The Story of the Foss River Ranch: A Tale of the Northwest

by Ridgwell Cullum

  Produced by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe and the PG Online DistributedProofreading Team

  The Story of the Foss River Ranch

  A Tale of the Northwest

  By RIDGWELL CULLUM

  Author of

  "The Law Breakers," "The Way of the Strong,""The Watchers of the Plains." Etc.

  A.L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York

  Published by Arrangement with THE PAGE COMPANY

  Published August, 1903

  TO MY WIFE

  CONTENTS

  CHAP. PAGE

  I THE POLO CLUB BALL 1

  II THE BLIZZARD: ITS CONSEQUENCES 12

  III A BIG GAME OF POKER 24

  IV AT THE FOSS RIVER RANCH 32

  V THE "STRAY" BEYOND THE MUSKEG 45

  VI "WAYS THAT ARE DARK" 56

  VII ACROSS THE GREAT MUSKEG 64

  VIII TOLD IN BAD MAN'S HOLLOW 76

  IX LABLACHE'S "COUP" 88

  X "AUNT" MARGARET REFLECTS 96

  XI THE CAMPAIGN OPENS 110

  XII LABLACHE FORCES THE FIGHT 120

  XIII THE FIRST CHECK 128

  XIV THE HUE AND CRY 138

  XV AMONG THE HALF-BREEDS 150

  XVI GAUTIER CAUSES DISSENSION 163

  XVII THE NIGHT OF THE PUSKY 176

  XVIII THE PUSKY 188

  XIX LABLACHE'S MIDNIGHT VISITOR 200

  XX A NIGHT OF TERROR 210

  XXI HORROCKS LEARNS THE SECRET OF THE MUSKEG 219

  XXII THE DAY AFTER 230

  XXIII THE PAW OF THE CAT 243

  XXIV "POKER" JOHN ACCEPTS 253

  XXV UNCLE AND NIECE 261

  XXVI IN WHICH MATTERS REACH A CLIMAX 270

  XXVII THE LAST GAMBLE 279

  XXVIII SETTLING THE RECKONING 287

  XXIX THE MAW OF THE MUSKEG 297

  CHAPTER I

  THE POLO CLUB BALL

  It was a brilliant gathering--brilliant in every sense of the word. Thehall was a great effort of the decorator's art; the people werefaultlessly dressed; the faces were strong, handsome--fair or darkcomplexioned as the case might be; those present represented the wealthand fashion of the Western Canadian ranching world. Intellectually, too,there was no more fault to find here than is usual in a ballroom in theWest End of London.

  It was the annual ball of the Polo Club, and that was a social functionof the first water--in the eyes of the Calford world.

  "My dear Mrs. Abbot, it is a matter which is quite out of my province,"said John Allandale, in answer to a remark from his companion. He wasleaning over the cushioned back of the Chesterfield upon which an oldlady was seated, and gazing smilingly over at a group of young peoplestanding at the opposite end of the room. "Jacky is one of those youngladies whose strength of character carries her beyond the control ofmere man. Yes, I know what you would say," as Mrs. Abbot glanced up intohis face with a look of mildly-expressed wonder; "it is true I am heruncle and guardian, but, nevertheless, I should no more dream ofinterfering with her--what shall we say?--love affairs, than suggesther incapacity to 'boss' a 'round up' worked by a crowd of Mexicangreasers."

  "Then all I can say is that your niece is a very unfortunate girl,"replied the old lady, acidly. "How old is she?"

  "Twenty-two."

  John Allandale, or "Poker" John as he was more familiarly called by allwho knew him, was still looking over at the group, but an expression hadsuddenly crept into his eyes which might, in a less robust-looking man,have been taken for disquiet--even fear. His companion's words hadbrought home to him a partial realization of a responsibility which washis.

  "Twenty-two," she repeated, "and not a relative living except agood-hearted but thoroughly irresponsible uncle. That child is to bepitied, John."

  The old man sighed. He took no umbrage at his companion'sbrusquely-expressed estimation of himself. He was still watching thegroup at the other end of the room. His face was clouded, and a keenobserver might have detected a curious twitching of his bronzed rightcheek, just beneath the eye. His eyes followed the movement of abeautiful girl surrounded by a cluster of men, immaculately dressed,bronzed--and, for the most part, wholesome-looking. She was dark, almostEastern in her type of features. Her hair was black with the blacknessof the raven's wing, and coiled in an ample knot low upon her neck. Herfeatures, although Eastern, had scarcely the regularity one expects insuch a type, whilst her eyes quashed without mercy any idea of suchextraction for her nationality. They were gray, deeply ringed at thepupil with black. They were keen eyes--fathomless in their suggestion ofstrength--eyes which might easily mask a world of good or evil.

  The music began, and the girl passed from amidst her group of admirersupon the arm of a tall, fair man, and was soon lost in the midst of thethrong of dancers.

  "Who is that she is dancing with now?" asked Mrs. Abbot, presently. "Ididn't see her go off; I was watching Mr. Lablache standing alone anddisconsolate over there against the door. He looks as if some one haddone him some terrible injury. See how he is glaring at the dancers."

  "Jacky is dancing with 'Lord' Bill. Yes, you are right, Lablache doesnot look very amiable. I think this would be a good opportunity tosuggest a little gamble in the smoking-room."

  "Nothing of the sort," snapped Mrs. Abbot, with the assurance of an oldfriend. "I haven't half finished talking to you yet. It is a mostextraordinary thing that all you people of the prairie love to call eachother by nicknames. Why should the Hon. William Bunning-Ford be dubbed'Lord' Bill, and why should that sweet niece of yours, who is thepossessor of such a charming name as Joaquina, be hailed by every manwithin one hundred miles of Calford as 'Jacky'? I think it is bothabsurd and--vulgar."

  "Possibly you are right, my dear lady. But you can never alter the waysof the prairie. You might just as well try to stem the stream of ourFoss River in early spring as try to make the prairie man call people bytheir legitimate names. For instance, do you ever hear me spoken of byany other name than 'Poker' John?"

  Mrs. Abbot looked up sharply. A malicious twinkle was in her eyes.

  "There is reason in your sobriquet, John. A man who spends his substanceand time in playing that fascinating but degrading game called 'DrawPoker' deserves no better title."

  John Allandale made a "clucking" sound with his tongue. It was his wayof expressing irritation. Then he stood erect, and glanced round theroom in search of some one. He was a tall, well-built man and carriedhis fifty odd years fairly well, in spite of his gray hair and the baldpatch at the crown of his head. Thirty years of a rancher's life had inno way lessened the easy carriage and distinguished bearing acquiredduring his upbringing. John Allandale's face and figure were redolent ofthe free life of the prairie. And although, possibly, his fifty-fiveyears might have lain more easily upon him he was a man of commandingappearance and one not to be passed unnoticed.

  Mrs. Abbot was the wife of the doctor of the Foss River Settlement andhad known John Allandale from the first day he had taken up his abode onthe land which afterwards became known as the Foss River Ranch untilnow, when he was acknowledged to be a power in the stock-raising world.She was a woman of sound, practical, common sense; he was a man ofaction rather than a thinker; she was a woman whose moral guide was aninvincible sense of duty; he was a man whose sense of responsibility andduty was entirely governed by an unreliable inclination. Moreover, hewas obstinate without being possessed of great strength of will. Theywere characters utterly opposed to one another, and yet they were the
greatest of friends.

  The music had ceased again and once more the walls were lined withheated dancers, breathing hard and fanning themselves. Suddenly JohnAllandale saw a face he was looking for. Murmuring an excuse to Mrs.Abbot, he strode across the room, just as his niece, leaning upon thearm of the Hon. Bunning-Ford, approached where he had been standing.

  Mrs. Abbot glanced admiringly up into Jacky's face.

  "A successful evening, Joaquina?" she interrogated kindly.

  "Lovely, Aunt Margaret, thanks." She always called the doctor's wife"Aunt."

  Mrs. Abbot nodded.

  "I believe you have danced every dance. You must be tired, child. Comeand sit down."

  Jacky was intensely fond of this old lady and looked upon her almost asa mother. Her affection was reciprocated. The girl seated herself and"Lord" Bill stood over her, fan in hand.

  "Say, auntie," exclaimed Jacky, "I've made up my mind to dance everydance on the program. And I guess I sha'n't Waste time on feeding."

  The girl's beautiful face was aglow with excitement. Mrs. Abbot's faceindicated horrified amazement.

  "My dear child, don't--don't talk like that. It is really dreadful."

  "Lord" Bill smiled.

  "I'm so sorry, auntie, I forgot," the girl replied, with an irresistiblesmile. "I never can get away from the prairie. Do you know, this eveningold Lablache made me mad, and my hand went round to my hip to get a gripon my six-shooter, and I was quite disappointed to feel nothing butsmooth silk to my touch. I'm not fit for town life, I guess. I'm aprairie girl; you can bet your life on it, and nothing will civilize me.Billy, do stop wagging that fan."

  "Lord" Bill smiled a slow, twinkling smile and desisted. He was a tall,slight man, with a faint stoop at the shoulders. He looked worthy of histitle.

  "It is no use trying to treat Jacky to a becoming appreciation of socialrequirements," he said, addressing himself with a sort of wearydeliberation to Mrs. Abbot. "I suggested an ice just now. She said shegot plenty on the ranch at this time of year," and he shrugged hisshoulders and laughed pleasantly.

  "Well, of course. What does one want ices for?" asked the girl,disdainfully. "I came here to dance. But, auntie, dear, where has unclegone? He dashed off as if he were afraid of us when we came up."

  "I think he has set his mind on a game of poker, dear, and--"

  "And that means he has gone in search of that detestable man, Lablache,"Jacky put in sharply.

  Her beautiful face flushed with anger as she spoke. But withal there wasa look of anxiety in her eyes.

  "If he must play cards I wish he would play with some one else," shepursued.

  "Lord" Bill glanced round the room. He saw that Lablache haddisappeared.

  "Well, you see, Lablache has taken a lot of money out of all of us.Naturally we wish to get it back," he said quietly, as if in defense ofher uncle's doings.

  "Yes, I know. And--do you?" The girl's tone was cutting.

  "Lord" Bill shrugged. Then,--

  "As yet I have not had that pleasure."

  "And if I know anything of Lablache you never will," put in Mrs. Abbot,curtly. "He is not given to parting easily. The qualification mostnecessary amongst gentlemen in the days of our grandfathers was keengambling. You and John, had you lived in those days, might have aspiredto thrones."

  "Yes--or taken to the road. You remember, even then, it was necessary tobe a 'gentleman' of the road."

  "Lord" Bill laughed in his lazy fashion. His keen gray eyes were halfveiled with eyelids which, seemed too weary to lift themselves. He was ahandsome man, but his general air of weariness belied the somewhat eaglecast of countenance which was his. Mrs. Abbot, watching him, thoughtthat the deplorable lassitude which he always exhibited masked a verydifferent nature. Jacky possibly had her own estimation of the man.Whatever it was, her friendship for him was not to be doubted, and, onhis part, he never attempted to disguise his admiration of her.

  A woman is often a much keener observer of men than she is given creditfor. A man is frequently disposed to judge another man by his mentaltalents and his peculiarities of temper--or blatant self-advertisement.A woman's first thought is for that vague, but comprehensive trait"manliness. She drives straight home for the peg upon which to hang herjudgment. That is why in feminine regard the bookworm goes to the wallto make room for the athlete. Possibly Jacky and Mrs. Abbot had probedbeneath "Lord" Bill's superficial weariness and discovered there anature worthy of their regard. They were both, in their several ways,fond of this scion of a noble house.

  "It is all very well for you good people to sit there and lecture--or,at least, say 'things,'" "Lord" Bill went on. "A man must haveexcitement. Life becomes a burden to the man who lives the humdrumexistence of ranch life. For the first few years it is all very well. Hecan find a certain excitement in learning the business. The 'round-ups'and branding and re-branding of cattle, these things arefascinating--for a time. Breaking the wild and woolly broncho isthrilling and he needs no other tonic; but when one has gone through allthis and he finds that no Broncho--or, for that matter, any otherhorse--ever foaled cannot be ridden, it loses its charm and becomesboring. On the prairie there are only two things left for him todo--drink or gamble. The first is impossible. It is low, degrading.Besides it only appeals to certain senses, and does not give one that'hair-curling' thrill which makes life tolerable. Consequently the wilypasteboard is brought forth--and we live again."

  "Stuff," remarked Mrs. Abbot, uncompromisingly.

  "Bill, you make me laugh," exclaimed Jacky, smiling up into his face."Your arguments are so characteristic of you. I believe it is nothingbut sheer indolence that makes you sit down night after night and handover your dollars to that--that Lablache. How much have you lost to himthis week?"

  "Lord" Bill glanced quizzically down at the girl.

  "I have purchased seven evenings' excitement at a fairly reasonableprice."

  "Which means?"

  The girl leant forward and in her eyes was a look of anxiety. She meantto have the truth.

  "I have enjoyed myself."

  "But the price?"

  "Ah--here comes your partner for the next dance," "Lord" Bill went on,still smiling. "The band has struck up."

  At that moment a broad-shouldered man, with a complexion speaking loudlyof the prairie, came up to claim the girl.

  "Hallo, Pickles," said Bill, quietly turning upon the newcomer andignoring Jacky's question. "Thought you said you weren't coming into-night?"

  "Neither was I," the man addressed as "Pickles" retorted, "but MissJacky promised me two dances," he went on, in strong Irish brogue; "thatsettled it. How d'ye do, Mrs. Abbot? Come along, Miss Jacky, we'relosing half our dance."

  The girl took the proffered arm and was about to move off. She turnedand spoke to "Lord" Bill over her shoulder.

  "How much?"

  Bill shrugged his shoulders in a deprecating fashion. The same gentlesmile hovered round his sleepy eyes.

  "Three thousand dollars."

  Jacky glided off into the already dancing throng.

  For a moment the Hon. Bunning-Ford and Mrs. Abbot watched the girl asshe glided in and out amongst the dancers, then, with a sigh, the oldlady turned to her companion. Her kindly wrinkled old face wore a sadexpression and a half tender look was in her eyes as they rested uponthe man's face. When she spoke, however, her tone was purelyconversational.

  "Are you not going to dance?"

  "No," abstractedly. "I think I've had enough."

  "Then come and sit by me and help to cheer an old woman up."

  "Lord" Bill smiled as he seated himself upon the lounge.

  "I don't think there is much necessity for my cheering influence, AuntMargaret. Amongst your many other charming qualities cheerfulness is notthe least. Doesn't Jacky look lovely to-night?"

  "To-night?--always."

  "Yes, of course--but Jacky always seems to surpass herself underexcitement. One would scarcely expect it, knowing her as we do. But sheis as wildly deli
ghted with dancing as any miss fresh from school."

  "And why not? It is little pleasure that comes into her life. Anorphan--barely twenty-two--with the entire responsibility of her uncle'sranch upon her shoulders. Living in a very hornet's nest of blacklegsand--and--"

  "Gamblers," put in the man, quietly.

  "Yes," Aunt Margaret went on defiantly, "gamblers. With the certainknowledge that the home she struggles for, through no fault of her own,is passing into the hands of a man she hates and despises--"

  "And who by the way is in love with her." "Lord" Bill's mouth wascuriously pursed.

  "What pleasure can she have?" exclaimed Mrs. Abbot, vehemently."Sometimes, much as I am attached to John, I feel as if I should liketo--to bang him!"

  "Poor old John!" Bill's bantering tone nettled the old lady, but shesaid no more. Her anger against those she loved could not last long.

  "'Poker' John loves his niece," the man went on, as his companionremained silent. "There is nothing in the world he would not do for her,if it lay within his power."

  "Then let him leave poker alone. His gambling is breaking her heart."

  The angry light was again in the old lady's eyes. Her companion did notanswer for a moment. His lips had assumed that curious pursing. When hespoke it was with, great decision.

  "Impossible, my dear lady--utterly impossible. Can the Foss River helpfreezing in winter? Can Jacky help talking prairie slang? Can Lablachehelp grubbing for money? Can you help caring for all of our worthlessselves who belong to the Foss River Settlement? Nothing can alter thesethings. John would play poker on the lid of his own coffin, while theundertakers were winding his shroud about him--if they'd lend him a packof cards."

  "I believe you encourage him in it," said the old lady, mollified, butstill sticking to her guns. "There is little to choose between you."

  The man shrugged his indolent shoulders. This dear old lady's loyalty toJacky, and, for that matter, to all her friends, pleased while it amusedhim.

  "Maybe." Then abruptly, "Let's talk of something else."

  At that moment an elderly man was seen edging his way through thedancers. He came directly over to Mrs. Abbot.

  "It's getting late, Margaret," he said, pausing before her. "I am toldit is rather gusty outside. The weather prophets think we may have ablizzard on us before morning."

  "I shouldn't be at all surprised," put in the Hon. Bunning-Ford. "Thesun-dogs have been showing for the last two days. I'll see what Jackysays, and then hunt out old John."

  "Yes, for goodness' sake don't let us get caught in a blizzard,"exclaimed Mrs. Abbot, fearfully. "If there is one thing I'm afraid of itis one of those terrible storms. We have thirty-five miles to go."

  The new-comer, Dr. Abbot, smiled at his wife's terrified look, but, ashe turned to urge Bill to hurry, there was a slightly anxious look onhis face.

  "Hurry up, old man. I'll go and see about our sleigh." Then in anundertone, "You can exaggerate a little to persuade them, for the storm_is_ coming on and we must get away at once."

  A moment or two later "Lord" Bill and Jacky were making their way to thesmoking-room. On the stairs they met "Poker" John. He was returning tothe ballroom.

  "We were just coming to look for you, uncle," exclaimed Jacky. "Theytell us it is blowing outside."

  "Just what I was coming to tell you, my dear. We must be going. Whereare the doctor and Aunt Margaret?"

  "Getting ready," said Bill, quietly. "Have a good game?"

  The old man smiled. His bronzed face indicated extreme satisfaction.

  "Not half bad, boy--not half bad. Relieved Lablache of five hundreddollars in the last jackpot. Held four deuces. He opened with full onaces."

  "Poker" John seemed to have forgotten the past heavy losses, and spokegleefully of the paltry five hundred he had just scooped in.

  The girl looked relieved, and even the undemonstrative "Lord" Billallowed a scarcely audible sigh to escape him. Jacky returned at once tothe exigencies of the moment.

  "Then, uncle, dear, let us hurry up. I guess none of us want to becaught in a blizzard. Say, Bill, take me to the cloak-room, rightaway."