up. Her uncle needed her help now. That help should be his. She condoned
his faults; she saw nothing but that which was lovable in his weakness.
Hers was now the strength to protect him, who, in the days of his best
manhood had sheltered her from the cruel struggles of a life in the
half-breed camp, for such, at the death of her impecunious father, must
otherwise have been her lot.

Now she looked down into that worn, old face, and her brisk,
business-like tones roused him into new life.

"Uncle, you must meet Lablache and play--the game. For the rest, leave
it to me. All I ask is--no more whisky to-day. Stay right here and have
a sleep. Guess you might go an' lie down. I'll call you for supper. Then
you'll be fit. One thing you must remember; watch that ugly-faced cur
when you play. See he don't cheat any. I'll tell you more before you
start out. Come right along now and have that sleep."

The old man got up and the girl led him from the room. She saw him to
his bedroom and then left him. She decided that, for herself, she would
not leave the house until she had seen Bill. She must get her uncle
sober before he went to meet Lablache.

CHAPTER XXVI

IN WHICH MATTERS REACH A CLIMAX

Foss River Settlement was, at the time, a very small place, and of
practically no importance. It was brought into existence by the
neighborhood of one or two large ranches; these ranches employed
considerable labor. Foss River might be visited by an earthquake, and,
provided the earthquake was not felt elsewhere, the world would not be
likely to hear of it for weeks. The newspapers of the Western cities
were in their infancy, and contented themselves with the news of their
own towns and feverish criticisms of politics which were beyond the
understanding of their editors. Progress in the West was very
slow--almost at a standstill.

After the death of Horrocks the police had withdrawn to report and to
receive augmentation. No one felt alarm at their absence. The
inhabitants of Foss River were a self-reliant people--accustomed to look
to themselves for the remedy of a grievance. Besides, Horrocks, they
said, had shown himself to be a duffer--merely a tracker, a prairie-man
and not the man to bring Retief to justice. Already the younger members
of the settlement and district were forming themselves into a vigilance
committee. The elders--those to whom the younger looked for a lead in
such matters--had chosen to go to the police; now the younger of the
settlement decided to act for themselves.

This was the condition and feeling in Foss River at the time of the
death of Horrocks; this was the state of affairs when the _insouciant_
Bill leisurely strolled into the sitting-room at the Foss River Ranch,
about the time that Joaquina Allandale had finished her tea. With the
familiarity of the West, Bill entered by the French window. His lazy
smile was undisturbed. He might have been paying an ordinary call
instead of answering a summons which he knew must be a matter of
emergency, for it was understood between these two that private meetings
were tabooed, except when necessity demanded them.

Jacky's greeting was not reassuring, but her lover's expression remained
unchanged, except that his weary eyelids further unclosed.

"Guess we're side-tracked, Bill," she said meaningly. "The line's
blocked. Signals dead against us."

Bill looked into her eyes; then he turned and closed the window,
latching it securely. The door was closed. His keen eyes noted this.

"What do you mean?"

The girl shrugged.

"The next twelve hours must finish our game."

"Ah!"

"Yes," the girl went on, "it is Lablache's doing. We must settle our
reckoning with him to-night."

Bill flung himself into a chair.

"Will you explain?--I don't understand. May I smoke?"

Jacky smiled. The request was so unnecessary. She always liked Bill's
nonchalance. It conveyed such a suggestion of latent power.

"Yes, smoke, Bill; smoke and get your thinking box in order. My yarn
won't take a deal of time to tell. But it'll take a deal of thought to
upset Lablache's last move, without--shootin'."

"Um--shooting's an evil, but sometimes--necessary. What's his racket?"

The girl told her story quickly. She forgot nothing. She never allowed
herself to fall into the womanly mistake of omitting details, however
small.

Bill fully appreciated her cleverness in this direction. He could trust
what she said implicitly. At the conclusion of the story he sat up and
rolled another cigarette.

"And your uncle is upstairs in bed?"

"Yes, when he wakes I guess he'll need a bracer. He'll be sober. He must
play. Lablache means to win."

"Yes, he means to win. He has had a bad scare."

"What are we going to do?"

The girl eyed her lover keenly. She saw by his manner that he was
thinking rapidly.

"The game must be interrupted--with another scare."

"What?"

Bill shrugged and laughed.

"What are you going to do?"

"Burn him out--his store. And then--"

"And then?" eagerly.

"Retief will be present at the game. Tell him what has happened and--if
he doesn't leave Foss River--shoot him. Mortgages and all records of
debts, etc., are in his store."

"Good."

After expressing her approval the girl sat gazing into her lover's face.
They talked a little longer, then Bill rose to go.

"Eleven o'clock to-night you say is the appointed hour?"

"Yes. I shall meet you at the gate of the fifty-acre pasture."

"Better not."

"Yes, I am going to be there," with a decisive nod. "One cannot be sure.
You may need me."

"Very well. Good-by, little woman." "Lord" Bill bent and kissed her.
Then something very like a sigh escaped him. "I think with you this game
is nearly up. To-night will settle things one way or the other."

"Yes. Trouble is not far off. Say, Bill, when it comes, I want to be
with you."

Bill looked tenderly down into the upturned face.

"Is that why you insist on coming to-night?"

"Yes."

Another embrace and Bill left the house.

He sauntered leisurely down the avenue of pines. He kept straight on
towards the muskeg. Then he turned away from the settlement, and was
soon lost behind the rising ground which shored the great mire. Once out
of sight of the house he quickened his pace, gradually swinging away
from the keg, and heading towards the half-breed camp.

Foss River might have been deserted for all signs of life he
encountered. The prairie was calmly silent. Not even the call of the
birds broke the stillness around. The heat of the afternoon had lulled
all nature to repose.

He strode on swiftly until he came to a small bluff. Here he halted and
threw himself full length upon the ground in a welcome shade. He was
within sight of the half-breed camp. He shifted his position until his
head was in the sun. In this way he could see the scattered dwellings of
the prairie outcasts. Then he drew a small piece of looking-glass from
his pocket and held it out in the sun. Turning and twisting it in the
direction of the camp, as might a child who wishes to dazzle a
play-fellow's eyes. For several minutes he thus manipulated his
impromptu heliograph. Then, as he suddenly beheld an answering flash in
the distance, he desisted, and returned the glass to his pocket. Now he
drew back in the shade and composed himself to smoke.

The half-closed eyes of the recumbent man gazed steadily out towards the
camp. He had nearly finished his third cigarette when his quick ears
caught the sound of footsteps. Instantly he sat up. The steps grew
louder and then round the sheltering bush came the thick-set form of
Gautier. He was accompanied by an evil-looking dog which growled sulkily
as it espied the white man.

"Ugh! Hot walkin'," said the newcomer, by way of greeting.

"Not so hot as it'll be to-night," said the white man, quietly. "Sit
down."

"More bonfires, boss?" said the half-breed, with a meaning grin, seating
himself as he spoke.

"More bonfires. See you, I want six of the boys at Lablache's store
to-night at eleven o'clock. We are going to burn his place. It will be
quite easy. Lablache will be away, and only his clerks on the premises.
The cellar underneath the building is lit by barred windows, two under
the front, and two under the office at the back. All you have to do is
to break the glass of the window at the back and pour in a couple of
gallons of coal oil. Then push in some straw, and then light a piece of
oil-soaked rope and drop it in. The cellar is full of cases of goods and
barrels of oil. The fire will be unextinguishable. Directly it is well
lit see that the clerks are warned. We want no lives lost. You
understand? The stables are adjacent and will catch fire too. I sha'n't
be there until later. There will be no risk and lots of loot. Savee?"

The cunning face of the half-breed was lit by an unholy grin. He rubbed
his hands with the unctuous anticipation of a shop-walker. Truly, he
thought, this white man was a man after his own heart. He wagged his
head in approval.

"Easy--easy? It is childlike," he said in ecstasy. "I have long thought
of it, sure. An' thar is a big store of whisky thar, eh, boss?
Good--good! And what time will you come?"

"When the fire is lit. I go to deal with Lablache. Look you here,
Gautier, you owe that man a grudge. You would kill him but you don't
dare. I may pay off that grudge for you. Pay it by a means that is
better than killing."

"Torture," grinned the half-breed.

Bill nodded.

"Now see and be off. And don't make any mistake, or we may all swing for
it. Tell Baptiste he must go over the keg at once and bring Golden Eagle
to my shack at about half-past ten. Tell him to be punctual. Now scoot.
No mistakes, or--" and Bill made a significant gesture.

The man understood and hurried away. "Lord" Bill was satisfied that his
orders would be carried out to the letter. The service he demanded of
this man was congenial service, in so far that it promised loot in
plenty and easily acquired. Moreover, the criminal side of the
half-breed's nature was tickled. A liberal reward for honesty would be
less likely to secure good service from such as Gautier than a chance of
gain for shady work. It was the half-breed nature.

After the departure of the half-breed, Bill remained where he was for
some time. He sat with his hands clasped round his knees, gazing
thoughtfully out towards the camp. He was reviewing his forces and
mentally struggling to penetrate the pall which obscured the future. He
felt himself to be playing a winning game; at least, that his vengeance
and chastisement of Lablache had been made ridiculously easy for him.
But now he had come to that point when he wondered what must be the
outcome of it all as regarded himself and the girl he loved. Would his
persecution drive Lablache from Foss River to the security of Calford,
Where he would be able to follow him and still further prosecute his
inexorable vengeance? Or would he still choose to remain? He knew
Lablache to be a strong man, but he also knew, by the money-lender's
sudden determination to force Jacky into marriage with him, that he had
received a scare. He could not decide on the point. But he inclined to
the belief that Lablache must go after to-night. He would not spare him.
He had yet a trump card to play. He would be present at the game of
cards, and--well, time would show.

He threw away his mangled cigarette end and rose from the ground. One
glance of his keen eyes told him that no one was in sight. He strolled
out upon the prairie and made his way back to the settlement. He need
not have troubled himself about the future. The future would work itself
out, and no effort of his would be capable of directing its course. A
higher power than man's was governing the actions of the participants in
the Foss River drama.

For the rest of the day "Lord" Bill moved about the settlement in his
customary idle fashion. He visited the saloon; he showed himself on the
market-place. He discussed the doings of Retief with the butcher, the
smith, Dr. Abbot. And, as the evening closed in and the sun's power
lessened, he identified himself with others as idle as himself, and
basked in the warmth of its feeble, dying rays.

When darkness closed in he went to his shack and prepared his evening
meal with a simple directness which no thoughts of coming events could
upset. Bill was always philosophical. He ate to live, and consequently
was not particular about his food. He passed the evening between thought
and tobacco, and only an occasional flashing of his lazy eyes gave any
sign of the trend of his mental effort.

At a few minutes past ten he went into his bedroom and carefully locked
the door. Then he drew from beneath his bed a small chest; it was an
ammunition chest of very powerful make. The small sliding lid was
securely padlocked. This he opened and drew from within several articles
of apparel and a small cardboard box.

Next he divested himself of his own tweed clothes and donned the things
he had taken from the box. These consisted of a pair of moleskin
trousers, a pair of chaps, a buckskin shirt and a battered Stetson hat.
From the cardboard box he took out a tin of greasy-looking stuff and a
long black wig made of horse hair. Stepping to a glass he smeared his
face with the grease, covering his own white flesh carefully right down
to the chest and shoulders, also his hands. It was a brownish ocher and
turned his skin to the copperish hue of the Indian. The wig was
carefully adjusted and secured by sprigs to his own fair hair. This,
with the hat well jammed down upon his head, completed the
transformation, and out from the looking-glass peered the strong, eagle
face of the redoubtable half-breed, Retief.

He then filled the chest with his own clothes and relocked it. Suddenly
his quick ear caught the sound of some one approaching. He looked at his
watch; it wanted two minutes to half-past ten. He waited.

Presently he heard the rattle of a stick down the featheredged boarding
of the outer walls of the hut. He picked up his revolver belt and
secured it about his waist, and then, putting out the light, unlocked
the back door which opened out of his bedroom.

A horse was standing outside, and a man held the bridle reins looped
upon his arm.

"That you, Baptiste?"

"Yup."

"Good, you are punctual."

"It's as well."

"Yes."

"I go to join the boys," the half-breed said slowly. "And you?"

"I--oh, I go to settle a last account with Lablache," replied Bill, with
a mirthless laugh.

"Where?"

Bill looked sharply at the man. He understood the native distrust of the
Breed. Then he nodded vaguely in the direction of the Foss River Ranch.

"Yonder. In old John's fifty-acre pasture. Lablache and John meet at the
tool-shed there to-night. Why?"

"And you go not to the fire?" Baptiste's voice had a surprised ring in
it.

"Not until later. I must be at the meeting soon after eleven."

The half-breed was silent for a minute. He seemed to be calculating. At
length he spoke. His words conveyed resolve.

"It is good. Guess you may need assistance. I'll be there--and some of
the boys. We ain't goin' ter interfere--if things goes smooth."

Bill shrugged.

"You need not come."

"No? Nuthin' more?"

"Nothing. Keep the boys steady. Don't burn the clerks in the store."

"No."

"S'long."

"S'long."

"Lord" Bill vaulted into the saddle, and Golden Eagle moved restively
away.

It was as well that Foss River was a sleepy place. "Lord" Bill's
precautions were not elaborate. But then he knew the ways of the
settlement.

Dr. Abbot chanced to be standing in the doorway of the saloon. Bill's
shack was little more than a hundred yards away. The doctor was about to
step across to see if he were in, for the purpose of luring his friend
into a game. Poker was not so plentiful with the doctor now since Bill
had dropped out of Lablache's set.

He saw the dim outline of a horseman moving away from the back of "Lord"
Bill's hut. His curiosity was aroused. He hastened across to the shack.
He found it locked up, and in darkness. He turned away wondering. And as
he turned away he found himself almost face to face with Baptiste. The
doctor knew the man.

"Evening, Baptiste."

"Evening," the man growled.

The doctor was about to speak again but the man hurried away.

"Damned funny," the medical man muttered. Then he moved off towards his
own home. Somehow he had forgotten his wish for poker.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE LAST GAMBLE

The fifty-acre pasture was situated nearly a quarter of a mile away to
the left of John Allandale's house. Then, too, the whole length of it
must be crossed before the implement shed be reached. This would add
another half a mile to the distance, for the field was long and narrow,
skirting as it did the hay slough which provided the ranch with hay. The
pasture was on the sloping side of the slough, and on the top of the
ridge stretched a natural fence of pines nearly two miles in extent.

The shed was erected for the accommodation of mowers, horse-rakes, and
the necessary appurtenances for haying. At one end, as Lablache had
said, was a living-room. It was called so by courtesy. It was little
better than the rest of the building, except that there was a crazy door
to it--also a window; a rusty iron stove, small, and--when a fire burned
in it--fierce, was crowded into a corner. Now, however, the stove was
dismantled, and lengths of stove pipe were littered about the floor
around it. A rough bed, supported on trestles, and innocent of bedding,
filled one end of this abode; a table made of packing cases, and two
chairs of the Windsor type, one fairly sound and the other minus a back,
completed the total of rude furniture necessary for a "hired man's"
requirements.

A living-room, the money-lender had said, therefore we must accept his
statement.

A reddish, yellow light from a dingy oil lamp glowed sullenly, and added
to the cheerlessness of the apartment. At intervals black smoke belched
from the chimney top of the lamp in response to the draughts which blew
through the sieve-like boarding of the shed. One must feel sorry for
the hired man whose lot is cast in such cheerless quarters.

It was past eleven. Lablache and John Allandale were seated at the
table. The lurid light did not improve the expression of their faces.

"Poker" John was eager--keenly eager now that Jacky had urged him to the
game. Moreover, he was sober--sober as the proverbial "judge." Also he
was suspicious of his opponent. Jacky had warned him. He looked very old
as he sat at that table. His senility appeared in every line of his
face; in every movement of his shaking hands; in every glance of his
bleared eyes.

Lablache, also, was changed slightly, but it was not in the direction of
age; he showed signs of elation, triumph. He felt that he was about to
accomplish the object which had long been his, and, at the same time,
outwit the half-breed who had so lately come into his life, with such
disastrous results to his, the money-lender's, peaceful enjoyment of his
ill-gotten wealth.

Lablache turned his lashless eyes in the direction of the window. It was
a square aperture of about two feet in extent.

"We are not likely to be interrupted," he said wheezily, "but it never
does to chance anything. Shall we cover the window? A light in this room
is unusual--"

"Yes, let us cover it." "Poker" John chafed at the delay. "No one is
likely to come this way, though."

Lablache looked about for something which would answer his purpose.
There was nothing handy. He drew out his great bandanna and tried it. It
exactly covered the window. So he secured it. It would serve to darken
the light to any one who might chance to be within sight of the shed. He
returned to his seat. He bulged over it as he sat down, and its legs
creaked ominously.

"I have brought three packs of cards," he said, laying them upon the
table.

"So have I."

"Poker" John looked directly into the other's bilious eyes.

"Ah--then we have six packs."

"Yes--six."

"Whose shall we--" Lablache began.

"We'll cut for it. Ace low. Low wins."

The money-lender smiled at the rancher's eagerness. The two men cut in
silence. Lablache cut a "three"; "Poker" John, a "queen."

"We will use your cards, John." The money-lender's face expressed an
unctuous benignity.

The rancher was surprised, and his tell-tale cheek twitched
uncomfortably.

"For deal," said Lablache, stripping one of John's packs and passing it
to his companion. The rancher shuffled and cut--Lablache cut. The deal
went to the latter.

"We want something to score on," the money-lender said. "My memorandum
pad--"

"We'll have nothing on the table, please." John had been warned.

Lablache shrugged and smiled. He seemed to imply that the precaution was
unnecessary. "Poker" John was in desperate earnest.

"A piece of chalk--on the wall." The rancher produced the chalk and set
it on the floor close by the wall and returned to his seat.

Lablache shuffled clumsily. His fingers seemed too gross to handle
cards. And yet he could shuffle well, and his fingers were, in reality,
most sensitive. John Allandale looked on eagerly. The money-lender,
contrary to his custom, dealt swiftly--so swiftly that the bleared eyes
of his opponent could not follow his movements.

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