The Story of the Foss River Ranch Page 15

  "Well?" in a tone of almost painful anxiety.

  The girl had started forward and was leaning with her two brown hands upon the back of a chair. Her face was pale beneath her tan, and her eyes were bright with excitement. For answer, Bunning-Ford stepped to the French window and closed it, having first glanced up and down the veranda to see that it was empty. Not a soul was in sight. The tall pines, which lined the approach to the house, waved silently in the light breeze. The clear sky was gloriously blue. On everything was the peace of summer.

  The man swung round and came towards the girl. His eagle face was lit up by an expression of triumph. He held out his two hands, and the girl placed her own brown ones in them. He drew her towards him and embraced her in silence. Then he moved a little away from her. His gleaming eyes indexed the activity of his mind.

  "The cattle are safe—as houses. It was a grand piece of work, dear. They would never have faced the path without your help. Say, girlie, I'm an infant at handling stock compared with you. Now—what news?"

  Jacky was smiling tenderly into the strong face of the man. She could not help but wonder at the reckless daring of this man, who so many set down as a lazy good-for-nothing. She knew—she had always known, she fancied—the strong character which underlay that indolent exterior. It never appealed to her to regret the chance that had driven him to use his abilities in such a cause. There was too much of the wild half-breed blood in her veins to allow her to stop to consider the might-have-beens. She gloried in his daring, and something of the spirit which had caused her to help her half-brother now forced from her an almost worshiping adoration for her lover.

  "Horrocks is to spare no expense in tracking—Retief—down." She laughed silently. "Lablache is to pay. They are going over the old ground again, I guess. The tracks of the cattle. Horrocks is not to be feared. We must watch Lablache. He will act. Horrocks will only be his puppet."

  Bill pondered before he spoke.

  "Yes," he said thoughtfully at last, "that is the best of news. The very best. Horrocks can track. He is one of the best at that game. But I have taken every precaution. Tracking is useless—waste of time."

  "I know that from past experience, Bill. Now that the campaign has begun, what is the next move?"

  The girl was all eagerness. Her beautiful dark face was no longer pale. It was aglow with the enthusiasm of her feelings. Her deep, meaning eyes burned with a consuming brilliancy. Framed in its setting of curling, raven hair, her face would have rejoiced the heart of the old masters of the Van Dyke school. She was wondrously beautiful. Bill gazed upon her features with devouring eyes, and thoughts of the wrongs committed by Lablache against her and hers teemed through his brain and set his blood surging through his veins in a manner that threatened to overbalance his usual cool judgment. He forced himself to an outward calmness, however, and the lazy tones of his voice remained as easy as ever.

  "On the result of the next move much will depend," he said. "It is to be a terrific coup, and will entail careful planning. It is fortunate that the people at the half-breed camp are the friends of—of—Retief."

  "Yes, and of mine," put in the girl. Then she added slowly, and as though with painful thought, "Say, Bill, be—be careful. I guess you are all I have in the world—you and uncle. Do you know, I've kind of seen to the end of this racket. Maybe there's trouble coming. Who's to be lagged I can't say. There are shadows around, Bill; the place fairly hums with 'em. Say, don't—don't give Lablache a slant at you. I can't spare you, Bill."

  The tall thin figure of her companion stepped over towards her, and she felt herself encircled by his long powerful arms. Then he bent down from his great height and kissed her passionately upon the lips.

  "Take comfort, little girl. This is a war, if necessary, to the death. Should anything happen to me, you may be sure that I leave you freed from the snares of old Shylock. Yes, I will be careful, Jacky. We are playing for a heavy stake. You may trust me."

  * * *

  CHAPTER XV - AMONG THE HALF-BREEDS

  Lablache was not a man of variable moods. He was too strong; his purpose in life was too strong for any vacillation of temper. His one aim—his whole soul—was wrapt in a craving for money-making and the inevitable power which the accumulation of great wealth must give him. In all his dealings he was perfectly—at least outwardly—calm, and he never allowed access to anger to thwart his ends. An inexorable purpose governed his actions to an extent which, while his feelings might undergo paroxysms of acute changes, never permitted him to make a false move or to show his hand prematurely. But this latest reverse had upset him more than he had ever been upset in his life, and all the great latent force of his character had suddenly, as it were, been precipitated into a torrent of ungovernable fury. He had been wounded deeply in the most vulnerable spot in his composition. Thirty-five thousands of his precious dollars ruthlessly torn from his capacious and retentive money-bags. Truly it was a cruel blow, and one well calculated to disturb the even tenor of his complacency.

  Thought was very busy within that massive head as he lumped heavily along from John Allandale's house in the direction of his own store. Some slight satisfaction was his at the reflection of the prompt assistance he had obtained from the police. It was the satisfaction of a man who lived by the assistance of the law, of a man who, in his own inordinate arrogance, considered that the law was made for such as he, to the detriment of those who attempt to thwart the rich man's purpose. He knew Horrocks to be capable, and although he did not place too much reliance on that astute prairie-man's judgment—he always believed in his own judgment first—still, he knew that he could not have obtained better assistance, and was therefore as content as circumstances would permit. That he was sanguine of recovering his property was doubtful. Lablache never permitted himself the luxury of optimism. He set himself a task and worked steadily on to the required end. So he had decided now. He did not permit himself to dwell on the desired result, or to anticipate. He would simply leave no stone unturned to bring about the recovery of his stolen property.

  He moved ponderously along over the smooth dusty road, and at last reached the market-place. The settlement was drowsily quiet. Life of a sort was apparent but it was chiefly "animal." The usual number of dogs were moving about, or peacefully basking in the sun; a few saddle horses were standing with dejected air, hitched to various tying-posts. A buckboard and team was standing outside his own door. The sound of the smith's hammer falling upon the anvil sounded plaintively upon the calmness of the sleepy village. In spite of the sensational raid of the night before, Foss River displayed no unusual activity.

  At length the great man reached his office, and threw himself, with great danger to his furniture, into his capacious wicker chair. He was in no mood for business. Instead he gazed long and thoughtfully out of his office window. What somber, vengeful thoughts were teeming through his brain would be hard to tell, his mask-like face betrayed nothing. His sphinx-like expression was a blank.

  In this way half an hour and more passed. Then his attention became fixed upon a tall figure sauntering slowly towards the settlement from the direction of Allandale's ranch. In a moment Lablache had stirred himself, and a pair of field-glasses were leveled at the unconscious pedestrian. A moment later an exclamation of annoyance broke from the money-lender.

  "Curse the man! Am I never to be rid of this damned Englishman?" He stood now gazing malevolently at the tall figure of the Hon. Bunning-Ford, who was leisurely making his way towards the village. For the time being the channel of Lablache's thoughts had changed its direction. He had hoped, in foreclosing his mortgages on the Englishman's property, to have rid Foss River of the latter's, to him, hateful presence. But since misfortune had come upon "Lord" Bill, the Allandales and he had become closer friends than ever. This effort had been one of the money-lender's few failures, and failure galled him with a bitterness the recollection of which no success could eliminate. The result was a greater hatred for the object of his veng
eance, and a lasting determination to rid Foss River of the Englishman forever. And so he remained standing and watching until, at length, the entrance of one of his clerks, to announce that the saloon dinner-time was at hand, brought him out of his cruel reverie, and he set off in quest of the needs of his inner man, a duty which nothing, of whatever importance, was allowed to interfere with.

  In the meantime, Horrocks, or, as he was better known amongst his comrades, "the Ferret," was hot upon the trail of the lost cattle. Horrocks bristled with energy at every point, and his men, working with him, had reason to be aware of the fact. It was an old saying amongst them that when "the Ferret" was let loose there was no chance of bits rusting. In other words, his mileage report to his chiefs would be a long one.

  As the sergeant anticipated, it was child's play to track the stolen herd. The tracks left by the fast-driven cattle was apparent to the veriest greenhorn, and Horrocks and his men were anything but greenhorns.

  Long before evening closed in they had followed the footprints right down to the edge of the great muskeg, and already Horrocks anticipated a smart capture. But his task seemed easier than it really was. On the brink of the keg the tracks became confused. With some difficulty the sleuth instincts of these accomplished trackers led them to follow the marks for a mile and a half along the edge of the mire, then, it seemed, the herd had been turned and driven with great speed back on their tracks. But worse confusion became apparent; and "the Ferret" soon realized that the herd had been driven up and down along the border of the great keg with a view to evading further pursuit. So frequently had this been done that it was impossible to further trace the stock, and the sun was already sinking when Horrocks dismounted, and with him his men were at last forced to acknowledge defeat.

  He had come to a standstill with a stretch of a mile and a half of cattle tracks before him. There was no sign further than this of where the beasts had been driven. The keg itself gave no clew. It was as green and trackless as ever, and again on the land side there was not a single foot-print beyond the confused marks along the quagmire's dangerous border.

  The work of covering retreat had been carried out by a master hand, and Horrocks was not slow to acknowledge the cleverness of the raider. With all one good prairie man's appreciation for another he detected a foeman worthy of his steel, and he warmed to the problem set out before him. The troopers waited for their superior's instructions. As "the Ferret" did not speak one of the men commented aloud.

  "Smart work, sergeant," he said quietly. "I'm not surprised that this fellow rode roughshod over the district for so long and escaped all who were sent to nab him. He's clever, is P. Retief, Esq."

  Horrocks was looking out across the great keg. Strangely enough they had halted within twenty yards of the willow bush, at which point the secret path across the mire began. The man with the gold chevrons upon his arm ignored the remark of his companion, but answered with words which occurred in his own train of thought.

  "It's plain enough, I guess. Yonder is the direction taken by the cattle," he said, nodding his head towards the distant peaks of the mountains beyond. "But who's got the nerve to follow 'em? Say," he went on sharply, "somewhere along this bank, I mean in the mile and a half of hoof marks, there's a path turns out, or, at least, firm ground by which it is possible to cross this devil's keg. It must be so. Cattle can't be spirited away. Unless, of course—but no, a man don't duff cattle to drown 'em in a swamp. They've crossed this pernicious mire, boys. We may nab our friend, Retief, but we'll never clap eyes on those beasts."

  "It's the same old business over again, sergeant," said one of the troopers. "I was on this job before, and I reckon we landed hereabouts every time we lit on Retief's trail. But we never got no further. Yonder keg is a mighty hard nut to crack. I guess the half-breed's got the bulge on us. If path across the mire there is he knows it and we don't, and, as you say, who's goin' to follow him?" Having delivered himself of these sage remarks he stepped to the brink of the mire and put his foot heavily upon its surface. His top-boot sank quickly through the yielding crust, and the black subsoil rose with oily, sucking action, 'and his foot was immediately buried out of sight. He drew it out sharply, a shudder of horror quickening his action. Strong man and hardy as he was, the muskeg inspired him with a superstitious terror. "Guess there ain't no following them beasties through that, sergeant. Leastways, not for me."

  Horrocks had watched his subordinate's action thoughtfully. He knew, without showing, that no man or beast could attempt to cross the mire with any hope of success without the knowledge of some secret path. That such a path, or paths, existed he believed, for many were the stories of how criminals in past days escaped prairie law by such means. However, he had no knowledge of any such paths himself, and he had no intention of sacrificing his life uselessly in an attempt to discover the keg's most jealously guarded secret.

  He turned back to his horse and prepared to vault into the saddle.

  "It's no use, boys. We are done for to-day. You can ride back to the settlement. I have another little matter on hand. If any of you see Lablache just tell him I shall join him in about two hours' time."

  Horrocks rode off and his four troopers headed towards the Foss River.

  Despite the fact that his horse had been under the saddle for nearly eight hours Horrocks rode at a great pace. He was one of those men who are always to be found on the prairie—thorough horsemen. Men who, in times of leisure, care more for their horses than they do for themselves; men who regard their horses as they would a comrade, but who, when it becomes a necessity to work or travel, demand every effort the animal can make by way of return for the care which has been lavished upon it. Such men generally find themselves well repaid. A horse is something more than a creature with four legs, one at each corner, head out of one end, tail out of the other. There is an old saying in the West to the effect that a thorough horseman is worthy of man's esteem. The opinion amongst prairie men is that a man who loves his horse can never be wholly bad. And possibly we can accept this decision upon the subject without question, for their experience in men, especially in "bad men," is wide and varied.

  Horrocks avoided the settlement, leaving it well to the west, and turned his willing beast in the direction of the half-breed camp. There was an ex-Government scout living in this camp whom he knew; a man who was willing to sell to his late employers any information he chanced to possess. It was the officer's intention to see this man and purchase all he had to sell, if it happened to be worth buying. Hence his visit to the camp.

  The evening shadows were fast lengthening when he espied in the distance the squalid shacks and dilapidated teepees of the Breeds. There was a large colony of those wanderers of the West gathered together in the Foss River camp. We have said that these places are hot-beds of crime, a curse to the country; but that description scarcely conveys the wretched poverty and filthiness of these motley gatherings. From a slight rising ground Horrocks looked down on what might have, at first sight, been taken for a small village. A scattering of small tumbled-down shacks, about fifty in number, set out on the fresh green of the prairie, created the first blot of uncleanly, uncouth habitation upon the view. Add to these a proportionate number of ragged tents and teepees, a crowd of unwashed, and, for the most part, undressed children, a hundred fierce and half-starved dogs of the "husky" type. Imagine a stench of dung fire cooking, and the gathering of millions of mosquitoes about a few choyeuses and fat cattle grazing near by, and the picture as it first presents itself is complete.

  The approach to such a place makes one almost wish the undulating prairie was not quite so fair a picture, for the contrast with man's filthy squalor is so great that the feeling of nauseation which results is almost overpowering. Horrocks, however, was used to such scenes. His duty often took him into worse Breed camps than this. He treated such places to a perfectly callous indifference, and regarded them merely as necessary evils.

  At the first shack he drew up and instantly beca
me the center of attention from a pack of yelping dogs and a number of half-fearful, wide-eyed ragamuffins, grimy children nearly naked and ranging in age from two years up to twelve. Young as the latter were they were an evil-looking collection. The noisy greeting of the camp dogs had aroused the elders from their indolent repose within the shacks, and Horrocks quickly became aware of a furtive spying within the darkened doorways and paneless windows.

  The reception was nothing unusual to the officer. The Breeds he knew always fought shy of the police. As a rule, such a visit as the present portended an arrest, and they were never quite sure who the victim was to be and the possible consequences. Crime was so common amongst these people that in nearly every family it was possible to find one or more law-breakers and, more often than not, the delinquent was liable to capital punishment.

  Ignoring his cool reception, Horrocks hitched his horse to a tree and stepped up to the shack, regardless of the vicious snapping of the dogs. The children fled precipitately at his approach. At the door of the house he halted.

  "Hallo there, within!" he called.

  There was a moment's pause, and he heard a whispered debate going on in the shadowy interior.

  "Hey!" he called again. "Get a hustle on, some of you. Get out," he snapped sharply, as a great husky, with bristling hair, came snuffing at his legs. He aimed a kick at the dog, which, in response, sullenly retreated to a safe distance.

  The angry tone of his second summons had its effect, and a figure moved cautiously within and finally approached the door.

  "Eh! what is it?" asked a deep, guttural voice, and a bulky form framed itself in the opening.

  The police-officer eyed the man keenly. The twilight had so far deepened that there was barely sufficient light to distinguish the man's features, but Horrocks's survey satisfied him as to the fellow's identity. He was a repulsive specimen of the Breed; the dark, lowering face had something utterly cruel in its expression. The cast was brutal in the extreme; sensual, criminal. The shifty black eyes looked anywhere but into the policeman's face.