The Story of the Foss River Ranch Page 25

  The latter was in the tone of an afterthought. Strangely enough the careless way in which it was spoken carried the words well home to the rancher's muddled brain.

  "Interested?" he echoed blankly.

  "Why, yes. Certainly, you are the most interested. I mean from a monetary point of view. You see, the winding up of my business will entail the settling up of—er—my books."

  "Yes," said the rancher, with doubtful understanding.

  "Then—er—you take my meaning as to how—er—how you are interested."

  "You mean my arrears of interest," said the gray headed old man dazedly.

  "Just so. You will have to meet your liabilities to me."

  "But—but—man." The rancher spluttered for words to express himself. This was the money-lender's opportunity, and he seized it.

  "You see, John, in retiring from business I am not altogether a free agent. My affairs are so mixed up with the affairs of the Calford Trust and Loan Co. The period of one of your mortgages, for instance—the heaviest by the way—has long expired. It has not been renewed. The interest is in arrears. This mortgage was arranged by me jointly with the Calford Trust and Loan Co. When I retire it will have to be settled up. Being my friend I have not troubled you, but doubtless the company will have no sentiment about it. As to the others—they are debts of honor. I am afraid these things will have to be settled, John. You will of course be able to meet them."

  "God, man, but I can't," old John exclaimed. "I tell you I can't," he reiterated in a despairing voice.

  Lablache shrugged his obese shoulders.

  "That is unfortunate."

  "But, Lablache," said the rancher, gazing with drunken earnestness into the other's face, "you will not press me?"

  "Why no, John, of course not—as far as I am personally concerned. I have known you too long and have too much regard for you and—yours. No, no, John; of course I am a business man, but I am still your friend. Friend—eh, John—your friend."

  The rancher looked relieved, and helped himself to more whisky. Lablache joined him and they silently drank. "Poker" John set his empty glass down first.

  "Now Lablache, about these lia-liabilities," he said with a hiccup. "What is to be done?"

  "Well, John, we are friends of such old standing that I don't like to retire from business and leave you inconvenienced by the process. Perhaps there is a way by which I can help you. I am very wealthy—and wealth is a great power—a very great power even in this wild region. Now, suppose I make a proposition to you."

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXIV - "POKER" JOHN ACCEPTS

  "Ah!"

  There was a tone of drunken suspicion about the exclamation which was not lost on Lablache.

  "If you were suddenly called upon to meet your liabilities to me, John," said the money-lender, smiling, "how would it fix you?"

  "It would mean ruin," replied John, hoarsely.

  Lablache cleared his throat and snorted. Then he smiled benignly upon his old companion.

  "That's just what I thought. Well, you're not going to be ruined—by me. I'm going to burn the mortgages and settle with the Calford Trust and Loan Co. myself—"

  The rancher feared to trust his ears.

  "That is if you are willing to do something for me."

  In his eager hope John Allandale had leant forward so as not to miss a word the other said. Now, however, he threw himself back in his chair. Some suspicion was in his mind. It might have been intuition. He knew Lablache well. He laughed cynically.

  "That's more like you," he said roughly.

  "One moment," said the money-lender; the smile vanished from his lips. "Fair play's good medicine. We'll wipe out your debts if you'll tell your niece that you want her to marry me."

  "I'll—I'll—"

  "Hold on, John," with upraised hand, as the old man purpled with rage and started to shout.

  "I'll see you damned first!" The rancher had lurched on to his feet and his fist came down with a crash upon the corner of the table. Lablache remained unmoved.

  "Tut tut, man; now listen to me." The old man towered unsteadily over him. "I can't understand your antipathy to me as a husband for your niece. Give your consent—she'll do it for you—and, on my wedding day, I burn those mortgages and I'll settle 100,000 dollars upon Jacky. Besides this I'll put 200,000 dollars into your ranch to develop it, and only ask ten per cent, of the profits. Can I speak fairer? That girl of yours is a good girl, John; too good to kick about the prairie. I'll make her a good husband. She shall do as she pleases, live where she likes. You can always be with us if you choose. It's no use being riled, John, I'm making an honest proposition."

  The rancher calmed. In the face of such a generous proposal he could not insult Lablache. He was determined, however. It was strange, perhaps, that any suggestion for his influence to be used in his niece's choice of a husband should have such a violent effect upon him. But "Poker" John was a curious mixture of weakness and honor. He loved his niece with a doting affection. She was the apple of his eye. To him the thought of personal benefit at the cost of her happiness was a sacrilege. Lablache understood this. He knew that on this point the rancher's feelings amounted to little short of mania. And yet he persisted. John's nature was purely obstinate, and obstinacy is weakness. The money-lender knew that obstinacy could be broken down by steady determination. However, time, with him, was now everything. He must clinch the deal with as little delay as possible if he would escape from Foss River and the ruinous attacks of Retief. This thought was ever present with him and urged him to press the old man hard. If John Allandale would not be reasonable, he, Lablache, must force an acceptance of his terms from him.

  The rancher was mollified. His dulled brain suddenly saw a loop-hole of escape.

  "I guess you mean well enough, Lablache. But say, ask the child yourself."

  The other shook his massive head.

  "I have—she has refused."

  "Then why in thunder do you come to me?"

  The angry light was again in the rancher's bloodshot eyes.

  "Why? Because she will marry me if you choose. She can't refuse—she dare not."

  "Then, by God, I'll refuse for her—"

  He paused disconcertedly in his wrath. Lablache's cold eyes fixed him with their icy stare.

  "Very well, John," said Lablache, with a contemptuous shrug. "You know the inevitable result of such a hasty decision. It means ruin to you—beggary to that poor child." His teeth snapped viciously. Then he smiled with his mouth. "I can only put your de—refusal down to utter, unworthy selfishness."

  "Not selfishness, Lablache—not that. I would sacrifice everything in the world for that child—"

  "Except your own pleasure—your own personal comforts. Bah, man!" with scathing contempt, "your object must be plain to the veriest fool. You do not wish to lose her. You fear to lose your best servant lest in consequence you find the work of the ranch thrust upon your own hands. You would have no time to indulge your love of play. You would no longer be able to spend three parts of your time in 'old man' Smith's filthy bar. Your conduct is laudable, John—it is worthy of you."

  Lablache had expected another outburst of anger, but John only leered in response to the other's contempt. Drunk as he was, the rancher saw the absurdity of the attack.

  "Piffle!" he exclaimed. "Now see, when Jacky comes in you shall hear what she has to say."

  "Poker" John smiled with satisfaction at his own 'cuteness. He felt that he had outwitted the astute usurer. His simplicity, however, was of an infantile order.

  "That would be useless." Lablache did not want to be confronted with Jacky. "My mind is quite made up. The Calford Trust will begin proceedings at once, unless—"

  "Unless I give my consent."

  The satisfaction had suddenly died out of John Allandale's face. Even in his maudlin condition he understood the relentless purpose which backed the money-lender's proposal. To his credit be it said that he was thinking only of Jac
ky—the one being who was dearer to him than all else in the world. For himself he had no thought—he did not care what happened. But he longed to save his niece from the threatened catastrophe. His seared old face worked in his distress. Lablache beheld the sign, and knew that he was weakening.

  "Why force me to extremities, John?" he said presently. "If you would only be reasonable, I feel sure you would have no matter for regret. Now, suppose I went a step further."

  "No—no," weakly. There followed a pause. John Allandale avoided the other's eyes. To the old man the silence of the room became intolerable. He opened his lips to speak. Then he closed them—only to open them again. "But—but what step do you propose? Is—is it honest?"

  "Perfectly." Lablache was smiling in that indulgent manner he knew so well how to assume. "And it might appeal to you. Pressure is a thing I hate. Now—suppose we leave the matter to—to chance."

  "Chance?" The rancher questioned the other doubtfully.

  "Yes—why not?" The money-lender's smile broadened and he leaned forward to impress his hearer the more surely. "A little game—a game of poker, eh?"

  John Allandale shook his head. He failed to grasp the other's meaning.

  "I don't understand," he said, struggling with the liquor which fogged his dull brain.

  "No, of course you don't," easily. "Now listen to me and I'll tell you what I mean." The money-lender spoke as though addressing a wayward child. "The stakes shall be my terms against your influence with Jacky. If you win you keep your girl, and I cancel your mortgages; if I win I marry your girl under the conditions I have already offered. It's wholly an arrangement for your benefit. All I can possibly gain is your girl. Whichever way the game goes I must pay. Saints alive—but what an old fool I am!" He laughed constrainedly. "For the sake of a pretty face I'm going to give you everything—but there," seriously, "I'd do more to win that sweet child for my wife. What d'you say, John?"

  There could be no doubt that Lablache meant what he said, only he might have put it differently. Had he said that there was nothing at which he would stop to secure Jacky, it would have been more in keeping with the facts, He meant to marry the girl. His bilious eyes watered. There was a sensual look in them. His heavy lips parted and closed with a sucking smack as though expressing appreciation of a tasty morsel.

  John remained silent, but into his eyes had leapt a gleam which told of the lust of gaming aroused. His look—his whole face spoke for him. Lablache had primed his hook with an irresistible bait. He knew his man.

  "See," he went on, as the other remained silent, "this is the way we can arrange it. We will play 'Jackpots' only. The best seven out of thirteen. It will be a pretty game, in which, from an outsider's point of view, I alone can be the loser. If I win I shall consider myself amply repaid. If I lose—well," with an expressive movement of the hands, "I will take my chance—as a sportsman should. I love your niece, John, and will risk everything to win her. Now, think of it. It will be the sweetest, prettiest gamble. And, too, think of the stake. A fortune, John—a fortune for you. And for me a bare possibility of realizing my hopes."

  The old gambler's last vestige of honor struggled to make itself apparent in a negative movement of the head. But the movement would not come. His thoughts were of the game, and ere yet the last words of the money-lender had ceased to sound, he was captured. The satanic cunning of the proposal was lost upon his sodden intellect. It was a contemptible, pitiable piece of chicanery with which Lablache sought to trap the old man into giving his consent and assistance. The money-lender had no intention of losing the game. He knew he must win. He was merely resorting to this means because he knew the gambling spirit of the rancher. He knew that "Poker" John's obstinacy was proof against any direct attack; that no persuasion would induce the consent he desired. The method of a boxer pounding the body of an opponent whom he knows to be afflicted with some organic weakness of the heart is no more cowardly than was Lablache's proposal.

  The rancher still remained silent. Lablache moved in his chair; one of his great fat hands rested for a moment on John's coat sleeve.

  "Now, old friend," he said, with a hoarse, whistling breath. "Shall you play—play the game? It will be a grand finale to the many—er—comfortable games we have played together. Well? Thirteen 'Jackpots,' John—yes?"

  "And—and if I consented—mind, I only say 'if.'" The rancher's face twitched nervously.

  "You would stand to win a fortune—and also one for your niece."

  "Yes—yes. I might win. My luck may turn."

  "It must—you cannot always lose."

  "Quite right—I must win soon. It is a great offer—a splendid stake."

  "It is."

  "Yes—yes, Lablache, I will play. God, man! I will play you!"

  Beads of sweat stood on John Allandale's forehead as he literally hurled his acceptance at his companion. He accepted in the manner of one who knows he is setting at defiance all honesty and right, urged to such a course by an all-mastering passion, which he is incapable of resisting.

  Strange was the nature of this man. He knew himself as it is given to few weak men to know themselves. He knew that he wished to do this thing. He knew, also, that he was doing wrong. Moreover he knew that he wished to stand by Jacky and be true to his great affection for her. He was under the influence of potent spirit, and yet his thoughts and judgment were clear upon the subject. His mania had possessed him and he would play from choice; and all the while he could hear the voice of conscience rating him. He would have preferred to play now, but then he remembered the quantity of spirit he had consumed. He must take no chances. When he played Lablache he must be sober. The delay of one night, however, he knew would bring him agonies of remorse, therefore he would settle everything now so that in the throes of conscience he could not refuse to play. He feared delay. He feared the vacillation which the solitary hours of the night might bring to him. He leant forward and thickly urged the money-lender.

  "When shall it be? Quick, man, let us have no delay. The time, Lablache—the time and place."

  Lablache wheezed unctuously.

  "That's the spirit I like, John," he said, fingering his watch-chain with his fat hands. "To business. The place—er—yes." A moment's thought whilst the rancher waited with impatience. "Ah, I know. That implement shed on your fifty-acre pasture. Excellent. There is a living room in it. You used to keep a man there. It is disused now. It will suit us admirably. We can use that room. And the time—"

  "To-morrow, Lablache. It must be to-morrow. I could not wait longer," broke in the other, in a voice husky with eagerness and liquor. "After dark, when no one can see us going out to the shed. No one must know, Lablache, mind—no one. Jacky will not dream of what we are doing."

  "Very well. To-morrow, then. At eleven o'clock at night, John. And as you say in the meantime—mum."

  Lablache was pleased with the rancher's suggestion. It quite fell in with his own ideas. Everything must be done quickly now. He must get away from Foss River without delay.

  "Yes—yes. Mum's the word." "Poker" John indicated his approval with an upward leer as Lablache rose from his chair, and a grotesque pursing of his lips and his forefinger at the side of his nose. Then he, too, struggled to his feet, and, with unsteady hand, poured out two stiff "horns" of whisky.

  He held one out to the money-lender and took the other himself.

  "I drink to the game," he said haltingly. "May—fortune come my way."

  Lablache nodded comprehensively and slowly raised his glass.

  "Fortune is yours anyhow. Therefore I trust that I win the game."

  The two men silently drank. After which Lablache turned to go. He paused at the French window and plunged his hand into his coat pocket.

  The night was dark outside, and again he became a prey to his moral terror of the half-breed raider. He drew out his revolver and opened the chamber. The weapon was loaded. Then he turned to old John who was staring at him.

  "It's risky for me to
move about at night, John. I fear Retief has not done with me yet. Good-night," and he passed out on to the veranda.

  Lablache was the victim of a foreboding. It is a custom to laugh at forebodings and set them down to the vagaries of a disordered stomach. We laugh too at superstition. Yet how often do we find that the portentous significance of these things is actually realized in fact. Lablache dreaded Retief.

  What would the next twenty-four hours bring forth?

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXV - UNCLE AND NIECE

  "Poker" John's remorse came swiftly, but not swiftly or strongly enough to make him give up the game. After Lablache had taken his departure the old rancher sat drinking far into the night. With each fresh potation his conscience became less persistent in its protest. He sought no bed that night, for gradually his senses left him and he slept where he sat, until, towards daybreak he awoke, partially sober and shivering with cold. Then he arose, and, wrapping himself in a heavy overcoat, flung himself upon a couch, where he again sought sobriety in sleep.

  He awoke again soon after daylight. His head was racked with pain. He, at first, had only a dim recollection of what had occurred the night before. There was a vague sense of something unpleasant having happened, but he did not attempt to recall it. He went to his bedroom and douched himself with cold water. Then he set out for the kitchen in search of coffee with which to slack his burning thirst. It was not until he had performed his ablutions that the whole truth of his interview with Lablache came back to him. Immediately, now that the effect of the liquor had passed off, he became a prey to terrible remorse.

  Possibly had Jacky been at hand at that moment, the whole course of events might have been altered. Her presence, a good breakfast, and occupation might have given him strength to carry out the rejection of Lablache's challenge which his remorse suggested. However, none of these things were at hand, and John Allandale set out, from force of habit, to get his morning "Collins" down at "old man" Smith's. Something to pull him together before he encountered his niece, he told himself.