The Story of the Foss River Ranch by Ridgwell Cullum

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Something in the half-wistful smile of her companion brought the old
lady quickly back from the realms of recollection, and a pair of keen,
kindly eyes met the steady gray-black orbs of the girl.

"Ah, Jacky, my child, we of the frivolous sex are always being forced
into considering the mundane matters of everyday life here at Foss
River. What is it, dear? I can see by your face that you are worrying
over something."

The girl threw herself into an easy chair, drawn up to the glowing stove
with careful forethought by the old lady. Mrs. Abbot reseated herself in
the straight-backed chair she usually affected. She carefully put her
book on one side and took up some darning, assiduously inserting the
needle but without further attempt at work. It was something to fix her
attention on whilst talking. Old Mrs. Abbot always liked to be able to
occupy her hands when talking seriously. And Jacky's face told her that
this was a moment for serious conversation.

"Where's the Doc?" the girl asked without preamble. She knew, of course,
but she used the question by way of making a beginning.

The old lady imperceptibly straightened her back. She now anticipated
the reason of her companion's coming. She glanced over the top of a pair
of gold _pince-nez_, which she had just settled comfortably upon the
bridge of her pretty, broad nose.

"He's down at the saloon playing poker. Why, dear?"

Her question was so innocent, but Jacky was not for a moment deceived by
its tone. The girl smiled plaintively into the fire. There was no
necessity for her to disguise her feelings before "Aunt" Margaret, she
knew. But her loyal nature shrank from flaunting her uncle's weaknesses
before even this kindly soul. She kept her fencing attitude a little
longer, however.

"Who is he playing with?" Jacky raised a pair of inquiring gray eyes to
her companion's face.

"Your uncle and--Lablache."

The shrewd old eyes watched the girl's face keenly. But Jacky gave no
sign.

"Will you send for him, 'Aunt' Margaret?" said the girl, quietly.
"Without letting him know that I am here," she added, as an
afterthought.

"Certainly, dear," the old lady replied, rising with alacrity. "Just
wait a moment while I send word. Keewis hasn't gone to his teepee yet. I
set him to clean some knives just now. He can go. These Indians are
better messengers than they are domestics." Mrs. Abbot bustled out of
the room.

She returned a moment later, and, drawing her chair beside that of the
girl, seated herself and rested one soft white hand on those of her
companion, which were reposing clasped in the lap of her dungaree skirt.

"Now, tell me, dear--tell me all about it--I know, it is your uncle."

The sympathy of her tone could never have been conveyed in mere words.
This woman's heart expressed its kindliness in voice and eyes. There was
no resisting her, and Jacky made no effort to do so.

For one instant there flashed into the girl's face a look of utter
distress. She had come purposely to talk plainly to the woman whom she
had lovingly dubbed "Aunt Margaret," but she found it very hard when it
came to the point, She cast about in her mind for a beginning, then
abandoned the quest and blurted out lamely the very thing from which she
most shrank.

"Say, auntie, you've observed uncle lately--I mean how strange he is?
You've noticed how often, now, he is--is not himself?"

"Whisky," said the old lady, uncompromisingly. "Yes, dear, I have. It is
quite the usual thing to smell' old man Smith's vile liquor when John
Allandale is about. I'm glad you've spoken. I did not like to say
anything to you about it. John's on a bad trail."

"Yes, and a trail with a long, downhill gradient," replied Jacky, with a
rueful little smile. "Say, aunt," she went on, springing suddenly to her
feet and confronting the old lady's mildly-astonished gaze, "isn't there
anything we can do to stop him? What is it? This poker and whisky are
ruining him body and soul. Is the whisky the result of his losses? Or is
the madness for a gamble the result of the liquor?"

"Neither the one--nor the other, my dear. It is--Lablache."

The older woman bent over her darning, and the needle passed, rippling,
round a "potato" in the sock which was in her lap. Her eyes were
studiously fixed upon the work.

"Lablache--Lablache! It is always Lablache, whichever way I turn.
Gee--but the whole country reeks of him. I tell you right here, aunt,
that man's worse than scurvy in our ranching world. Everybody and
everything in Foss River seems to be in his grip."

"Excepting a certain young woman who refuses to be ensnared."

The words were spoken quite casually. But Jacky started. Their meaning
was driven straight home. She looked down upon the bent, gray head as if
trying to penetrate to the thought that was passing within. There was a
moment's impressive silence. The clock ticked loudly in the silence of
the room. A light wind was whistling rather shrilly outside, round the
angles of the house.

"Go on, auntie," said the girl, slowly. "You haven't said enough--yet. I
guess you're thinking mighty--deeply."

Mrs. Abbot looked up from her work. She was smiling, but behind that
smile there was a strange gravity in the expression of her eyes.

"There is nothing more to say at present." Then she added, in a tone
from which all seriousness had vanished, "Hasn't Lablache ever asked you
to marry him?"

A light was beginning to dawn upon the girl.

"Yes--why?"

"I thought so." It was now Mrs. Abbot's turn to rise and confront her
companion. And she did so with the calm manner of one who is assured
that what she is about to say cannot be refuted. Her kindly face had
lost nothing of its sweet expression, only there was something in it
which seemed to be asking a mute question, whilst her words conveyed the
statement of a case as she knew it. "You dear, foolish people. Can you
not see what is going on before your very eyes, or must a stupid old
woman like myself explain what is patent to the veriest fool in the
settlement? Lablache is the source of your uncle's trouble, and,
incidentally, you are the incentive. I have watched--I have little else
to do in Foss River--you all for years past, and there is little that I
could not tell you about any of you, as far as the world sees you.
Lablache has been a source of a world of thought to me. The business
side of him is patent to everybody. He is hard, flinty, tyrannical--even
unscrupulous. I am telling you nothing new, I know. But there is another
side to his character which some of you seem to ignore. He is capable of
strong passions--ay, very strong passions. He has conceived a passion
for you. I will call it by no other name in such an unholy brute as
Lablache. He wishes to marry _you--he means to marry you_."

The silver-haired old lady had worked herself up to an unusual
vehemence. She paused after accentuating her last words. Jacky, taking
advantage of the break, dropped in a question.

"But--how does this affect my uncle?"

"Aunt" Margaret sniffed disdainfully and resettled the glasses which, in
the agitation of the moment, had slipped from her nose.

"Of course it affects your uncle," she continued more quietly. "Now
listen and I will explain." Once more these two seated themselves and
"Aunt" Margaret again plunged into her story.

"Sometimes I catch myself speculating as to how it comes about that you
have inspired this passion in such a man as Lablache," she began,
glancing into the somberly beautiful face beside her. "I should have
expected that mass of flesh and money--he always reminds me of a
jelly-fish, my dear--ugh!--to have wished to take to himself one of your
gaudy butterflies from New York or London for a wife; not a simple child
of the prairie who is more than half a wild--wild savage." She smiled
lovingly into the girl's face. "You see these coarse money-grubbers
always prefer their pills well gilded, and, as a rule, their matrimonial
pills need a lot of gilding to bring them up to the standard of what
they think a wife should be. However, it was not long before it became
plain to me that he wished to marry you. He may be a master of finance;
he may disguise his feelings--if he has any--in business, so that the
shrewdest observer can discover no vulnerable point in his armor of
dissimulation. But when it comes to matters pertaining
to--to--love--quite the wrong word in his case, my dear--these men are
as babes; worse, they are fools. When Lablache makes up his mind to a
purpose he generally accomplishes his end--"

"In business," suggested Jacky, moodily.

"Just so--in business, my dear. In matters matrimonial it may be
different. But I doubt his failure in that," went on Mrs. Abbot, with a
decided snap of her expressive mouth. "He will try by fair means or
foul, and, if I know anything of him, he will never relinquish his
purpose. He asked you to marry him--and of course you refused, quite
natural and right. He will not risk another refusal from you--these
people consider themselves very sensitive, my dear--so he will attempt
to accomplish his end by other means--means much more congenial to him,
the--the beast. There now, I've said it, my dear. The doctor tells me
that he is quite the most skilful player at poker that he has ever come
across."

"I guess that's so," said the girl, with a dark, ironical smile.

"And that his luck is phenomenal," the old lady went on, without
appearing to notice the interruption. "Very well. Your uncle, the old
fool--excuse me, my dear--has done nothing but gamble all his life. The
doctor says that he believes John has never been known to win more than
about once in a month's play, no matter with whom he plays. You know--we
all know--that for years he has been in the habit of raising loans from
this monumental cuttle-fish to settle his losses. And you can trust that
individual to see that these loans are well secured. John Allandale is
reputed very rich, but the doctor assures me that were Lablache to
foreclose his mortgages a very, very big slice of your uncle's worldly
goods would be taken to meet his debts.

"Now comes the last stage of the affair," she went on, with a sage
little shake of the head. "How long ago is it since Lablache proposed to
you? But there, you need not tell me. It was a little less than a year
ago--wasn't it?"

Her companion nodded her head. She wondered how "Aunt" Margaret had
guessed it. She had never told a soul herself. The shrewd little old
lady was filling her with wonder. The careful manner in which she had
pieced facts together and argued them out with herself revealed to her
a cleverness and observation she would never, in spite of the kindly
soul's counsels, have given her credit for.

"Yes, I knew I was right," said Mrs. Abbot, complacently. "Just about
the time when Lablache began seriously to play poker--about the time
when his phenomenal luck set in, to the detriment of your uncle. Yes, I
am well posted," as the girl raised her eyebrows in surprise. "The
doctor tells me a great deal--especially about your uncle, dear. I
always like to know what is going on. And now to bring my long
explanation to an end. Don't you see how Lablache intends to marry you?
Your uncle's losses this winter have been so terribly heavy--and all to
Lablache. Lablache holds the whip hand of him. A request from Lablache
becomes a command--or the crash."

"But how about the Doc," asked Jacky, quickly. "He plays with
them--mostly?"

Mrs. Abbot shrugged her shoulders.

"The doctor can take care of himself. He's cautious, and
besides--Lablache has no wish to win his money."

"But surely he must lose? Say, auntie, dear, it's not possible to play
against Lablache's luck without losing--some."

"Well, dear, I can't say I know much of the game," with some perplexity,
"but the doctor assures me that Lablache never hits him hard. Often and
often when the 'pot' rests between them Lablache will throw down his
hand--which goes to show that he does not want to take his money."

"An' I reckon goes to show that he's bucking dead against Uncle John,
only. Yes, I see."

The little gray head again bent over the darning, which had lain almost
untouched in her lap during her long recital. Now she resolutely drew
the darning yarn through the soft wool of the sock and re-inserted the
needle. The girl beside her bent an eager face before her, and, resting
her chin upon her hands, propped her elbows on her knees.

"Yes, auntie, I know," Jacky went on thoughtfully. "Lablache means to
put this marriage with me right through. I see it all. But say,"
bringing one of her brown hands down forcibly upon that of her
companion, which was concealed in the foot of the woolen sock, and
gripping it with nervous strength, "I guess he's reckoned without his
bride. I'm not going to marry Lablache, auntie, dear, and you can bet
your bottom dollar I'm not going to let him ruin uncle. All I want to do
is to stop uncle drinking. That is what scares me most."

"My child, Lablache is the cause of that. The same as he is the cause of
all troubles in Foss River. Your uncle realizes the consequences of the
terrible losses he has incurred. He knows, only too well, that he is
utterly in the money-lender's power. He knows he must go on playing,
vainly endeavoring to recover himself, and with each fresh loss he
drinks deeper to smother his fears and conscience. It is the result of
the weakness of his nature--a weakness which I have always known would
sooner or later lead to his undoing. Jacky, girl, I fear you will one
day have to marry Lablache or your uncle's ruin will be certainly
accomplished."

Mrs. Abbot's face was very serious now. She pitied from the bottom of
her heart this motherless girl who had come to her, in spite of her
courage and almost mannish independence, for that sympathy and advice
which, at certain moments, the strongest woman cannot do without. She
knew that all she had said was right, and even if her story could do no
material good it would at least have the effect of putting the girl on
her guard. In spite of her shrewdness Mrs. Abbot could never quite
fathom her _protegee_. And even now, as she gazed into the girl's face,
she was wondering how--in what manner--the narration of her own
observations would influence the other's future actions. The thick blood
of the half-breed slowly rose into Jacky's face, until the dark skin was
suffused with a heavy, passionate flush. Slowly, too, the somber eyes
lit--glowed--until the dazzling fire of anger shone in their depths.
Then she spoke; not passionately, but with a hard, cruel delivery which
sent a shiver thrilling through her companion's body and left her
shuddering.

"'Aunt' Margaret, I swear by all that's holy that I'll never marry that
scum. Say, I'd rather follow a round-up camp and share a greaser's
blankets than wear all the diamonds Lablache could buy. An' as for
uncle; say, the day that sees him ruined'll see Lablache's filthy brains
spoiling God's pure air."

"Child, child," replied the old lady, in alarm, "don't take oaths, the
rashness--the folly of which you cannot comprehend. For goodness' sake
don't entertain such wicked thoughts. Lablache is a villain, but--"

She broke off and turned towards the door, which, at that moment, opened
to admit the genial doctor.

"Ah," she went on, with a sudden change of manner back to that of her
usual cheerful self, "I thought you men were going to make a night of
it. Jacky came to share my solitude."

"Good evening, Jacky," said the doctor. "Yes, we were going to make a
night of it, Margaret. Your summons broke up the party, and for John's
sake--" He checked himself, and glanced curiously at the recurrent form
of the girl, who was now lounging back in her chair gazing into the
stove. "What did you want me for?"

Jacky rose abruptly from her seat and picked up her hat.

"'Aunt' Margaret didn't really want you, Doc. It was I who asked her to
send for you. I want to see uncle."

"Ah!"

The doctor permitted himself the ejaculation.

"Good-night, you two dear people," the girl went on, with a forced
attempt at cheerfulness. "I guess uncle'll be home by now, so I'll be
off."

"Yes, he left the saloon with me," said Doctor Abbot, shaking hands and
walking towards the door. "You'll just about catch him."

The girl kissed the old lady and passed out. The doctor stood for a
moment on his doorstep gazing after her.

"Poor child--poor child!" he murmured. "Yes, she'll find him--I saw him
home myself," And he broke off with an expressive shrug.

CHAPTER XI

THE CAMPAIGN OPENS

The summit of a hill, however insignificant its altitude, is always an
inspiring vantage point from which to survey the surrounding world.
There is a briskness of atmosphere on a hilltop which is inspiriting to
the most jaded of faculties; there is a sparkling vitality in the breath
of the morning air which must ever make life a joy and the world seem an
inexpressible delight in which it is the acme of happiness to dwell.

The exigencies of prairie life demand the habit of early rising, and
more often does the tiny human atom, which claims for its home the vast
tracts of natural pasture, gaze upon the sloth of the orb of day than
does that glorious sphere smile down upon a sleeping world.

Far as the eye can reach stretch the mighty wastes of waving grass--the
undulating plains of ravishing verdure. What breadth of thought must
thus be inspired in one who gazes out across the boundless expanse at
the glories of a perfect sunrise? How insignificant becomes the petty
affairs of man when gazing upon the majesty of God's handiwork. How
utterly inconceivable becomes the association of evil with such
transcendently beautiful creation? Surely no evil was intended to lurk
in the shadow of so much simple splendor.

And yet does the ghastly specter of crime haunt the perfect plains, the
majestic valleys, the noiseless, inspiring pine woods, the glistening,
snow-capped hills. And so it must remain as long as the battle of life
continues undecided--so long as the struggle for existence endures.

The Hon. Bunning-Ford rose while yet the daylight was struggling to
overcome the shades of night. He stood upon the tiny veranda which
fronted his minute house, smoking his early morning cigarette. He was
waiting for his coffee--that stimulating beverage which few who have
lived in the wilds of the West can do without--and idly luxuriating in
the wondrous charm of scene which was spread out before him. "Lord" Bill
was not a man of great poetic mind, but he appreciated his adopted
country--"God's country," as he was wont to call it--as can only those
who have lived in it. The prairie had become part of his very existence,
and he loved to contemplate the varying lights and colors which moved
athwart the fresh spring-clad plains as the sun rose above the eastern
horizon.

The air was chill, but withal invigorating, as he watched the steely
blue of the daylit sky slowly give place to the rosy tint of sunrise.
Slowly at first--then faster--great waves of golden light seemed to leap
from the top of one green rising ground to another; the gray white of
the snowy western mountains passed from one dead shade to another,
until, at last, they gleamed like alabaster from afar with a diamond
brilliancy almost painful to the eye. Thus the sun rose like some mighty
caldron of fire mounting into the cloudless azure of a perfect sky,
showering unctuous rays of light and heat upon the chilled life that was
of its own creating.

Bill was still lost in thought, gazing out upon the perfect scene from
the vantage point of the hill upon which his "shack" stood, when round
the corner of the house came a half-breed, bearing a large tin pannikin
of steaming coffee. He took the pannikin from the man and propped
himself against a post which helped to support the roof of the veranda.

"Are the boys out yet?" he asked the waiting Breed, and nodding towards
the corrals, which reposed at the foot of the hill and were overlooked
by the house.

"I guess," the fellow replied laconically. Then, as an afterthought,
"They're getting breakfast, anyhow."

"Say, when they've finished their grub you can tell 'em to turn to and
lime out the sheds. I'm going in to the settlement to-day. If I'm not
back to-night let them go right on with the job to-morrow."

The man signified his understanding of the instructions with a grunt.
This cook of "Lord" Bill's was not a man of words. His vocation had
induced an irascibility of temper which took the form of silence. His
was an incipient misanthropy.

Bill returned the empty pannikin and strolled down towards the corrals
and sheds. The great barn lay well away from where the cattle
congregated. This ranch was very different from that of the Allandales
of Foss River. It was some miles away from the settlement. Its
surroundings were far more open. Timber backed the house, it is true,
but in front was the broad expanse of the open plains. It was an
excellent position, and, governed by a thrifty hand, would undoubtedly
have thrived and ultimately vied with the more elaborate establishment
over which Jacky held sway. As it was, however, Bill cared little for
prosperity and money-making, and though he did not neglect his property
he did not attempt to extend its present limits.

The milch cows were slowly mouching from the corrals as he neared the
sheds. A diminutive herder was urging them along with shrill, piping
shrieks--vicious but ineffective. Far more to the purpose were the
efforts to a well-trained, bob-tailed sheep dog who was awaking echoes
on the brisk morning air with the full-toned note of his bark.

"Lord" Bill found one or two hands quietly enjoying their
after-breakfast smoke, but the majority had not as yet left the kitchen.
Outside the barn two men were busily soft-soaping their saddles and
bridles, whilst a third, seated on an upturned box, was wiping out his
revolver with a coal-oil rag. Bill passed them by with a nod and
greeting, and went into the stable. The horses were feeding, but as yet
the stalls had not been cleaned out. He returned and gave some
instructions to one of the men. Then he walked slowly back to the house.
Usually he would have stayed down there to see the work of the day
carried out; now, however, he was preoccupied. On this particular
morning he took but little interest in the place; he knew only too well
how soon it must pass from his possession.

Half-way up the hill he paused and turned his sleepy eyes towards the
south. At a considerable distance a vehicle was approaching at a
spanking pace. It was a buckboard, one of those sturdy conveyances built
especially for light prairie transport. As yet it was not sufficiently
near for him to distinguish its occupant, but the speed and cut of the
horses seemed familiar to him. He continued on towards the house, and
seated himself leisurely on the veranda, and, rolling himself another
cigarette, calmly watched the on-coming conveyance.

It was the habit of this man never to be prodigal in the display of
energy. He usually sat when there was no need for standing; he always
considered speech to be golden, but silence, to his way of thinking, was
priceless. And like most men of such opinion he cultivated thought and
observation.

He propped his back against the veranda post, and, taking a deep
inhalation from his cigarette, gazed long and earnestly, with
half-closed eyes, down the winding southern trail.

His curiosity, if such a feeling might have been attributed to him, was
soon set at rest, for, as the horses raced up the hill towards him, he
had no difficulty in recognizing the bulky proportions of his visitor.
Seeing the driver of the buckboard making for the house, two of the
"hands" had hastened up the hill to take the horses. Lablache, for it
was the fleshy money-lender, slid, as agilely as his great bulk would
permit him, from the vehicle, and the two men took charge of the horses.
Bill was not altogether cordial. It was not his way to be so to anybody
but his friends.

"How are you?" he said with a nod, but without rising from his recumbent
attitude. "Goin' to stay long?"

His latter question sounded churlish, but Lablache understood his
meaning. It was of the horses the rancher was thinking.

"An hour, maybe," replied Lablache, breathing heavily as a result of his
climb out of the buckboard.

"Right Take 'em away, boys. Remove the harness and give 'em a good rub
down. Don't water or feed 'em till they're cool. They're spanking
'plugs,' Lablache," he added, as he watched the horses being led down to
the barn. "Come inside. Had breakfast?" rising and knocking the dust
from the seat of his moleskin trousers.

"Yes, I had breakfast before daylight, thanks," Lablache said, glancing
quickly down at the empty corrals, where his horses were about to
undergo a rubbing down. "I came out to have a business chat with you.
Shall we go in-doors?"

"Most certainly."

There was an expressive curtness in the two words. Bill permitted
himself a brief survey of the great man's back as the latter turned
towards the front door. And although his half-closed lids hid the
expression of his eyes, the pursing of the lips and the fluctuating
muscles of his jaw spoke of unpleasant thoughts passing through his
mind. A business talk with Lablache, under the circumstances, could not
afford the rancher much pleasure. He followed the money-lender into the
sitting-room.

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