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Title: The Story of the Foss River Ranch
Author: Ridgwell Cullum
Release Date: December 27, 2004 [EBook #14482]
Language: English
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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 August, 1903
TO MY WIFE
* * *
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I - THE POLO CLUB BALL
CHAPTER II - THE BLIZZARD: ITS CONSEQUENCES
CHAPTER III - A BIG GAME OF POKER
CHAPTER IV - AT THE FOSS RIVER RANCH
CHAPTER V - THE "STRAY" BEYOND THE MUSKEG
CHAPTER VI - WAYS THAT ARE DARK
CHAPTER VII - ACROSS THE GREAT MUSKEG
CHAPTER VIII - TOLD IN BAD MAN'S HOLLOW
CHAPTER IX - LABLANCHE'S "COUP"
CHAPTER X - "AUNT" MARGARET REFLECTS
CHAPTER XI - THE CAMPAIGN OPENS
CHAPTER XII - LABLACHE FORCES THE FIGHT
CHAPTER XIII - THE FIRST CHECK
CHAPTER XIV - THE HUE AND CRY
CHAPTER XV - AMONG THE HALF-BREEDS
CHAPTER XVI - GAUTIER CAUSES DISSENSION
CHAPTER XVII - THE NIGHT OF THE PUSKY
CHAPTER XVIII - THE PUSKY
CHAPTER XIX - LABLANCHE'S MIDNIGHT VISITOR
CHAPTER XX - A NIGHT OF TERROR
CHAPTER XXI - HORROCKS LEARNS THE SECRET OF THE MUSKEG
CHAPTER XXII - THE DAY AFTER
CHAPTER XXIII - THE PAW OF THE CAT
CHAPTER XXIV - "POKER" JOHN ACCEPTS
CHAPTER XXV - UNCLE AND NIECE
CHAPTER XXVI - IN WHICH MATTERS REACH A CLIMAX
CHAPTER XXVII - THE LAST GAMBLE
CHAPTER XXVIII - SETTLING THE RECKONING
CHAPTER XXIX - THE MAW OF THE MUSKEG
* * *
CHAPTER I - THE POLO CLUB BALL
It was a brilliant gathering—brilliant in every sense of the word. The hall was a great effort of the decorator's art; the people were faultlessly dressed; the faces were strong, handsome—fair or dark complexioned as the case might be; those present represented the wealth and fashion of the Western Canadian ranching world. Intellectually, too, there was no more fault to find here than is usual in a ballroom in the West End of London.
It was the annual ball of the Polo Club, and that was a social function of 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 was leaning over the cushioned back of the Chesterfield upon which an old lady was seated, and gazing smilingly over at a group of young people standing at the opposite end of the room. "Jacky is one of those young ladies whose strength of character carries her beyond the control of mere man. Yes, I know what you would say," as Mrs. Abbot glanced up into his face with a look of mildly-expressed wonder; "it is true I am her uncle and guardian, but, nevertheless, I should no more dream of interfering with her—what shall we say?—love affairs, than suggest her incapacity to 'boss' a 'round up' worked by a crowd of Mexican greasers."
"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 all who knew him, was still looking over at the group, but an expression had suddenly crept into his eyes which might, in a less robust-looking man, have been taken for disquiet—even fear. His companion's words had brought home to him a partial realization of a responsibility which was his.
"Twenty-two," she repeated, "and not a relative living except a good-hearted but thoroughly irresponsible uncle. That child is to be pitied, John."
The old man sighed. He took no umbrage at his companion's brusquely-expressed estimation of himself. He was still watching the group at the other end of the room. His face was clouded, and a keen observer might have detected a curious twitching of his bronzed right cheek, just beneath the eye. His eyes followed the movement of a beautiful girl surrounded by a cluster of men, immaculately dressed, bronzed—and, for the most part, wholesome-looking. She was dark, almost Eastern in her type of features. Her hair was black with the blackness of the raven's wing, and coiled in an ample knot low upon her neck. Her features, although Eastern, had scarcely the regularity one expects in such a type, whilst her eyes quashed without mercy any idea of such extraction for her nationality. They were gray, deeply ringed at the pupil with black. They were keen eyes—fathomless in their suggestion of strength—eyes which might easily mask a world of good or evil.
The music began, and the girl passed from amidst her group of admirers upon the arm of a tall, fair man, and was soon lost in the midst of the throng of dancers.
"Who is that she is dancing with now?" asked Mrs. Abbot, presently. "I didn't see her go off; I was watching Mr. Lablache standing alone and disconsolate over there against the door. He looks as if some one had done him some terrible injury. See how he is glaring at the dancers."
"Jacky is dancing with 'Lord' Bill. Yes, you are right, Lablache does not look very amiable. I think this would be a good opportunity to suggest a little gamble in the smoking-room."
"Nothing of the sort," snapped Mrs. Abbot, with the assurance of an old friend. "I haven't half finished talking to you yet. It is a most extraordinary thing that all you people of the prairie love to call each other by nicknames. Why should the Hon. William Bunning-Ford be dubbed 'Lord' Bill, and why should that sweet niece of yours, who is the possessor of such a charming name as Joaquina, be hailed by every man within one hundred miles of Calford as 'Jacky'? I think it is both absurd and—vulgar."
"Possibly you are right, my dear lady. But you can never alter the ways of the prairie. You might just as well try to stem the stream of our Foss River in early spring as try to make the prairie man call people by their legitimate names. For instance, do you ever hear me spoken of by any 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 substance and time in playing that fascinating but degrading game called 'Draw Poker' deserves no better title."
John Allandale made a "clucking" sound with his tongue. It was his way of expressing irritation. Then he stood erect, and glanced round the room in search of some one. He was a tall, well-built man and carried his fifty odd years fairly well, in spite of his gray hair and the bald patch at the crown of his head. Thirty years of a rancher's life had in no way lessened the easy carriage and distinguished bearing acquired during his upbringing. John Allandale's face and figure were redolent of the free life of the prairie. And although, possibly, his fifty-five years might have lain more easily upon him he was a man of commanding appearance and one not to be passed unnoticed.
Mrs. Abbot was the wife of the docto
r of the Foss River Settlement and had known John Allandale from the first day he had taken up his abode on the land which afterwards became known as the Foss River Ranch until now, 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 of action rather than a thinker; she was a woman whose moral guide was an invincible sense of duty; he was a man whose sense of responsibility and duty was entirely governed by an unreliable inclination. Moreover, he was obstinate without being possessed of great strength of will. They were 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 with heated dancers, breathing hard and fanning themselves. Suddenly John Allandale saw a face he was looking for. Murmuring an excuse to Mrs. Abbot, he strode across the room, just as his niece, leaning upon the arm 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. Come and sit down."
Jacky was intensely fond of this old lady and looked upon her almost as a 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 every dance 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 face indicated 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 irresistible smile. "I never can get away from the prairie. Do you know, this evening old Lablache made me mad, and my hand went round to my hip to get a grip on my six-shooter, and I was quite disappointed to feel nothing but smooth silk to my touch. I'm not fit for town life, I guess. I'm a prairie 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 his title.
"It is no use trying to treat Jacky to a becoming appreciation of social requirements," he said, addressing himself with a sort of weary deliberation to Mrs. Abbot. "I suggested an ice just now. She said she got plenty on the ranch at this time of year," and he shrugged his shoulders 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 uncle gone? 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 was a look of anxiety in her eyes.
"If he must play cards I wish he would play with some one else," she pursued.
"Lord" Bill glanced round the room. He saw that Lablache had disappeared.
"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 of her 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 most necessary amongst gentlemen in the days of our grandfathers was keen gambling. You and John, had you lived in those days, might have aspired to thrones."
"Yes—or taken to the road. You remember, even then, it was necessary to be a 'gentleman' of the road."
"Lord" Bill laughed in his lazy fashion. His keen gray eyes were half veiled with eyelids which, seemed too weary to lift themselves. He was a handsome man, but his general air of weariness belied the somewhat eagle cast of countenance which was his. Mrs. Abbot, watching him, thought that the deplorable lassitude which he always exhibited masked a very different nature. Jacky possibly had her own estimation of the man. Whatever it was, her friendship for him was not to be doubted, and, on his part, he never attempted to disguise his admiration of her.
A woman is often a much keener observer of men than she is given credit for. A man is frequently disposed to judge another man by his mental talents 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 her judgment. That is why in feminine regard the bookworm goes to the wall to make room for the athlete. Possibly Jacky and Mrs. Abbot had probed beneath "Lord" Bill's superficial weariness and discovered there a nature 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 have excitement. Life becomes a burden to the man who lives the humdrum existence of ranch life. For the first few years it is all very well. He can find a certain excitement in learning the business. The 'round-ups' and branding and re-branding of cattle, these things are fascinating—for a time. Breaking the wild and woolly broncho is thrilling and he needs no other tonic; but when one has gone through all this and he finds that no Broncho—or, for that matter, any other horse—ever foaled cannot be ridden, it loses its charm and becomes boring. On the prairie there are only two things left for him to do—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 wily pasteboard 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 nothing but sheer indolence that makes you sit down night after night and hand over your dollars to that—that Lablache. How much have you lost to him this week?"
"Lord" Bill glanced quizzically down at the girl.
"I have purchased seven evenings' excitement at a fairly reasonable price."
"Which means?"
The girl leant forward and in her eyes was a look of anxiety. She meant to 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 loudly of the prairie, came up to claim the girl.
"Hallo, Pickles," said Bill, quietly turning upon the newcomer and ignoring Jacky's question. "Thought you said you weren't coming in to-night?"
"Neither was I," the man addressed as "Pickles" retorted, "but Miss Jacky promised me two dances," he went on, in strong Irish brogue; "that settled it. How d'ye do, Mrs. Abbot? Come along, Miss Jacky, we're losing half our dance."
The girl took the proffered arm and was about to move off. She turned and spoke to "Lord" Bill over her shoulder.
"How much?"
Bill shrugged his shoulders in a deprecating fashion. The same gentle smile 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 as she glided in and out amongst the dancers, then, with a sigh, the old lady turned to her companion. Her kindly wrinkled old face wore a sad expression and a half tender look was in her eyes as they rested upon
the man's face. When she spoke, however, her tone was purely conversational.
"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, Aunt Margaret. Amongst your many other charming qualities cheerfulness is not the least. Doesn't Jacky look lovely to-night?"
"To-night?—always."
"Yes, of course—but Jacky always seems to surpass herself under excitement. One would scarcely expect it, knowing her as we do. But she is as wildly delighted with dancing as any miss fresh from school."
"And why not? It is little pleasure that comes into her life. An orphan—barely twenty-two—with the entire responsibility of her uncle's ranch upon her shoulders. Living in a very hornet's nest of blacklegs and—and—"
"Gamblers," put in the man, quietly.
"Yes," Aunt Margaret went on defiantly, "gamblers. With the certain knowledge 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 was curiously pursed.
"What pleasure can she have?" exclaimed Mrs. Abbot, vehemently. "Sometimes, much as I am attached to John, I feel as if I should like to—to bang him!"
"Poor old John!" Bill's bantering tone nettled the old lady, but she said no more. Her anger against those she loved could not last long.
"'Poker' John loves his niece," the man went on, as his companion remained 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 not answer for a moment. His lips had assumed that curious pursing. When he spoke it was with, great decision.
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