The Story of the Foss River Ranch by Ridgwell Cullum

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Lablache wrote.

"Now, sign. So."

Lablache signed. Jacky and Bill stood looking on silent and wondering.

"Now," said Baptiste, with all the solemnity of a court official, "the
execution shall take place. Lead him out!"

At this instant Jacky laid her hand upon the half-breed's arm.

"What--what is it?" she asked. And from her expression something of the
stony calmness had gone, leaving in its place a look of wondering not
untouched with horror.

"The Devil's Keg!"

CHAPTER XXIX

THE MAW OF THE MUSKEG

Down the sloping shore to the level of the great keg, the party of
Breeds--and in their midst the doomed money-lender--made their way.
Jacky and "Lord" Bill, on their horses, brought up the rear.

The silent _cortege_ moved slowly on, out on to the oozing path across
the mire. Lablache was now beyond human aid.

The right and wrong of their determination troubled the Breeds not one
whit. But it was different with the two white people. What thoughts Bill
had upon the matter he kept to himself. He certainly felt that he ought
to interfere, but he knew how worse than useless his interference would
be. Besides, the man should die. The law of Judge Lynch was the only law
for such as he. Let that law take its course. Bill would have preferred
the stout tree and a raw-hide lariat. But--and he shrugged his
shoulders.

Jacky felt more deeply upon the subject. She saw the horror in all its
truest lights, and yet she had flouted her lover's suggestion that she
should not witness the end. Bad and all as Lablache was--cruel as was
his nature, murderer though he be, surely no crime, however heinous,
could deserve the fate to which he was going. She had
remonstrated--urged Baptiste to forego his wanton cruelty, to deal out
justice tempered with a mercy which should hurl the money-lender to
oblivion without suffering--with scarce time to realize the happening.
Her efforts were unavailing. As well try to turn an ape from its
mischief--a man-eater from its mania for human blood. The inherent love
of cruelty had been too long fostered in these Breeds of Foss River.
Lablache had too long swayed their destinies with his ruthless hand of
extortion. All the pent-up hatred, stored in the back cells of memory,
was now let loose. For all these years in Foss River they had been
forced to look to Lablache as the ruler of their destinies. Was he not
the great--the wealthy man of the place? When he held up his finger they
must work--and his wage was the wage of a dog. When money was scarce
among them, would he not drive them starving from his great store? When
their children and women were sick, would he not refuse them
drugs--food--nourishment of any sort, unless the money was down? They
had not even the privilege of men who owned land. There was no credit
for the Breeds--outcasts. Baptiste and his fellows remembered all these
things. Their time had come. They would pay Lablache--and their score of
interest should be heavy.

On their way from the shed to the muskeg Lablache had seen the
reflection of the fire at his store in the sky. Gautier had taken
devilish satisfaction in telling the wretched man of what had been
done--mouthing the details in the manner of one who finds joy in
cruelty. He remembered past injuries, and reveled in the money-lender's
agony.

After a toilsome journey the Breeds halted at the point where the path
divided into three. Jacky and Bill sat on their horses and watched the
scene. Then, slowly, something of Baptiste's intention was borne in upon
them.

Jacky reached out and touched her lover's arm.

"Bill, what are they going to do?"

She asked the question. But the answer was already with her. Her
companion remained silent. She did not repeat her question.

Then she heard Baptiste's raucous tones as he issued his commands.

"Loose his hands!"

Jacky watched Lablache's face in the dim starlight. It was ghastly. The
whole figure of the man seemed to have shrunk. The wretched man stood
free, and yet more surely a prisoner than any criminal in a condemned
cell.

The uncertain light of the stars showed only the dark expanse of the
mire upon all sides. In the distance, ahead, the mountains were vaguely
outlined against the sky; behind and around, nothing but that awful
death-trap. Jacky had lived all her life beside the muskeg, but never,
until that moment, had she realized the awful terror of its presence.

Now Baptiste again commanded.

"Prepare for death."

It seemed to the listening girl that a devilish tone of exultation rang
in his words. She roused herself from her fascinated attention. She was
about to urge her horse forward. But a thin, powerful hand reached out
and gripped her by the arm. It was "Lord" Bill. His hoarse whisper sung
in her ears.

"Your own words--Leave well alone."

And she allowed her horse to stand.

Now she leaned forward in her saddle and rested her elbows upon the horn
in front of her. Again she heard Baptiste speak. He seemed to be in sole
command.

"We'll give yer a chance fur yer life--"

Again the fiendish laugh underlaid the words.

"It's a chance of a dog--a yellow dog," he pursued. Jacky shuddered.
"But such a chance is too good fur yer likes. Look--look, those hills.
See the three tall peaks--yes, those three, taller than the rest. One
straight in front; one to the right, an' one away to the left. Guess
this path divides right hyar--in three, an' each path heads for one of
those peaks. Say, jest one trail crosses the keg--one. Savee? The others
end sudden, and then--the keg."

The full horror of the man's meaning now became plain to the girl. She
heaved a great gasp, and turned to Bill. Her lover signed a warning. She
turned again to the scene before her.

"Now, see hyar, you scum," Baptiste went on. "This is yer chance. Choose
yer path and foller it. Guess yer can't see it no more than yer ken see
this one we're on, but you've got the lay of it. Guess you'll travel the
path yer choose to--the end. If yer don't move--an' move mighty
slippy--you'll be dumped headlong into the muck. Ef yer git on to the
right path an' cross the keg safe, yer ken sling off wi' a whole skin.
Guess you'll fin' it a ticklish job--mebbe you'll git through. But I've
a notion yer won't. Now, take yer dog's chance, an' remember, its death
if yer don't, anyway."

The man ceased speaking. Jacky saw Lablache shake his great head. Then
something made him look at the mountains beyond. There were the three
dimly-outlined peaks. They were clear enough to guide him. Jacky,
watching, saw the expression of his face change. It was as though a
flicker of hope had risen within him. Then she saw him turn and eye
Baptiste. He seemed to read in that cruel, dark face a vengeful purpose.
He seemed to scent a trick. Presently he turned again to the hills.

How plainly the watching girl read the varying emotions which beset him.
He was trying to face this chance calmly, but the dark expanse of the
surrounding mire wrung his heart with terror. He could not choose, and
yet he knew he must do so or--

Baptiste spoke again.

"Choose!"

Lablache again bent his eyes upon the hills. But his lashless lids would
flicker, and his vision became impaired. He turned to the Breed with an
imploring gesture. Baptiste made no movement. His relentless expression
remained unchanged. The wretched man turned away to the rest of the
Breeds.

A pistol was leveled at his head and he turned back to Baptiste. The
only comfort he obtained was a monosyllabic command.

"Choose!"

"God, man, I can't." Lablache gasped out the words which seemed
literally to be wrung from him.

"Choose!" The inexorable tone sent a shudder over the distraught man.
Even in the starlight the expression of the villain's face was hideous
to behold.

Baptiste's voice again rang out on the still night air.

"Move him!"

A pistol was pushed behind his ear.

"Do y' hear?"

"Mercy--mercy!" cried the distraught man. But he made no move.

There was an instant's pause. Then the loud report of the threatening
pistol rang out. It had been fired through the lobe of his ear.

"Oh, God!"

The exclamation was forced from Jacky. The torture--the horror nearly
drove her wild. She lifted her reins as though to ride to the villain's
aid. Then something--some cruel recollection--stayed her. She remembered
her uncle and her heart hardened.

The merciless torture of the Breed was allowed to pass.

To the wretched victim it seemed that his ear-drum must be split for the
shot had left him almost stone deaf. The blood trickled from the wound.
He almost leapt forward. Then he stood all of a tremble as he felt the
ground shake beneath him. A cold sweat poured down his great face.

"Choose!" Baptiste followed the terror-stricken man up.

"No--no! Don't shoot! Yes, I'll go--only--don't shoot."

The abject cowardice the great man now displayed was almost pitiable.
Bill's lip curled in disdain. He had expected that this man would have
shown a bold front.

He had always believed Lablache to be, at least, a man of courage. But
he did not allow for the circumstances--the surroundings. Lablache on
the safe ground of the prairie would have faced disaster very
differently. The thought of that sucking mire was too terrible. The oily
maw of that death-trap was a thing to strike horror into the bravest
heart.

"Which path?" Baptiste spoke, waving his hand in the direction of the
mountains.

Lablache moved cautiously forward, testing the ground with his foot as
he went. Then he paused again and eyed the mountains.

"The right path," he said at last, in a guttural whisper.

"Then start." The words rang out cuttingly upon the night air.

Lablache fixed his eyes upon the distant peak of the mountain which was
to be his guide. He advanced slowly. The Breeds followed, Jacky and Bill
bringing up the rear. The ground seemed firm and the money-lender moved
heavily forward. His breath came in gasps. He was panting, not with
exertion, but with terror. He could not test the ground until his weight
was upon it. An outstretched foot pressed on the grassy path told him
nothing. He knew that the crust would hold until the weight of his body
was upon it. With every successful step his terror increased. What would
the next bring forth?

His agony of mind was awful.

He covered about ten yards in this way. The sweat poured from him. His
clothes stuck to him. He paused for a second and took fresh bearings. He
turned his head and looked into the muzzle of Baptiste's revolver. He
shuddered and turned again to the mountains. He pressed forward. Still
the ground was firm. But this gave him no hope. Suddenly a frightful
horror swept over him. It was something fresh; he had not thought of it
before. The fact was strange, but it was so. The path--had he taken the
wrong one? He had made his selection at haphazard and he knew that there
was no turning back. Baptiste had said so and he had seen his resolve
written in his face. A conviction stole over him that he was on the
wrong path. He knew he was. He must be. Of course it was only natural.
The center path must be the main one. He stood still. He could have
cried out in his mental agony. Again he turned--and saw the pistol.

He put his foot out. The ground trembled at his touch. He drew back
with a gurgling cry. He turned and tried another spot. It was firm until
his weight rested upon it. Then it shook. He sought to return to the
spot he had left. But now he could not be sure. His mind was uncertain.
Suddenly he gave a jump. He felt the ground solid beneath him as he
alighted. His face was streaming. He passed his hand across it in a
dazed way. His terror increased a hundredfold. Now he endeavored to take
his bearings afresh. He looked out at the three mountains. The right
one--yes, that was it. The right one. He saw the peak, and made another
step forward. The path held. Another step and his foot went through. He
drew back with a cry. He tripped and fell heavily. The ground shook
under him and he lay still, moaning.

Baptiste's voice roused him and urged him on.

"Git on, you skunk," he said. "Go to yer death."

Lablache sat up and looked about. He felt dazed. He knew he must go on.
Death--death which ever way he turned. God! did ever a man suffer so?
The name of John Allandale came to his mind and he gazed wildly about,
fancying some one had whispered it to him in answer to his thoughts. He
stood up. He took another step forward with reckless haste. He
remembered the pistol behind him. The ground seemed to shake under him.
His distorted fancy was playing tricks with him. Another step. Yes, the
ground was solid--no, it shook. The weight of his body came down on the
spot. His foot went through. He hurled himself backwards again and
clutched wildly at the ground. He shuddered and cried out. Again came
Baptiste's voice.

"Git on, or--"

The distraught man struggled to his feet. He was becoming delirious with
terror. He stepped forward again. The ground seemed solid and he laughed
a horrid, wild laugh. Another step and another. He paused, breathing
hard. Then he started to mutter,--

"On--on. Yes, on again or they'll have me. The path--this is the right
one. I'll cheat 'em yet."

He strode out boldly. His foot sank in something soft He did not seem to
notice it. Another step and his foot sank again in the reeking muck.
Suddenly he seemed to realize. He threw himself back and obtained a
foothold. He stood trembling. He turned and tried another direction.
Again he sank. Again he drew back. His knees tottered and he feared to
move. Suddenly a ring of metal pressed against his head from behind. In
a state of panic he stepped forward on the shaking ground. It held. He
paused, then stepped again, his foot coming down on a reedy tuft. It
shook, but still held. He took another step. His foot sunk quickly, till
the soft muck oozed round his ankle. He cried out in terror and turned
to come back.

Baptiste stood with leveled pistol.

"On--on, you gopher. Turn again an' I wing yer. On, you bastard. You've
chosen yer path, keep to it."

"Mercy--I'm sinking."

"Git on--not one step back."

Lablache struggled to release his sinking limb. By a great effort he
drew it out only to plunge it into another yielding spot. Again he
struggled, and in his struggle his other foot slipped from its reedy
hold. It, too, sank. With a terrible cry he plunged forward. He lurched
heavily as he sought to drag his feet from the viscid muck. At every
effort he sank deeper. At last he hurled himself full length upon the
surface of the reeking mire. He cried aloud, but no one answered him.
Under his body he felt the yielding crust cave. He clutched at the
surface grass, but he only plucked the tufts from their roots. They gave
him no hold.

The silent figures on the path watched his death-struggle. It was
ghastly--horrible. The expression of their faces was fiendish. They
watched with positive joy. There was no pity in the hearts of the
Breeds.

They hearkened to the man's piteous cries with ears deafened to all
entreaty. They simply watched--watched and reveled in the watching--for
the terrible end which must come.

Already the murderer's vast proportions were half buried in the slimy
ooze, and, at every fresh effort to save himself, he sank deeper. But
the death which the Breeds awaited was slow to come. Slow--slow. And so
they would have it.

Like some hungry monster the muskeg mouths its victims with oozing
saliva, supping slowly, and seemingly revels in anticipation of the
delicate morsel of human flesh. The watchers heard the gurgling mud,
like to a great tongue licking, as it wrapped round the doomed man's
body, sucking him down, down. The clutch of the keg seemed like
something alive; something so all-powerful--like the twining feelers of
the giant cuttle-fish. Slowly they saw the doomed man's legs disappear,
and already the slimy muck was above his middle.

The minutes dragged along--the black slime rose--it was at Lablache's
breast. His arms were outspread, and, for the moment, they offered
resistance to the sucking strength of the mud. But the resistance was
only momentary. Down, down he was drawn into that insatiable maw. The
dying man's arms canted upwards as his shoulders were dragged under.

He cried--he shrieked--he raved. Down, down he went--the mud touched his
chin. His head was thrown back in one last wild scream. The watchers saw
the staring eyes--the wide-stretched, lashless lids.

His cries died down into gurgles as the mud oozed over into his gaping
mouth. Down he went to his dreadful death, until his nostrils filled and
only his awful eyes remained above the muck. The watchers did not move.
Slowly--slowly and silently now--the last of him disappeared. Once his
head was below the surface his limpened arms followed swiftly.

The Breeds reluctantly turned back from the horrid spectacle. The
fearful torture was done. For a few moments no words were spoken. Then,
at last, it was Baptiste who broke the silence. He looked round on the
passion-distorted faces about him. Then his beady eyes rested on the
horrified faces of Jacky and her lover. He eyed them, and presently his
gaze dropped, and he turned back to his countrymen. He merely said two
words.

"Scatter, boys."

The tragedy was over and his words brought down the curtain. In silence
the half-breeds turned and slunk away. They passed back over their
tracks. Each knew that the sooner he reached the camp again, the sooner
would safety be assured. As the last man departed Baptiste stepped up to
Jacky and Bill, who had not moved from their positions.

"Guess there's no cause to complain o' yer friends," he said, addressing
Jacky, and leering up into her white, set face.

The girl shivered and turned away with a look of utter loathing on her
face. She appealed to her lover.

"Bill--Bill, send him away. It's--it's too horrible."

"Lord" Bill fixed his gray eyes on the Breed.

"Scatter--we've had enough."

"Eh? Guess yer per-tickler."

There was a truculent tone in Baptiste's voice.

Bill's revolver was out like lightning.

"Scatter!"

And in that word Baptiste realized his dismissal.

His face looked very ugly, but he moved off under the covering muzzle of
the white man's pistol.

Bill watched him until he was out of sight. Then he turned to Jacky.

"Well? Which way?"

Jacky did not answer for a moment. She gazed at the mountains. She
shivered. It might have been the chill morning air--it might have been
emotion. Then she looked back in the direction of Foss River. Dawn was
already streaking the horizon.

She sighed like a weary child, and looked helplessly about. Her lover
had never seen her vigorous nature so badly affected. But he realized
the terrors she had been through.

Bill looked at her.

"Well?"

"Yonder." She pointed to the distant hills. "Foss River is no longer
possible."

"The day that sees Lablache--"

"Yes--come."

Bill gazed lingeringly in the direction of the settlement. Jacky
followed his gaze. Then she touched Nigger's flank with her spur. Golden
Eagle cocked his ears, his head was turned towards Bad Man's Hollow. He
needed no urging. He felt that he was going home.

Together they rode away across the keg.

* * * * *

Dr. Abbot had been up all night, as had most of Foss River. Everybody
had been present at the fire. It was daylight when it was discovered
that John Allandale and Jacky were missing. Lablache had been missed,
but this had not so much interested people. They thought of Retief and
waited for daylight.

Silas brought the news of "Poker" John's absence--also his niece's.
Immediately was a "hue and cry" taken up. Foss River bustled in search.

It was noon before the rancher was found. Doctor Abbot and Silas had set
out in search together. The fifty-acre pasture was Silas's suggestion.
Dr. Abbot did not remember the implement shed.

They found the old man's body. They found Lablache's confession. Silas
could not read. He took no stock in the writing and thought only of the
dead man. The doctor had read, but he said nothing. He dispatched Silas
for help.

When the foreman had gone Dr. Abbot picked up the black wig which Bill
had used. He stood looking at it for a while, then he put it carefully
into his pocket.

"Ah! I think I understand something now," he said, slowly fingering the
wig. "Um--yes. I'll burn it when I get home."

Silas returned with help. John Allandale was buried quietly in the
little piece of ground set aside for such purposes. The truth of the
disappearance of Lablache, Jacky and "Lord" Bill was never known outside
of the doctor's house.

How much or how little Dr. Abbot knew would be hard to tell. Possibly he
guessed a great deal. Anyway, whatever he knew was doubtless shared with
"Aunt" Margaret. For when the doctor had a secret it did not remain his
long. "Aunt" Margaret had a way with her. However, she was the very
essence of discretion.

Foss River settled down after its nine days' wonder. It was astonishing
how quickly the affair was forgotten. But then, Foss River was not yet
civilized. Its people had not yet learned to worry too much over their
neighbors' affairs.

THE END

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