The Story of the Foss River Ranch by Ridgwell Cullum

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"Lablache here?" asked the rancher, eagerly.

"He is," replied Mr. Smith, in a drawling voice, as he pushed the two
whiskies across to the waiting half-breeds. "Been here half an hour.
Jest pass right through, mister. Maybe you'll find him located in number
two."

There was no doubt that John B. Smith hailed from America. Although the
Canadian is not devoid of the American accent there is not much doubt of
nationality when one hears the real thing.

"Good; come on, Doc. No, thanks, Smith," as the man behind the bar
reached towards a bottle with a white seal. "We'll have something later
on. Number two on the right, I think you said."

The two men passed on into the back part of the premises.

"Guess dollars'll be flyin' 'fore the night's out," said Smith,
addressing any who cared to listen, and indicating "Poker" John with a
jerk of the head in the direction of the door through which the two men
had just passed. "Make the banks hum when they raise the 'bid.' Guess
ther' ain't many o' ther' likes roun' these parts. Rye or Scotch?" to
"Lord" Bill and three other men who came up at that moment. Mancha and
"Pickles" were with him, and a fourth player--the deposed captain of the
"round-up," Sim Lory.

"Scotch, you old heathen, of course," replied Bill, with a tolerant
laugh. "You don't expect us to drink fire-water. If you kept decent Rye
it would be different. We're going to have a flutter. Any room?"

"Number two, I guess. Chock-a-block in the others. Tolerable run on
poker these times. All the round-up hands been gettin' advances, I take
it. Say when."

The four men said "when" in due course, and each watered his own whisky.
The proprietor went on, with a quick twinkle of his beady eyes,--

"Ther's Mr. Allandale an' Lablache and company in number two. Nobody
else, I guess. I've a notion you'll find plenty of room. Chips, no? All
right; goin' to play a tidy game? Good!"

The four men, having swallowed their drink, followed in the footsteps of
the others.

There was something very brisk and business-like about this
gambling-hell. Early settlers doubtless remember in the days of
"prohibition," when four per cent. beer was supposed to be the only
beverage of the country, and before rigid legislation, backed by the
armed force of the North-West Mounted Police, swept these frightful
pollutions from the fair face of the prairie, how they thrived on the
encouragement of gambling and the sale of contraband spirits. The West
is a cleaner country now, thanks to the untiring efforts of the police.

In number two "Poker" John and his companions were already getting to
work when Bill and his friends entered. Beyond a casual remark they
seemed to take little notice of each other. One and all were eager to
begin the play.

A deep silence quickly fell upon the room. It was the silence of
suppressed excitement. A silence only broken by monosyllabic and almost
whispered betting and "raising" as the games proceeded. An hour passed
thus. At the table where Lablache and John Allandale were playing the
usual luck prevailed. The money-lender seemed unable to do wrong, and at
the other table Bunning-Ford was faring correspondingly badly. Pedro
Mancha, the Mexican, a man of obscure past and who lived no one quite
knew how, but who always appeared to find the necessary to gamble with,
was the favored one of dame Fortune. Already he had heaped before him a
pile of "bills" and I.O.U.'s most of which bore "Lord" Bill's signature.
Looking on at either table, no one from outward signs could have said
which way the luck was going. Only the scribblings of the pencils upon
the memo pads and the gradual accumulation of the precious slips of
paper before Lablache at one table and the wild-eyed, dark-skinned
Mexican at the other, told the story of the ruin which was surely being
accomplished.

At length, with a loser's privilege, Bunning-Ford, after glancing at his
watch, rose from the table. His lean face was in no way disturbed. He
seemed quite indifferent to his losses.

"I'll quit you, Pedro," he said, smiling lazily down at the Mexican.
"You're a bit too hot for me to-day."

The dark-skinned man smiled a vague, non-committing smile and displayed
a double row of immaculate teeth.

"Good. You shall have your revenge. Doubtless you would like some of
these papers back," he said, as he swept them leisurely into his
pocket-book, and then sugar-bagging a cigarette paper he poured a few
grains of granulated tobacco into it.

"Yes, I daresay I shall relieve you of some later on," replied Bill,
quietly. Then he turned to the other table and stood watching the play.

He glanced anxiously at the bare table in front of the old rancher. Even
Dr. Abbot was well stocked with slips of paper. Then his gaze fell upon
the money-lender, behind whose huge back he was standing.

He moved slightly to one side. It is an unwritten law amongst poker
players, in a public place in the west of the American continent, that
no onlooker should stand immediately behind any player. He moved to
Lablache's right. The money-lender was dealing. "Lord" Bill lit a
cigarette.

The cards were dealt round. Then the draw. Then Lablache laid the pack
down. Bunning-Ford had noted these things mechanically. Then something
caught his attention. It was his very indifference which caused his
sudden attention. Had he been following the game with his usual keenness
he would only have been thinking of the betting.

Lablache was writing upon his memo, pad, which was a gorgeous effort in
silver mounting. One of those oblong blocks with a broad band of
burnished silver at the binding of the perforated leaves. He knew that
this was the pad the money-lender always used; anyway, it was similar in
all respects to his usual memorandum pads.

How it was his attention had become fixed upon that pad he could not
have told, but now an inspiration came to him. His face remained
unchanged in its expression, but those lazy eyes of his gleamed wickedly
as he leisurely puffed at his cigarette.

The bet went round. Lablache raised and raised again. Eventually the
rancher "saw" him. The other took the pool. No word was spoken, but
"Lord" Bill gritted his teeth and viciously pitched his cigarette to
the other end of the room.

During the next two deals he allowed his attention to wander. Lablache
dropped out one hand, and, in the next, he merely "filled" his "ante"
and allowed the doctor to take in the pool. John Allandale's face was
serious. The nervous twitching of the cheek was still, but the drawn
lines around his mouth were in no way hidden by his gray mustache, nor
did the eager light which burned luridly in his eyes for one moment
deceive the onlooker as to the anxiety of mind which his features
masked.

Now it was Lablache's deal. "Lord" Bill concentrated his attention upon
the dealer. The money-lender was left-handed. He held the pack in his
right, and, in dealing, he was slow and slightly clumsy. The object of
Bunning-Ford's attention quickly became apparent. Each card as it left
the pack was passed over the burnished silver of the dealer's memorandum
pad. It was smartly done, and Lablache was assisted by the fact that the
piece of metal was inclined towards him. There was no necessity to look
down deliberately to see the reflection of each card as it passed on its
way to its recipient, a glance--just the glance necessary when dealing
cards--and the money-lender, by a slight effort of memory, knew every
hand that was out. Lablache was cheating.

To say that "Lord" Bill was astonished would be wrong. He was not. He
had long suspected it. The steady run of luck which Lablache had
persisted in was too phenomenal. It was enough to set the densest
thinking. Now everything was plain. Standing where he was, Bill had
almost been able to read the index numerals himself. He gave no sign of
his discovery. Apparently the matter was of no consequence to him, for
he merely lit a fresh cigarette and walked towards the door. He turned
as he was about to pass out.

"What time shall I tell Jacky to expect you home, John?" he said
quietly, addressing the old rancher.

Lablache looked up with a swift, malevolent glance, but he said nothing.
Old John turned a drawn face to the speaker.

"Supper, I guess," he said in a thick voice, husky from long silence.
"And tell Smith to send me in a bottle of 'white seal' and some
glasses."

"Right you are." Then "Lord" Bill passed out. "Poker without whisky is
bad," he muttered as he made his way back to the bar, "but poker and
whisky together can only be the beginning of the end. We'll see. Poor
old John!"

CHAPTER VII

ACROSS THE GREAT MUSKEG

It was on the stroke of four o'clock when Bunning-Ford left the saloon.
He had said that he would be at the ranch at four, and usually he liked
to be punctual. He was late now, however, and made no effort to make up
time. Instead, he allowed his horse to walk leisurely in the direction
of the Allandales' house. He wanted time to think before he again met
Jacky.

He was confronted by a problem which taxed all his wit. It was perhaps a
fortunate thing that his was not a hasty temperament. He well knew the
usual method of dealing with men who cheated at cards in those Western
wilds. Each man carried his own law in his holster. He had realized
instantly that Lablache was not a case for the usual treatment. Pistol
law would have defeated its own ends. Such means would not recover the
terrible losses of "Poker" John, neither would he recover thereby his
own lost property. No, he congratulated himself upon the restraint he
had exercised when he had checked his natural impulse to expose the
money-lender. Now, however, the case looked more complicated, and, for
the moment, he could see no possible means of solving the difficulty.
Lablache must be made to disgorge--but how? John Allandale must be
stopped playing and further contributing to Lablache's ill-gotten gains.
Again--but how?

Bill was roused out of his usual apathetic indifference. The moment had
arrived when he must set aside the old indolent carelessness. He was
stirred to the core. A duty had been suddenly forced upon him. A duty to
himself and also a duty to those he loved. Lablache had consistently
robbed him, and also the uncle of the girl he loved. Now, how to
restore that property and prevent the villain's further depredations?

Again and again he asked himself the question as he allowed his horse to
mouche, with slovenly step, over the sodden prairie; but no answer
presented itself. His thin, eagle face was puckered with perplexity. The
sleepy eyes gleamed vengefully from between his half-closed eyelids as
he gazed across the sunlit prairie. His aquiline nose, always bearing a
resemblance to an eagle's beak, was rendered even more like that
aristocratic proboscis by reason of the down-drawn tip, consequent upon
the odd pursing of his tightly-compressed lips. For the moment "Lord"
Bill was at a loss. And, oddly enough, he began to wonder if, after all,
silence had been his best course.

He was still struggling in the direst perplexity when he drew up at the
veranda of the ranch. Dismounting, he hitched his picket rope to the
tying-post and entered the sitting-room by the open French window. Tea
was set upon the table and Jacky was seated before the stove.

"Late, Bill, late! Guess that 'plug' of yours is a rapid beast, judging
by the pace you came up the hill."

For the moment Bunning-Ford's face had resumed its wonted air of lazy
good-nature.

"Glad you took the trouble to watch for me, Jacky," he retorted quickly,
with an attempt at his usual lightness of manner. "I appreciate the
honor."

"Nothing of the sort. I was looking for uncle. The mail brought a letter
from Calford. Dawson, the cattle buyer of the Western Railway Company,
wants to see him. The Home Government are buying largely. He is
commissioned to purchase 30,000 head of prime beeves. Come along, tea's
ready."

Bill seated himself at the table and Jacky poured out the tea. She was
dressed for the saddle.

"Where is Dawson now?" asked Bill.

"Calford. Guess he'll wait right there for uncle."

Suddenly a look of relief passed across the man's face.

"This is Wednesday. At six o'clock the mail-cart goes back to town. Send
some one down to the _saloon_ at once, and John will be able to go in
to-night."

As Bill spoke his eyes encountered a direct and steady glance from the
girl. There was much meaning in that mute exchange. For answer Jacky
rose and rang a bell sharply.

"Send a hand down to the settlement to find my uncle. Ask him to come up
at once. There is an important letter awaiting him," she said, to the
old servant who answered the summons.

"Bill, what's up?" she went on, when the retainer had departed.

"Lots. Look here, Jacky, we mustn't be long over tea. We must both be
out of the house when your uncle returns. He may not want to go into
town to-night. Anyway, I don't want to give him the chance of asking any
questions until we have had a long talk. He's losing to Lablache again."

"Ah! I don't want anything to eat. Whenever you are ready, Bill, I am."

Bunning-Ford drank his tea and rose from the table. The girl followed
his example.

There was something very strong and resolute in the brisk,
ready-for-emergency ways of this girl. There was nothing of the
ultra-feminine dependence and weakness of her sex about her. And yet her
hardiness detracted in no way from her womanly charm; rather was that
complex abstract enhanced by her wonderful self-reliance. There are
those who decry independence in women, but surely only such must come
from those whose nature is largely composed of hectoring selfishness.
There was a resolute set of the mouth as Jacky sent word to the stables
to have her horse brought round. She asked no questions of her
companion, as, waiting for compliance with her orders, she drew on her
stout buckskin gauntlets. She understood this man well enough to be
aware that his suggestion was based upon necessity. "Lord" Bill rarely
interfered with anything or anybody, but when such an occasion arose his
words carried a deal of weight with those who knew him.

A few minutes later and they were both riding slowly down the avenue of
pines leading from the house. The direction in which they were moving
was away from the settlement, down towards where the great level flat of
the muskeg began. At the end of the avenue they turned directly to the
southeast, leaving the township behind them. The prairie was soft and
springy. There was still a keen touch of winter in the fresh spring air.
The afternoon sun was shining coldly athwart the direction of their
route.

Jacky led the way, and, as they drew clear of the bush, and the house
and settlement were hidden from view behind them, she urged her horse
into a good swinging lope. Thus they progressed in silence. The
far-reaching deadly mire on their right, looking innocent enough in the
shadow of the snow-clad peaks beyond, the ranch well behind them in the
hollow of the Foss River Valley, whilst, on their left, the mighty
prairie rolled away upwards to the higher level of the surrounding
country.

In this way they covered nearly a mile, then the girl drew up beside a
small clump of weedy bush.

"Are you ready for the plunge, Bill?" she asked, as her companion drew
up beside her. "The path's not more than four feet wide. Does your
'plug' shy any?"

"He's all right. You lead right on. Where you can travel I've a notion
I'm not likely to funk. But I don't see the path."

"I guess you don't. Never did nature keep her secret better than in the
setting out of this one road across her woeful man-trap. You can't see
the path, but I guess it's an open book to me, and its pages ain't
Hebrew either. Say, Bill, there's been many a good prairie man looking
for this path, but"--with a slight accent of exultation--"they've never
found it. Come on. Old Nigger knows it; many a time has he trodden its
soft and shaking surface. Good old horse!" and she patted the black neck
of her charger as she turned his head towards the distant hills and
urged him forward with a "chirrup."

Far across the muskeg the distant peaks of the mountain range glistened
in the afternoon sun like diamond-studded sugar loaves. So high were the
clouds that every portion of the mighty summits was clearly outlined.
The great ramparts of the prairie are a magnificent sight on a clear
day. Flat and smooth as any billiard-table stretched this silent,
mysterious muskeg, already green and fair to the eye, an alluring
pasture to the unwary. An experienced eye might have judged it too
green--too alluring. Could a more perfect trap be devised by evil human
ingenuity than this? Think for one instant of a bottomless pit of liquid
soil, absorbing in its peculiar density. Think of all the horrors of a
quicksand, which, embracing, sucks down into its cruel bosom the
despairing victim of its insatiable greed. Think of a thin, solid crust,
spread like icing upon a cake and concealing the soft, spongy matter
beneath, covering every portion of the cruel plain; a crust which yields
a crop of luxurious, enticing grass of the most perfect emerald hue; a
crust firm in itself and dry looking, and yet not strong enough to bear
the weight of a good-sized terrier. And what imagination can possibly
conceive a more cruel--more perfect trap for man or beast? Woe to the
creature which trusts its weight upon that treacherous crust. For one
fleeting instant it will sway beneath the tread, then, in the flash of a
thought, it will break, and once the surface gives no human power can
save the victim. Down, down into the depths must the poor wretch be
plunged, with scarce time to offer a prayer to God for the poor soul
which so swiftly passes to its doom. Such is the muskeg; and surely more
terrible is it than is that horror of the navigator--the quicksands.

The girl led the way without as much as a passing thought for the
dangers which surrounded her. Truly had her companion said "I don't see
the path," for no path was to be seen. But Jacky had learned her lesson
well--and learned it from one who read the prairie as the Bedouin reads
the desert. The path was there and with a wondrous assurance she
followed its course.

The travelers moved silently along. No word was spoken; each was wrapped
in thought. Now and again a stray prairie chicken would fly up from
their path with a whirr, and speed across the mire, calling to its mate
as it went. The drowsy chirrup of frogs went on unceasingly around, and
already the ubiquitous mosquito was on the prowl for human gore.

The upstanding horses now walked with down-drooped heads, with sniffing
noses low towards the ground, ears cocked, and with alert, careful
tread, as if fully alive to the danger of their perilous road. The
silence of that ride teemed with a thrill of danger. Half an hour passed
and then the girl gathered up her reins and urged her willing horse into
a canter.

"Come on, Bill, the path is more solid now, and wider. The worst part is
on the far side," she called back over her shoulder.

Her companion followed her unquestioningly.

The sun was already dipping towards the distant peaks and already a
shadowy haze was rising upon the eastern prairie. The chill of winter
grew keener as the sun slowly sank.

Two-thirds of the journey were covered and Jacky, holding up a warning
hand, drew up her horse. Her companion came to a stand beside her.

"The path divides in three here," said the girl, glancing keenly down at
the fresh green grass. "Two of the branches are blind and end abruptly
further on. Guess we must avoid 'em," she went on shortly, "unless we
are anxious to punctuate our earthly career. This is the one we must
take," turning her horse to the left path. "Keep your eye peeled and
stick to Nigger's footprints."

The man did as he was bid, marvelling the while at the strange knowledge
of his companion. He had no fear; he only wondered. The trim, graceful
figure on the horse ahead of him occupied all his thoughts. He watched
her as, with quiet assurance she guided her horse. He had known Jacky
for years. He had watched her grow to womanhood, but although her
up-bringing must of necessity have taught her an independence and
courage given to few women, he had never dreamt of the strength of the
sturdy nature she was now displaying. Again his thoughts went to the
tales of the gossips of the settlement, and the strange figure of the
daring cattle-thief loomed up over his mental horizon. He rode, and as
he rode he wondered. The end Of this journey would be a fitting place
for the explanations which must take place between them.

At length the shaking path came to an end and the mire was crossed. A
signal from the girl brought her companion to her side.

"We have crossed it," she said, glancing up at the sun, and indicating
the muskeg with a backward jerk of her head. "Now for the horse."

"What about your promise to tell me about Peter Retief?"

"Guess being the narrator you must let me take my time."

She smiled up into her companion's eagle face.

"The horse is a mile or so further up towards the foothills. Come
along."

They galloped side by side over the moist, springy grass--moist with the
recently-melted snow. "Lord" Bill was content to wait her pleasure.
Suddenly the man brought his horse up with a severe "yank."

"What's up?" The girl's beautiful eyes were fixed upon the ground with a
peculiar instinct. Bill pointed to the ground on the side furthest from
his companion.

"Look!"

Jacky gazed at the spot indicated.

"The tracks of the horse," she said sharply.

She was on the ground in an instant and inspecting the hoof-prints
eagerly, with that careful study acquired by experience.

"Well?" said the other, as she turned back to her horse.

"Recent." Then in an impressive tone which her companion failed to
understand, "That horse has been shod. The shoes are off--all except a
tiny bit on his off fore. We must track it."

They now separated and rode keeping the hoof-prints between them. The
marks were quite fresh and so plain in the soft ground that they were
able to ride at a good pace. The clear-cut indentations led away from
the mire up the gently-sloping ground. Suddenly they struck upon a path
that was little more than a cattle-track, and instantly became mingled
with other hoof-marks, older and going both ways. Hitherto the girl had
ridden with her eyes closely watching the tracks, but now she suddenly
raised her sweet, weather-tanned face to her companion, and, with a
light of the wildest excitement in her eyes, she pointed along the path
and set her horse at a gallop.

"Come on! I know," she cried, "right on into the hills."

Bill followed willingly enough, but he failed to understand his
companion's excitement. After all they were merely bent upon "roping" a
stray horse. The girl galloped on at breakneck speed; the heavy black
ringlets of hair were swept like an outspread fan from under the broad
brim of her Stetson hat, her buckskin bodice ballooning in the wind as
rider and horse charged along, utterly indifferent to the nature of the
country they were traveling--indifferent to everything except the mad
pursuit of an unseen quarry. Now they were on the summit of some
eminence whence they could see for miles the confusion of hills, like
innumerable bee-hives set close together upon an endless plain; now
down, tearing through a deep hollow, and racing towards another abrupt
ascent. With every hill passed the country became less green and more
and more rugged. "Lord" Bill struggled hard to keep the girl in view as
she raced on--on through the labyrinth of seemingly endless hillocks.
But at last he drew up on the summit of a high cone-like rise and
realized that he had lost her.

For a moment he gazed around with that peculiar, all-observing keenness
which is given to those whose lives are spent in countries where human
habitation is sparse--where the work of man is lost in the immensity of
Nature's effort. He could see no sign of the girl. And yet he knew she
could not be far away. His instincts told him to search for her horse
tracks. He was sure she had passed that way. While yet he was thinking,
she suddenly reappeared over the brow of a further hill. She halted at
the summit, and, seeing him, waved a summons. Her gesticulations were
excited and he hastened to obey. Down into the intervening valley his
horse plunged with headlong recklessness. At the bottom there was a
hard, beaten track. Almost unconsciously he allowed his beast to adopt
it. It wound round and upwards, at the base of the hill on which Jacky
was waiting for him. He passed the bend, then, with a desperate,
backward heave of the body, he "yanked" his horse short up, throwing the
eager animal on to its haunches.

He had pulled up on what, at first appeared to be the brink of a
precipice, and what in reality was a declivity, down which only the slow
and sure foot of a steer or broncho might safely tread. He sat aghast at
his narrow escape. Then, turning at the sound of a voice behind him, he
found that Jacky had come down from the hill above.

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