The Story of the Foss River Ranch by Ridgwell Cullum

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"See, Bill," she cried, as she drew abreast of his hard-breathing horse,
"there he is! Down there, peacefully, grazing."

Her excitement was intense, and the hand with which she pointed shook
like an aspen. Her agitation was incomprehensible to the man. He looked
down. Hitherto he had seen little beyond the brink at which he had come
to such a sudden stand. But now, as he gazed down, he beheld a deep
dark-shadowed valley, far-reaching and sombre. From their present
position its full extent was beyond the range of vision, but sufficient
was to be seen to realize that here was one of those vast hiding-places
only to be found in lands where Nature's fanciful mood has induced the
mighty upheaval of the world's greatest mountain ranges. On the far side
of the deep, sombre vale a towering craig rose wall-like, sheer up,
overshadowing the soft, green pasture deep down at the bottom of the
yawning gulch. Dense patches of dark, relentless pinewoods lined its
base, and, over all, in spite of the broad daylight, a peculiar shadow,
as of evening, added mystery to the haunting view.

It was some seconds before the man was able to distinguish the tiny
object which had roused the girl to such unaccountable excitement. When
he did, however, he beheld a golden chestnut horse quietly grazing as it
made its way leisurely towards the ribbon-like stream which flowed in
the bosom of the mysterious valley. "Lord" Bill's voice was quite
emotionless when he spoke.

"Ah, a chestnut!" he said quietly. "Well, our quest is vain. He is
beyond our reach."

For a moment the girl looked at him in indignant surprise. Then her mood
changed and she nearly laughed outright. She had forgotten that this man
as yet knew nothing of what had all along been in her thoughts. As yet
he knew nothing of the secret of this hollow. To her it meant a world of
recollection--a world of stirring adventure and awful hazard. When first
she had seen that horse, grazing within sight of her uncle's house, her
interest had been aroused--suspicions had been sent teeming through her
brain. Her thoughts had flown to the man whom she had once known, and
who was now dead. She had believed his horse had died with him. And now
the strange apparition had yielded up its secret. The beast had been
traced to the old, familiar haunt, and what had been only suspicion had
suddenly become a startling reality.

"Ah, I forgot," she replied, "you don't understand. That is Golden
Eagle. Can't you see, he has the fragments of his saddle still tied
round his body. To think of it--and after two years."

Her companion still seemed dense.

"Golden Eagle?" he repeated questioningly. "Golden Eagle?" The name
seemed familiar but he failed to comprehend.

"Yes, yes," the girl broke out impatiently. "Golden Eagle--Peter
Retief's horse. The grandest beast that ever stepped the prairie. See,
he is keeping watch over his master's old
hiding-place--faithful--faithful to the memory of the dead."

"And this is--is the haunt of Peter Retief," Bill exclaimed, his
interest centering chiefly upon the yawning valley before him.

"Yes--follow me closely, and we'll get right along down. Say, Bill, we
must round up that animal."

For a fleeting space the man looked dubious, then, with lips pursed, and
a quiet look of resolution in his sleepy eyes, he followed in his
companion's wake. The grandeur--the solitude--the mystery and
associations, conveyed by the girl's words, of the place were upon him.
These things had set him thinking.

The tortuous course of that perilous descent occupied their full
attention, but, at length, they reached the valley in safety. Now,
indeed, was a wonderful scene disclosed. Far as the eye could reach the
great hollow extended. Deep and narrow; deep in the heart of the hills
which towered upon either side to heights, for the most part,
inaccessible, precipitous. It was a wondrous gulch, hidden and
unsuspected in the foothills, and protected by those amazing wilds, in
which the ignorant or unwary must infallibly be lost. It was a perfect
pasture, a perfect hiding-place, watered by a broad running stream;
sheltered from all cold and storm. No wonder then that the celebrated
outlaw, Peter Retief, had chosen it for his haunt and the harborage of
his ill-gotten stock.

With characteristic method the two set about "roping" the magnificent
crested horse they had come to capture. They soon found that he was
wild--timid as a hare. Their task looked as though it would be one of
some difficulty.

At first Golden Eagle raced recklessly from point to point. And so long
as this lasted his would-be captors could do little but endeavor to
"head" him from one to the other, in the hope of getting him within
range of the rope. Then he seemed suddenly to change his mind, and, with
a quick double, gallop towards the side of the great chasm. A cry of
delight escaped the girl as she saw this. The horse was making for the
mouth of a small cavern which had been boarded over, and, judging by the
door and window in the woodwork, had evidently been used as a dwelling
or a stable. It was the same instinct which led him to this place that
had caused the horse to remain for two years the solitary tenant of the
valley. The girl understood, and drew her companion's attention. The
capture at once became easy. Keeping clear of the cave they cautiously
herded their quarry towards it. Golden Eagle was docile enough until he
reached the, to him, familiar door. Then, when he found that his
pursuers still continued to press in upon him, he took alarm, and,
throwing up his head, with a wild, defiant snort he made a bolt for the
open.

Instantly two lariats whirled through the air towards the crested neck.
One missed its mark, but the other fell, true as a gun-shot over the
small, thoroughbred head. It was Jacky's rope which had found its mark.
A hitch round the horn of her saddle, and her horse threw himself back
with her forefeet braced, and faced the captive. Then the rope tightened
with a jerk which taxed its rawhide strands to their utmost. Instantly
Golden Eagle, after two years' freedom, stood still; he knew that once
more he must return to captivity.

CHAPTER VIII

TOLD IN BAD MAN'S HOLLOW

Jacky held her treasure fast. The choking grip of the running noose
quieted Golden Eagle into perfect docility. Bunning-Ford was off his
horse in a moment. Approaching the primitive dwelling he forced open the
crazy door. It was a patchwork affair and swung back on a pair of hinges
which lamented loudly as the accumulation of rust were disturbed. The
interior was essentially suggestive of the half-breed, and his guess at
its purpose had been a shrewd one. Part storehouse for forage, part
bedroom, and part stable, it presented a squalid appearance. The portion
devoted to stable-room was far in the back; the curious apparatus which
constituted the bed was placed under the window.

The man propped the door open, and then went to relieve the girl from
the strain of holding her captive. Seizing the lariat he gripped it
tightly and proceeded to pass slowly, hand over hand, towards the
beautiful, wild-eyed chestnut. Golden Eagle seemed to understand, for,
presently, the tension of the rope relaxed. For a moment the animal
looked fearfully around and snorted, then, as "Lord" Bill determinedly
attempted to lead him, he threw himself backward. His rebellion lasted
but for an instant, for, presently, drooping his proud head as though in
token of submission, he followed his captor quietly into the stable
which had always been his.

The girl dismounted, and, shortly after, "Lord" Bill rejoined her.

"Well?" she asked, her questioning eyes turned in the direction of the
cave.

"He's snug enough," Bill replied quietly, glancing at his watch. He
looked up at the chilly sky, then he seated himself on the edge of a
boulder which reposed beside the entrance to the stable. "We've just got
two hours and a half before dark," he added slowly. "That means an hour
in which to talk." Then he quietly prepared to roll a cigarette. "Now,
Jacky, let's have your yarn first; after that you shall hear mine."

He leisurely proceeded to pick over the tobacco before rolling it in the
paper. He was usually particular about his smoke. He centered his
attention upon the matter now, purposely, so as to give his companion a
chance to tell her story freely. He anticipated that what she had to
tell would affect her nearly. But his surmise of the direction in which
she would be affected proved totally incorrect. Her first words told him
this.

She hesitated only for the fraction of a second, then she plunged into
her story with a directness which was always hers.

"This is Bad Man's Hollow--he--he was my half-brother."

So the stories of the gossips were not true. Bill gave a comprehensive
nod, but offered no comment. Her statement appeared to him to need none.
It explained itself; she was speaking of Peter Retief.

"Mother was a widow when she married father--widow with one son. Mother
was a half-breed."

An impressive silence ensued. For a moment a black shadow swept across
the valley. It was a dense flight of geese winging their way back to the
north, as the warm sun melted the snow and furnished them with
well-watered feeding-grounds. The frogs were chirruping loudly down at
the edge of the stream which trickled its way ever southwards. She went
on.

"Mother and Peter settled at Foss River at different times. They never
hit it off. No one knew that there was any relationship between them up
at the camp. Mother lived in her own shack. Peter located himself
elsewhere. Guess it's only five years since I learned these things.
Peter was fifteen years older than I. I take it they made him 'bad' from
the start. Poor Peter!--still, he was my half-brother."

She conveyed a world of explanation in her last sentence. There was a
tender, far-away look in her great, sorrowful eyes as she told her jerky
story. "Lord" Bill allowed himself a side-long glance in her direction,
then he turned his eyes towards the south end of the valley and
something very like a sigh escaped him. She had struck a sympathetic
chord in his heart. He longed to comfort her.

"There's no use in reckoning up Peter's acts. You know 'em as well as I
do, Bill. He was slick--was Peter," she went on, with an inflection of
satisfaction. She was returning to a lighter manner as she contemplated
the cattle-thief's successes. "Cattle, mail-trains, mail-carts--nothing
came amiss to him. In his own line Peter was a Jo-dandy." Her face
flushed as she proceeded. The half-breed blood in her was stirred in all
its passionate strength. "But he'd never have slipped the coyote
sheriffs or the slick red-coats so long as he did without my help. Say,
Bill," leaning forward eagerly and peering into his face with her
beautiful glowing eyes, "for three years I just--just lived! Poor Peter!
Guess I'm reckoned kind of handy 'round a bunch of steers. There aren't
many who can hustle me. You know that. All the boys on the round-up know
that. And why? Because I learnt the business from Peter--and Peter
taught me to shoot quick and straight. Those three years taught me a
deal, and I take it those things didn't happen for nothing," with a
moody introspective gaze. "Those years taught me how to look after
myself--and my uncle. Say, Bill, what I'm telling you may sicken you
some. I can't help that. Peter was my brother and blood's thicker than
water. I wasn't going to let him be hunted down by a lot of bloodthirsty
coyotes who were no better than he. I wasn't going to let my mother's
flesh feed the crows from the end of a lariat. I helped Peter to steer
clear of the law--lynch at that--and if he fell at last, a victim to
the sucking muck of the muskeg, it was God's judgment and not
man's--that's good enough for me. I'd do it all again, I guess, if--if
Peter were alive."

"Peter had some shooting on the account against him," said Bill, without
raising his eyes from the contemplation of his cigarette. The girl
smiled. The smile hovered for a moment round her mouth and eyes, and
then passed, leaving her sweet, dark face bathed in the shadow of
regret. She understood the drift of his remark but in no way resented
it.

"No, Bill, I steered clear of that. I'd have shot to save Peter, but it
never came to that. Whatever shooting Peter did was done on his--lonely.
I jibbed at a frolic that meant--shooting. Peter never let me dirty my
hands to that extent. Guess I just helped him and kept him posted. If
I'd had law, they'd have called me accessory after the fact."

"Lord" Bill pondered. His lazy eyes were half-closed. He looked
indifferent but his thoughts were flowing fast. This girl's story had
given a fillup to a wild plan which had almost unconsciously found place
in his active brain. Now he raised his eyes to her face and was
astonished at the setness of its expression. She reminded him of those
women in history whose deeds had, at various periods, shaken the
foundations of empires. There was a deep, smouldering fire in her eyes,
for which only the native blood in her veins could account. Her
beautiful face was clouded beneath a somber shadow which is so often
accredited as a presage of tragedy. Surely her expression was one of a
great, passionate nature, of a soul capable of a wondrous love, or a
wondrous--hate. She had seated herself upon the ground with the careless
abandon of one used to such a resting-place. Her trim riding-boots were
displayed from beneath the hem of her coarse dungaree habit. Her Stetson
hat was pushed back on her head, leaving the broad low forehead exposed.
Her black waving hair streamed about her face, a perfect framing for
the Van Dyke coloring of her skin. She was very beautiful.

The man shifted his position.

"Tell me," he went on, gazing over towards where a flock of wild ducks
had suddenly settled upon a reedy swamp, and were noisily revelling in
the water, "did your uncle know anything about this?"

"Not a soul on God's earth knew. Did you ever suspect anything?"

Bill shook his head.

"Not a thing. I was as well posted on the subject of Peter as any one.
Sometimes I thought it curious that old John's stock and my own were
never interfered with. But I had no suspicion of the truth. Peter's
relationship to your mother--did the Breeds in the settlement know
anything of it?"

"No--I alone knew."

"Ah!"

The girl looked curiously into her companion's face. The tone of his
exclamation startled her. She wondered towards what end his questions
were leading. His face was inscrutable; she gained no inspiration from
it. There was a short pause. She wondered anxiously how her story had
affected him in regard to herself. After all, she was only a woman--a
woman of strong affections and deep feelings. Her hardihood, her mannish
self-reliance, were but outer coverings, the result of the surroundings
of her daily life. She feared lest he should turn from her in utter
loathing.

The Hon. Bunning-Ford had no such thoughts, however. Twenty-four hours
ago her story might have startled him. But now it was different. His was
as wild and reckless a nature as her own. Law and order were matters
which he regarded in the light of personal inclinations. He had seen too
much of the early life on the prairie to be horrified by the part this
courageous girl had taken in her blood-relative's interests. Under other
circumstances "Lord" Bill might well have developed into a "bad man"
himself. As it was, his sympathies were always with those whose daring
led them into ways of danger and risk of personal safety.

"How far does this valley extend?" he asked abruptly, stepping over as
though to obtain a view of the southern extremity of the mysterious
hollow.

"Guess we reckoned it 300 miles. Dead straight into the heart of the
mountains, then out again sharply into the foot-hills thirty miles south
of the border. It comes to an end in Montana."

"And Peter disposed of his stock that way--all by himself?" he asked,
returning to his seat upon the boulder.

"All by himself," the girl repeated, again wondering at the drift of his
questions. "My help only extended as far as this place. Peter used to
fatten his stock right here and then run them down into Montana. Down
there no one knew where he came from, and so wonderfully is this place
hidden that he was never traced. There is only one approach to it, and
that's across the keg. In winter that can be crossed anywhere, but no
sane persons would trust themselves in the foothills at that time of
year. For the rest it can only be crossed by the secret path. This
valley is a perfectly-hidden natural road for illicit traffic."

"Wonderful." The man permitted a smile to spread over his thin, eagle
face. "Peter's supposed to have made a pile of money."

"Yes, I guess Peter sunk a pile of dollars. He hid his bills right here
in the valley," Jacky replied, smiling back into the indolent face
before her. Then her face became serious again. "The secret of its
hiding-place died with him--it's buried deep down in the reeking keg."

"And you're sure he died in the 'reeking keg'?" There was a sharp
intonation in the question. The matter seemed to be of importance in the
story.

Jacky half started at the eagerness with which the question was put. She
paused for an instant before replying.

"I believe he died there," she said at length, like one weighing her
words well, "but it was never clearly proved. Most people think that he
simply cleared out of the country. I picked up his hat close beside the
path, and the crust of the keg had been broken. Yes, I believe he died
in the muskeg. Had he lived I should have known."

"But how comes it that Golden Eagle is still alive? Surely Peter would
never have crossed the keg on foot"

The girl looked perplexed for a moment. But her conviction was plainly
evident.

"No--he wouldn't have walked. Peter drank some."

"I see."

"Once I saved him from taking the wrong track at the point where the
path forks. He'd been drinking then. Yes," with a quiet assurance, "I
think he died in the keg."

Her companion seemed to have come to the end of his cross-examination.
He suddenly rose from his seat. The chattering of the ducks in the
distance caused him to turn his head. Then he turned again to the girl
before him. The indolence had gone from his eyes. His face was set, and
the firm pursing of his lips spoke of a determination arrived at. He
gazed down at the recumbent figure upon the ground. There was something
in his gaze which made the girl lower her eyes and look far out down the
valley.

"This brother of yours--he was tall and thin?"

The girl nodded.

"Am I right in my recollection of him when I say that he was possessed
of a dark, dark face, lantern jaws, thin--and high, prominent
cheek-bones?"

"That's so."

She faced him inquiringly as she answered his eager questions.

"Ah!"

He quickly turned again in the direction of the noisy water-fowl. Their
rollicking gambols sounded joyously on the brooding atmosphere of the
place. The wintry chill in the air was fast ousting the balmy breath of
spring. It was a warning of the lateness of the hour.

"Now listen to me," he went on presently, turning again from the
contemplation of his weird surroundings. "I lost all that was left to me
from the wreck of my little ranch this afternoon--no, not to Lablache,"
as the girl was about to pronounce the hated name, "but," with a wintry
smile, "to another friend of yours, Pedro Mancha. I also discovered,
this afternoon, the source of Lablache's phenomenal--luck. He has
systematically robbed both your uncle and myself--" He broke off with a
bitter laugh.

"My God!"

The girl had sprung to her feet in her agitation. And a rage
indescribable flamed into her face. The fury there expressed appalled
him, and he stood for a moment waiting for it to abate. What terrible
depths had he delved into? The hidden fires of a passionate nature are
more easily kept under than checked in their blasting career when once
the restraining will power is removed. For an instant it seemed that she
must choke. Then she hurled her feelings into one brief, hissing
sentence.

"Lablache--I hate him!"

And the man realized that he must continue his story.

"Yes, we lost our money not fairly, but by--cheating. I am ruined, and
your uncle--" Bill shrugged.

"My uncle--God help him!"

"I do not know the full extent of his losses, Jacky--except that they
have probably trebled mine."

"But I know to what extent the hound has robbed him," Jacky answered in
a tone of such bitter hatred as to cause her companion to glance
uneasily at the passionate young face before him. "I know, only too
well. And right thoroughly has Lablache done his work. Say, Bill, do you
know that that skunk holds mortgages on our ranch for two hundred
thousand dollars? And every bill of it is for poker. For twenty years,
right through, he has steadily sucked the old man's blood. Slick? Say a
six-year-old steer don't know more about a branding-iron than does
Verner Lablache about his business. For every dollar uncle's lost he's
made him sign a mortgage. Every bit of paper has the old man had to
redeem in that way. What he's done lately--I mean uncle--I can't say.
But Lablache held those mortgages nearly a year ago."

"Whew--" "Lord" Bill whistled under his breath. "Gee-whittaker. It's
worse than I thought. 'Poker' John's losses during the last winter, to
my knowledge, must have amounted to nearly six figures--the devil!"

"Ruin, ruin, ruin!"

The girl for a moment allowed womanly feeling to overcome her, for, as
her companion added his last item to the vast sum which she had quoted,
she saw, in all its horrible nakedness, the truth of her uncle's
position. Then she suddenly forced back the tears which had struggled
into her eyes, and, with indomitable courage, faced the catastrophe.

"But can't we fight him--can't we give him--"

"Law? I'm afraid not," Bill interrupted. "Once a mortgage is signed the
debt is no longer a gambling debt. Law is of no use to us, especially
here on the prairie. There is only one law which can save us. Lablache
must disgorge."

"Yes--yes! For every dollar he has stolen let him pay ten."

The passionate fire in her eyes burned more steadily now. It was the
fire which is unquenchable--the fire of a lasting hate, vengeful,
terrible. Then her tone dropped to a contemplative soliloquy.

"But how?" she murmured, looking away towards the stream in the heart of
the valley, as though in search of inspiration.

Bunning-Ford smiled as he heard the half-whispered question. But his
smile was not pleasant to look upon. All the latent recklessness which
might have made of him a good soldier or a great scoundrel was roused in
him. He was passing the boundary which divides the old Adam, which is in
every man, from the veneer of early training. He was
mutely--unconsciously--calling to his aid the savage instincts which the
best of men are not without. His face expressed something of what was
passing within his active brain, and the girl before him, as she turned
and watched the working features, usually so placid--indifferent, knew
that she was to see a side of his character always suspected by her but
never before made apparent. His thoughts at last found vent in words of
almost painful intensity.

"How?" he said, repeating the question as though it had been addressed
to himself. "He shall pay--pay! Everlastingly pay! So long as I have
life--and liberty, he shall pay!"

Then as if anticipating a request for explanation he told her the means
by which Lablache had consistently cheated. The girl listened,
speechless with amazement. She hung upon his every word. At the
conclusion of his story she put an abrupt question.

"And you gave no sign? He doesn't suspect that you know?"

"He suspects nothing."

"Good. You are real smart, Bill. Yes, shooting's no good. This is no
case for shooting. What do you propose? I see you mean business."

The man was still smiling but his smile had suddenly changed to one of
kindly humor.

"First of all Jacky," he said, taking a step towards her, "I can do
nothing without your help. I propose that you share this task with me.
No, no, I don't mean in that way," as she commenced to assure him of her
assistance. "What I mean is that--that I love you, dear. I want you to
give me the right to protect--your uncle."

He finished up with his hands stretched out towards her. Golden Eagle
stirred in his stable, and the two heard him whinny as if in approval.
Then as the girl made no answer Bill went on: "Jacky, I am a ruined man.
I have nothing, but I love you better than life itself. We now have a
common purpose in life. Let us work together."

His voice sank to a tender whisper. He loved this motherless girl who
was fighting the battle of life single-handed against overwhelming
odds, with all the strength of his nature. He had loved her ever since
she had reached woman's estate. In asking for a return of his affections
now he fully realized the cruelty of his course. He knew that the
future--his future--was to be given up to the pursuit of a terrible
revenge. And he knew that, in linking herself with him, she would
perforce be dragged into whatever wrong-doing his contemplated revenge
might lead him. And yet he dared not pause. It all seemed so plain--so
natural--that they should journey through the crooked, paths of the
future together. Was she not equally determined upon a terrible revenge?

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