CHAPTER V
THE "STRAY" BEYOND THE MUSKEG
The Foss River Settlement nestles in one of those shallowhollows--scarcely a valley and which yet must be designated by such aterm--in which the Canadian North-West abounds.
We are speaking now of the wilder and less-inhabited parts of the greatcountry, where grain-growing is only incidental, and the prevailingindustry is stock-raising. Where the land gradually rises towards themaze-like foothills before the mighty crags of the Rockies themselves bereached. A part where yet is to be heard of the romantic crimes of thecattle-raiders; a part to where civilization has already turned itsface, but where civilizaton has yet to mature. In such a country issituate the Foss River Settlement.
The settlement itself is like dozens of others of its kind. There is theschool-house, standing by itself, apart from other buildings, as if inproud distinction for its classic vocation. There is the church, orrather chapel, where every denomination holds its services. A saloon,where four per cent. beer and prohibition whiskey of the worstdescription is openly sold over the bar; where you can buy poker "chips"to any amount, and can sit down and play from daylight till dark, fromdark to daylight. A blacksmith and wheelwright; a baker; a carpenter; adoctor who is also a druggist; a store where one can buy every articleof dry goods at exorbitant prices--and on credit; and then, besides allthis, well beyond the township limit there is a half-breed settlement, aplace which even to this day is a necessary evil and a constant thornin the side of that smart, efficient force--the North-West MountedPolice.
Lablache's store stands in the center of the settlement, facing on tothe market-place--the latter a vague, undefined space of waste ground onwhich vendors of produce are wont to draw up their wagons. The store isa massive building of great extent. Its proportions rise superior to itssurroundings, as if to indicate in a measure its owner's worldly statusin the district It is built entirely of stone, and roofed withslate--the only building of such construction in the settlement.
A wonderful center of business is Lablache's store--the chief one for aradius of fifty miles. Nearly the whole building is given up to thestocking of goods, and only at the back of the building is to be found asmall office which answers the multifarious purposes of office, parlor,dining-room, smoking-room--in short, every necessity of its owner,except bedroom, which occupies a mere recess partitioned off by thinmatchwood boarding.
Wealthy as Lablache was known to be he spent little or no money uponhimself beyond just sufficient to purchase the bare necessities of life.He had few requirements which could not be satisfied under the headingsof tobacco and food--both of which he indulged himself freely. Thesaloon provided the latter, and as for the former, trade price was bestsuited to his inclinations, and so he drew upon his stock. He was acurious man, was Verner Lablache--a man who understood the golden valueof silence. He never even spoke of his nationality. Foss River wascontent to call him curious--some people preferred other words toexpress their opinion.
Lablache had known John Allandale for years. Who, in Foss River, had henot known for years? Lablache would have liked to call old John hisfriend, but somehow "Poker" John had never responded to themoney-lender's advances. Lablache showed no resentment. If he cared atall he was careful to keep his feelings hidden. One thing is certain,however, he allowed himself to think long and often of old John--and hishousehold. Often, when in the deepest stress of his far-reaching work,he would heave his great bulk back in his chair and allow those fishy,lashless, sphinx-like eyes of his to gaze out of his window in thedirection of the Foss River Ranch. His window faced in the direction ofJohn's house, which was plainly visible on the slope which bounded thesouthern side of the settlement.
And so it came about a few days later, in one of these digressions ofthought, that the money-lender, gazing out towards the ranch, beheld ahorseman riding slowly up to the veranda of the Allandale's house. Therewas nothing uncommon in the incident, but the sight riveted hisattention, and an evil light came into his usually expressionless eyes.He recognized the horseman as the Hon. Bunning-Ford.
Lablache swung round on his revolving chair, and, in doing so, kickedover a paper-basket. The rapidity of his movement was hardly to beexpected in one of his bulk. His thin eyebrows drew together in an uglyfrown.
"What does he want?" he muttered, under his heavy breath.
He hazarded no answer to his own question. It was answered for him. Hesaw the figure of a woman step out on to the veranda.
The money-lender rose swiftly to his feet and took a pair offield-glasses from their case. Adjusting them he gazed long andearnestly at the house on the hill.
Jacky was talking to "Lord" Bill. She was habited in her dungaree skirtand buckskin bodice. Presently Bill dismounted and passed into thehouse.
Lablache shut his glasses with a snap and turned away from the window.For some time he stood gazing straight before him and a swift torrent ofthought flowed through his active brain. Then, with the directness ofone whose mind is made up, he went over to a small safe which stood ina corner of the room. From this he took an account book. The cover borethe legend "Private." He laid it upon the table, and, for some moments,bent over it as he scanned its pages.
He paused at an account headed John Allandale. The figures of thisaccount were very large, totalling into six figures. The balance againstthe rancher was enormous. Lablache gave a satisfied grunt as he turnedover to another account.
"Safe--safe enough. Safe as the Day of Doom," he said slowly. His mouthworked with a cruel smile.
He paused at the account of Bunning-Ford.
"Twenty thousand dollars--um," the look of satisfaction was changed. Helooked less pleased, but none the less cruel. "Not enough--let me see.His place is worth fifty thousand dollars. Stock another thirtythousand. I hold thirty-five thousand on first mortgage for the CalfordTrust and Loan Co." He smiled significantly. "This bill of sale fortwenty thousand is in my own name. Total, fifty-five thousand. Sell himup and there would still be a margin. No, not yet, my friend."
He closed the book and put it away. Then he walked to the window.Bunning-Ford's horse was still standing outside the house.
"He must be dealt with soon," he muttered.
And in those words was concentrated a world of hate and cruel purpose.
Who shall say of what a man's disposition is composed? Who shallpenetrate those complex feelings which go to make a man what his secretconsciousness knows himself to be? Not even the man himself can tell thewhy and wherefore of his passions and motives. It is a matter beyond thehuman ken. It is a matter which neither science nor learning can tell usof. Verner Lablache was possessed of all that prosperity could give him.He was wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, and no pleasure which moneycould buy was beyond his reach. He knew, only too well, that when themoment came, and he wished it, he could set out for any of the greatcenters of fashion and society, and there purchase for himself a wifewho would fulfill the requirements of the most fastidious. In his ownarrogant mind he went further, and protested that he could choose whomhe would and she would be his. But this method he set aside as toosimple, and, instead, had decided to select for his wife a girl whom hehad watched grow up to womanhood from the first day that she had openedher great, wondering eyes upon the world. And thus far he had beenthwarted. All his wealth went for nothing. The whim of this girl he hadchosen was more powerful in this matter than was gold--the gold heloved. But Lablache was not the man to sit down and admit of defeat; hemeant to marry Joaquina Allandale willy-nilly. Love was impossible tosuch a man as he. He had conceived an absorbing passion for her, it istrue, but love--as it is generally understood--no. He was not a youngman--the victim of a passion, fierce but transient. He was matured inall respects--in mind and body. His passion was lasting, if impure, andhe meant to take to himself the girl-wife. Nothing should stand in hisway.
He turned back to his desk, but not to work.
In the meantime the object of his forcible attentions was holding aninteresting _tete
-a-tete_ with the man against whom he fostered an evilpurpose.
Jacky was seated at a table in the pleasant sitting-room of her uncle'shouse. Spread out before her were several open stock books, from whichshe was endeavoring to estimate the probable number of "beeves" whichthe early spring would produce. This was a task which she always likedto do herself before the round-up was complete, so as the easier to sortthe animals into their various pastures when they should come in. Hervisitor was standing with his back to the stove, in typical Canadianfashion. He was, clad in a pair of well-worn chaps drawn over a pair ofmoleskin trousers, and wore a gray tweed coat and waistcoat over a softcotton shirt, of the "collar attached" type. As he stood there the stoopof his shoulders was very pronounced. His fair hair was carefullybrushed, and although his face was slightly weather-stained, still, itwas quite easy to imagine the distinguished figure he would be, clad inall the solemn pomp of broadcloth and the silk glaze of fashionablesociety in the neighborhood of Bond Street.
The girl was not looking at her books. She was looking up and smiling ata remark her companion had just made.
"And so your friend, Pat Nabob, is going up into the mountains aftergold. Does he know anything about prospecting?"
"I think so--he's had some experience."
Jacky became serious. She rose and turned to the window, which commandeda perfect view of the distant peaks of the Rockies, towering high abovethe broad, level expanse of the great muskeg. With her back still turnedto him she fired an abrupt question.
"Say, Bill, guess 'Pickles' has some other reason for this mad scheme.What is it? You can't tell me he's going just for love of the adventureof the thing. Now, let's hear the truth."
Unobserved by the girl, her companion shrugged his shoulders.
"If you want his reason you'd better ask him, Jacky. I can onlysurmise."
"So can I." Jacky turned sharply. "I'll tell you why he's going, Bill,and you can bet your last cent I'm right. Lablache is at the bottom ofit. He's at the bottom of everything that causes people to leave FossRiver. He's a blood-sucker."
Bunning-Ford nodded. He was rarely expansive. Moreover, he knew he couldadd nothing to what the girl had said. She expressed his sentimentsfully. There was a pause. Jacky was keenly eyeing the tall thin figureat the stove.
"Why did you come to tell me of this?" she asked at last.
"Thought you'd like to know. You like 'Pickles.'"
"Yes--Bill, you are thinking of going with him."
Her companion laughed uneasily. This girl was very keen.
"I didn't say so."
"No, but still you are thinking of doing so. See here, Bill, tell me allabout it."
Bill coughed. Then he turned, and stooping, shook the ashes from thestove and opened the damper.
"Beastly cold in here," he remarked inconsequently.
"Yes--but, out with it."
Bill stood up and turned his indolent eyes upon his interrogator.
"I wasn't thinking of going--to the mountains."
"Where then?"
"To the Yukon."
"Ah!"
In spite of herself the girl could not help the exclamation.
"Why?" she went on a moment later.
"Well, if you must have it, I shan't be able to last out thissummer--unless a stroke of luck falls to my share."
"Financially?"
"Financially."
"Lablache?"
"Lablache--and the Calford Trust Co."
"The same thing," with conviction.
"Exactly--the same thing."
"And you stand?"
"If I meet the interest on my mortgages it will take away every head offat cattle I can scrape together, and then I cannot pay Lablache otherdebts which fall due in two weeks' time." He quietly drew out histobacco-pouch and rolled a cigarette. He seemed quite indifferent to hisdifficulties. "If I realize on the ranch now there'll be something leftfor me. If I go on, by the end of the summer there won't be."
"I suppose you mean that you will be deeper in debt."
He smiled in his own peculiarly lazy fashion as he held a lighted matchto his cigarette.
"Just so. I shall owe Lablache more," he said, between spasmodic drawsat his tobacco.
"Lablache has wonderful luck at cards."
"Yes," shortly.
Jacky returned to the table and sat down. She turned the pages of astock book idly. She was thinking and the expression of her dark,determined little face indicated the unpleasant nature of her thoughts.Presently she looked up and encountered the steady gaze of hercompanion. They were great friends--these two. In that glance each readin the other's mind something of a mutual thought. Jacky, with womanlyreadiness, put part of it into words.
"No one ever seems to win against him, Bill. Guess he makes a steadyincome out of poker."
The man nodded and gulped down a deep inhalation from his cigarette.
"Wonderful luck," the girl went on.
"Some people call it 'luck,'" put in Bill, quietly, but with a curiouspurse of the lips.
"What do you call it?" sharply.
Bunning-Ford refused to commit himself. He contented himself withblowing the ash from his cigarette and crossing over to the window,where he stood looking out. He had come there that afternoon with ahalf-formed intention of telling this girl something which every girlmust hope to hear sooner or later in her life. He had come there withthe intention of ending, one way or the other, afriendship--_camaraderie_--whatever you please to call it, by tellingthis hardy girl of the prairie the old, old story over again. He lovedthis woman with an intensity that very few would have credited him with.Who could associate lazy, good-natured, careless "Lord" Bill withserious love? Certainly not his friends. And yet such was the case, andfor that reason had he come. The affairs of Pat Nabob were but asubterfuge. And now he found it impossible to pronounce the words he hadso carefully thought out. Jacky was not the woman to approach easilywith sentiment, she was so "deucedly practical." So Bill said tohimself. It was useless to speculate upon her feelings. This girl neverallowed anything approaching sentiment to appear upon the surface. Sheknew better than to do so. She had the grave responsibility of heruncle's ranch upon her shoulders, therefore all men must be kept atarm's length. She was in every sense a woman, passionate, loyal, loving.But in addition nature had endowed her with a spirit which rose superiorto feminine attributes and feelings. The blood in her veins--her life onthe prairie--her tender care and solicitude for her uncle, of whosefailings and weaknesses she was painfully aware, had caused her to putfrom her all thoughts of love and marriage. Her life must be devoted tohim, and while he lived she was determined that no thought of selfshould interfere with her self-imposed duty.
At last "Lord" Bill broke the silence which had fallen upon the roomafter the girl's unanswered question. His remark seemed irrevelant andinconsequent.
"There's a horse on the other side of the muskeg. Who's is it?"
Jacky was at his side in an instant. So suddenly had she bounded fromthe table, that her companion turned, with that lazy glance of his, andlooked keenly at her. He failed to understand her excitement. She hadsnatched up a pair of field-glasses and had already leveled them at thedistant object.
She looked long and earnestly across the miry waste. Then she turned toher companion with a strange look in her beautiful gray eyes.
"Bill, I've seen that horse before. Four days ago. I've looked for itever since, but couldn't see it. I'm going to round it up."
"Eh? How?"
Bill was looking out across the muskeg again.
"Guess I'm going right across there this evening," the girl saidquietly.
"Across the muskeg?" Her companion was roused out of himself. Hisusually lazy gray eyes were gleaming brightly. "Impossible!"
"Not at all, Bill," she replied, with an easy smile. "I know the path."
"But I thought there was only one man who ever knew that mythical path,and--he is dead."
"Quite right, Bill--only one _man_.
"
"Then the old stories--"
There was a peculiar expression on the man's face. The girl interruptedhim with a gay laugh.
"Bother the 'old stories.' I'm going across there this evening aftertea--coming?"
Bunning-Ford looked across at the clock--the hands pointed to half-pastone. He was silent for a minute. Then he said,--
"I'll be with you at four if--if you'll tell me all about--"
"Peter Retief--yes, I'll tell you as we go, Bill. What are you going todo until then?"
"I'm going down to the saloon to meet 'Pickles,' your pet aversion,Pedro Mancha, and we're going to find a fourth."
"Ah, poker?"
"Yes, poker."
"I'm sorry, Bill. But be here at four sharp and I'll tell you all aboutit. See here, boy, 'mum's' the word."
The craving of the Hon. Bunning-Ford's life was excitement. Histemperament bordered on the lethargic. He felt that unless he couldobtain excitement life was utterly unbearable. He had sought it all overthe world before he had adopted the life of a rancher. Here in the Westof Canada he had found something of what he sought. There was the biggame shooting in the mountains, and the pursuit of the "grizzly" is themost wildly enthralling chase in the world. There was the taming and"breaking" of the wild and furious "broncho"--the most exemplary"bucking" horse in the world. There was the "round-up" and handling ofcattle which never failed to give unlimited excitement. And then, at alltimes, was the inevitable poker, that king of all excitements among cardgames. The West of Canada had pleased "Lord" Bill as did no othercountry, and so he had invested the remains of his younger son's portionin stock.
He had asked for excitement and Canada had responded generously. Billhad found more than excitement, he had found love; and had found awealth of real friendship rarely equaled in the busy cities ofcivilization.
In the midst of all these things which, seeking, he had found, came thissuggestion from a girl. The muskeg--the cruel, relentless muskeg, thatmire, dreaded and shunned by white men and natives alike. It could becrossed by a secret, path. The thought pleased him. And none knew ofthis path except a man who was dead and this girl he loved. There was astrange excitement in the thought of such a journey.
"Lord" Bill, ignoring his stirrup, vaulted into his saddle, and, as heswung his horse round and headed towards the settlement, he wonderedwhat the day would bring forth.
"Confound the cards," he muttered, as he rode away.
And it was the first time in his life that he had reluctantlycontemplated a gamble.
Had he only known it, a turning-point in his life was rapidlyapproaching--a turning-point which would lead to events which, if toldas about to occur in the nineteenth century, would surely bring downderision upon the head of the teller. And yet would the derided one haveright on his side.
The Story of the Foss River Ranch: A Tale of the Northwest Page 5
