The Story of the Foss River Ranch

by Cullum, Ridgwell

  "Impossible, my dear lady—utterly impossible. Can the Foss River help freezing in winter? Can Jacky help talking prairie slang? Can Lablache help grubbing for money? Can you help caring for all of our worthless selves who belong to the Foss River Settlement? Nothing can alter these things. John would play poker on the lid of his own coffin, while the undertakers were winding his shroud about him—if they'd lend him a pack of cards."

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

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

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

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

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

  "I shouldn't be at all surprised," put in the Hon. Bunning-Ford. "The sun-dogs have been showing for the last two days. I'll see what Jacky says, 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 it is 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, as he turned to urge Bill to hurry, there was a slightly anxious look on his face.

  "Hurry up, old man. I'll go and see about our sleigh." Then in an undertone, "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 the smoking-room. On the stairs they met "Poker" John. He was returning to the ballroom.

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

  "Just what I was coming to tell you, my dear. We must be going. Where are 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 hundred dollars in the last jackpot. Held four deuces. He opened with full on aces."

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

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

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

  * * *

  CHAPTER II - THE BLIZZARD: ITS CONSEQUENCES

  On the whole, Canada can boast of one of the most perfect health-giving climates in the world, despite the two extremes of heat and cold of which it is composed. But even so, the Canadian climate is cursed by an evil which every now and again breaks loose from the bonds which fetter it, and rages from east to west, carrying death and destruction in its wake. I speak of the terrible—the raging Blizzard!

  To appreciate the panic-like haste with which the Foss River Settlement party left the ballroom, one must have lived a winter in the west of Canada. The reader who sits snugly by his or her fireside, and who has never experienced a Canadian winter, can have no conception of one of those dread storms, the very name of which had drawn words of terror from one who had lived the greater part of her life in the eastern shadow of the Rockies. Hers was no timid, womanly fear for ordinary inclemency of weather, but a deep-rooted dread of a life-and-death struggle in a merciless storm, than which, in no part of the world, can there be found a more fearful. Whence it comes—and why, surely no one may say. A meteorological expert may endeavor to account for it, but his argument is unconvincing and gains no credence from the dweller on the prairies. And why? Because the storm does not come from above—neither does it come from a specified direction. And only in the winter does such a wind blow. The wind buffets from every direction at once. No snow falls from above and yet a blinding gray wall of snow, swept up from the white-clothed ground, encompasses the dazed traveller. His arm outstretched in daylight and he cannot see the tips of his heavy fur mitts. Bitter cold, a hundred times intensified by the merciless force of the wind, and he is lost and freezing—slowly freezing to death.

  As the sleigh dashed through the outskirts of Calford, on its way to the south, there was not much doubt in the minds of any of its occupants as to the prospects of the storm. The gusty, patchy wind, the sudden sweeps of hissing, cutting snow, as it slithered up in a gray dust in the moonlight, and lashed, with stinging force, into their faces, was a sure herald of the coming "blizzard."

  Bunning-Ford and Jacky occupied the front seat of the sleigh. The former was driving the spanking team of blacks of which old "Poker" John was justly proud. The sleigh was open, as in Canada all such sleighs are. Mrs. Abbot and the doctor sat in a seat with their backs to Jacky and her companion, and old John Allandale faced the wind in the back seat, alone. Thirty-five miles the horses had to cover before the storm thoroughly established itself, and "Lord" Bill was not a slow driver.

  The figures of the travellers were hardly distinguishable so enwrapped were they in beaver caps, buffalo coats and robes. Jacky, as she sat silently beside her companion, might have been taken for an inanimate bundle of furs, so lost was she within the ample folds of her buffalo. But for the occasional turn of her head, as she measured with her eyes the rising of the storm, she gave no sign of life.

  "Lord" Bill seemed indifferent. His eyes were fixed upon the road ahead and his hands, encased in fur mitts, were on the "lines" with a tenacious grip. The horses needed no urging. They were high-mettled and cold. The gushing quiver of their nostrils, as they drank in the crisp, night air, had a comforting sound for the occupants of the sleigh. Weather permitting, those beautiful "blacks" would do the distance in under three hours.

  The sleigh bells jangled musically in response to the high steps of the horses as they sped over the hard, snow-covered trail. They were climbing the long slope which was to take them out of the valley wherein was Calford situate. Presently Jack's face appeared from amidst the folds of the muffler which kept her storm collar fast round her neck and ears.

  "It's gaining on us, Billy."

  "Yes, I know."

  He understood her remark. He knew she referred to the storm. His lips were curiously pursed. A knack he had when stirred out of himself.

  "We shan't do it."

  The girl spoke with conviction.

  "No."

  "Guess we'd better hit the trail for Norton's. Soldier Joe'll be glad to welcome us."

  "Lord" Bill did not answer. He merely chirruped at the horses. The willing beasts increased their pace and the sleigh sped along with that intoxicating smoothness only to be felt when travelling with double "bobs" on a perfect trail.

  The gray wind of the approaching blizzard was becoming fiercer. The moon was already enveloped in a dense haze. The snow was driving like fine sand in the faces of the travellers.

  "I think we'll give it an hour, Bill. After that I guess it'll be too thick," pursued the girl. "What d'you think, can we make Norton's in that time—it's a good sixteen miles?"

  "I'll put 'em at it," was her companion's curt response.

  Neither spoke for a minute. Then "Lord" Bill bent his head suddenly forward. The night was getting blacker and it was with difficulty that he could keep his eyes from blinking under the lash of the whipping snow.

  "What is it?" asked Jacky, ever on the alert with the instinct of the prairie.

  "Some one just ahead of us. The track is badly broken in places. Sit tight, I'm going to touch 'em up."

  He flicked the
whip over the horses' backs, and, a moment later, the sleigh was flying along at a dangerous pace. The horses had broken into a gallop.

  "Lord" Bill seemed to liven up under the influence of speed. The wind was howling now, and conversation was impossible, except in short, jerky sentences. They were on the high level of the prairie and were getting the full benefit of the open sweep of country.

  "Cold?" Bill almost shouted.

  "No," came the quiet response.

  "Straight, down-hill trail. I'm going to let 'em have their heads."

  Both of these people knew every inch of the road they were travelling. There was no fear in their hearts.

  "Put 'em along, then."

  The horses raced along. The deadly gray wind had obscured all light. The lights of the sleigh alone showed the tracks. It was a wild night and every moment it seemed to become worse. Suddenly the man spoke again.

  "I wish we hadn't got the others with us, Jacky."

  "Why?"

  "Because I could put 'em along faster, as it is—" His sentence remained unfinished, the sleigh bumped and lifted on to one runner. It was within an ace of overturning. There was no need to finish his sentence.

  "Yes, I understand, Bill. Don't take too many chances. Ease 'em up—some. They're not as young as we are—not the horses. The others."

  "Lord" Bill laughed. Jacky was so cool. The word fear was not in her vocabulary. This sort of a journey was nothing new to her. She had experienced it all before. Possibly, however, her total lack of fear was due to her knowledge of the man who, to use her own way of expressing things, "was at the business end of the lines." "Lord" Bill was at once the finest and the most fearless teamster for miles around. Under the cloak of indolent indifference he concealed a spirit of fearlessness and even recklessness which few accredited to him.

  For some time the two remained silent. The minutes sped rapidly and half an hour passed. All about was pitch black now. The wind was tearing and shrieking from every direction at once. The sleigh seemed to be the center of its attack. The blinding clouds of snow, as they swept up from the ground, were becoming denser and denser and offered a fierce resistance to the racing horses. Another few minutes and the two people on the front seat knew that progress would be impossible. As it was, "Lord" Bill was driving more by instinct than by what he could see. The trail was obscured, as were all landmarks. He could no longer see the horses' heads.

  "We've passed the school-house," said Jacky, at last.

  "Yes, I know."

  A strange knowledge or instinct is that of the prairie man or woman. Neither had seen the school-house or anything to indicate it. And yet they knew they had passed it.

  "Half a mile to Trout Creek. Two miles to Norton's. Can you do it, Bill?"

  Quietly as the words were spoken, there was a world of meaning in the question. To lose their way now would be worse, infinitely, than to lose oneself in one of the sandy deserts of Africa. Death was in that biting wind and in the blinding snow. Once lost, and, in two or three hours, all would be over.

  "Yes," came the monosyllabic reply. "Lord" Bill's lips were pursed tightly. Every now and then he dashed the snow and breath icicles from his eyelashes. The horses were almost hidden from his view.

  They were descending a steep gradient and they now knew that they were upon Trout Creek. At the creek Bill pulled up. It was the first stop since leaving Calford. Jacky and he jumped down. Each knew what the other was about to do without speaking. Jacky, reins in hand, went round the horses; "Lord" Bill was searching for the trail which turned off from the main road up the creek to Norton's. Presently he came back.

  "Animals all right?"

  "Fit as fiddles," the girl replied.

  "Right—jump up!"

  There was no assisting this girl to her seat. No "by your leave" or European politeness. Simply the word of one man who knows his business to another. Both were on their "native heath."

  Bill checked the horses' impetuosity and walked them slowly until he came to the turning. Once on the right road, however, he let them have their heads.

  "It's all right, Jacky," as the horses bounded forward.

  A few minutes later the sleigh drew up at Norton's, but so dark was it and so dense the snow fog, that only those two keen watchers on the front seat were able to discern the outline of the house.

  "Poker" John and the doctor assisted the old lady to alight whilst Jacky and "Lord" Bill unhitched the horses. In spite of the cold the sweat was pouring from the animals' sides. In answer to a violent summons on the storm door a light appeared in the window and "soldier" Joe Norton opened the door.

  For an instant he stood in the doorway peering doubtfully out into the storm. A goodly picture he made as he stood lantern in hand, his rugged old face gazing inquiringly at his visitors.

  "Hurry up, Joe, let us in," exclaimed Allandale. "We are nearly frozen to death."

  "Why, bless my soul!—bless my soul! Come in! Come in!" the old man exclaimed hastily as he recognized John Allandale's voice. "You out, and on a night like this. Bless my soul! Come in! Down, Husky, down!" to a bob-tail sheep-dog which bounded forward and barked savagely.

  "Hold on, Joe," said "Poker" John. "Let the ladies go in, we must see to the horses."

  "It's all right, uncle," said Jacky, "we've unhitched 'em. Bill's taken 'em right away to the stables."

  The whole party passed into Joe Norton's sitting-room, where the old farmer at once set about kindling, with the aid of some coal-oil, a fire in the great box-stove. While his host was busy John took the lantern and went to "Lord" Bill's assistance in the stables.

  The stove lighted, Joe Norton turned to his guests.

  "Bless me, and to think of you, Mrs. Abbot, and Miss Jacky, too. I must fetch the o'd 'ooman. Hi, Molly, Molly, bestir yourself, old girl. Come on down, an' help the ladies. They've come for shelter out o' the blizzard—good luck to it."

  "Oh, no, don't disturb her, Joe," exclaimed Mrs. Abbot; "it's really too bad, at this unearthly hour. Besides, we shall be quite comfortable here by the stove."

  "No doubt—no doubt," said the old man, cheerfully, "but that's not my way—not my way. Any of you froze," he went on ungrammatically, "'cause if so, out you go and thaw it out in the snow."

  "I guess there's no one frozen," said Jacky, smiling into the old man's face. "We're too old birds for that. Ah, here's Mrs. Norton."

  Another warm greeting and the two ladies were hustled off to the only spare bedroom the Nortons boasted. By this time "Lord" Bill and "Poker" John had returned from the stables. While the ladies were removing their furs, which were sodden with the melting snow, the farmer's wife was preparing a rough but ample meal of warm provender in the kitchen. Such is hospitality in the Far North-West.

  When the supper was prepared the travellers sat down to the substantial fare. None were hungry—be it remembered that it was three o'clock in the morning—but each felt that some pretense in that direction must be made, or the kindly couple would think their welcome was insufficient.

  "An' what made you venture on the trail on such a night?" asked old Norton, as he poured out a joram of hot whiskey for each of the men. "A moral cert, you wouldn't strike Foss River in such a storm."

  "We thought it would have held off longer," said Dr. Abbot. "It was no use getting cooped up in town for two or three days. You know what these blizzards are. You may have to do with us yourself during the next forty-eight hours."

  "It's too sharp to last, Doc," put in Jacky, as she helped herself to some soup. Her face was glowing after her exposure to the elements. She looked very beautiful and not one whit worse for the drive.

  "Sharp enough—sharp enough," murmured old Norton, as if for something to say.

  "Sharp enough to bring some one else to your hospitable abode, Joe," interrupted "Lord" Bill, quietly; "I hear sleigh bells. The wind's howling, but their tone is familiar."

  They were all listening now. "Poker" John was the first to speak.

  "It's—"
and he paused.

  Before he could complete his sentence Jacky filled up the missing words.

  "Lablache—for a dollar."

  There was a moment's silence in that rough homely little kitchen. The expression of the faces of those around the board indexed a general thought.

  Lablache, if it were he, would not receive the cordial welcome which had been meted out to the others. Norton broke the silence.

  "Dang it! That's what I ses, dang it! You'll pardon me, ladies, but my feelings get the better of me at times. I don't like him. Lablache—I hates him," and he strode out of the room, his old face aflame with annoyance, to discharge the hospitable duties of the prairie.

  As the door closed behind him Dr. Abbot laughed constrainedly.

  "Lablache doesn't seem popular—here."

  No one answered his remark. Then "Poker" John looked over at the other men.

  "We must go and help to put his horses away."

  There was no suggestion in his words, merely a statement of plain facts. "Lord" Bill nodded and the three men rose and went to the door.

  As they disappeared Jacky turned to Mrs. Norton and Aunt Margaret.

  "If that's Lablache—I'm off to bed."

  Her tone was one of uncompromising decision. Mrs. Abbot was less assured.

  "Do you think it polite—wise?"

  "Come along, aunt. Never mind about politeness or wisdom. What do you say, Mrs. Norton?"

  "As you like, Miss Jacky. I must stay up, or—"

  "Yes—the men can entertain him."

  Just then Lablache's voice was heard outside. It was a peculiar, guttural, gasping voice. Aunt Margaret looked doubtfully from Jacky to Mrs. Norton. The latter nodded smilingly. Then following Jacky's lead she passed up the staircase which led from the kitchen to the rooms above. A moment later the door opened and Lablache and the other men entered.

  "They've gone to bed," said Mrs. Norton, in answer to "Poker" John's look of inquiry.

  "Tired, no doubt," put in Lablache, drily.

  "And not without reason, I guess," retorted "Poker" John, sharply. He had not failed to note the other's tone.