The Story of the Foss River Ranch Read online

  "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 protégée. 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.

  The apartment was very bare, mannish, and scarcely the acme of neatness. A desk, a deck chair, a bench and a couple of old-fashioned windsor chairs; a small table, on which breakfast things were set, an old saddle, a rack of guns and rifles, a few trophies of the chase in the shape of skins and antelope heads comprised the furniture and decorations of the room. And too, in that slightly uncouth collection, something of the character of the proprietor was revealed.

  Bunning-Ford was essentially careless of comfort. And surely he was nothing if not a keen and ardent sportsman.

  "Sit down." Bill indicated the chairs with a wave of the arm. Lablache dubiously eyed the deck chair, then selected one of the unyielding Windsor chairs as more safe for the burden of his precious body, tested it, and sat down, emitting a gasp of breath like an escape of steam from a safety-valve. The younger man propped himself on the corner of his desk.

  Lablache looked furtively into his companion's face. Then he turned his eyes in the direction of the window. Bill said nothing, his face was calm. He intended the money-lender to speak first. The latter seemed indisposed to do so. His lashless eyes gazed steadily out at the prairie beyond. "Lord" Bill's persistent silence at length forced the other into speech. His words came slowly and were frequently punctuated with deep breaths.

  "Your ranch—everything you possess is held on first mortgage."

  "Not all." Bunning-Ford's answer came swiftly. The abruptness of the other's announcement nettled him. The tone of the words co
nveyed a challenge which the younger man was not slow to accept.

  Lablache shrugged his shoulders with deliberation until his fleshy jowl creased against the woolen folds of his shirt front.

  "It comes to the same thing," he said; "what I—what is not mortgaged is held in bonds. The balance, practically all of it, you owe under signature to Pedro Mancha. It is because of that—latest—debt I am here."

  "Ah!"

  Bill rolled a fresh cigarette and lit it. He guessed something of what was coming—but not all.

  "Mancha will force you to meet your liabilities to him. Your interest is shortly due to the Calford Loan Co. You cannot meet both."

  Lablache gazed unblinkingly into the other's face. He was thoroughly enjoying himself.

  Bill was staring pensively at his cigarette. One leg swung pendulum fashion beside the desk. His indebtedness troubled him not a jot. He was trying to fathom the object of this prelude. Lablache, he knew, had not come purposely to make these plain statements. He blew a cloud of smoke down his nostrils with much appreciation. Then he heaved a sigh as though his troubles were too great for him to bear.

  "Right—dead right, first time."

  The lazy eyes appeared to be staring into space. In reality they were watching the doughy countenance before him. "What do you propose to do?" Lablache asked, ignoring the other's flippant tone.

  Bill shrugged.

  "Debts of honor must be met first," he said quietly. "Mancha must be paid in full. I shall take care of that. For the rest, I have no doubt your business knowledge will prompt you as to what course the Calford Loan Co. and yourself had best adopt."