"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 from the table, that her companion turned, with that lazy glance of his, and looked keenly at her. He failed to understand her excitement. She had snatched up a pair of field-glasses and had already leveled them at the distant object.
She looked long and earnestly across the miry waste. Then she turned to her companion with a strange look in her beautiful gray eyes.
"Bill, I've seen that horse before. Four days ago. I've looked for it ever 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 said quietly.
"Across the muskeg?" Her companion was roused out of himself. His usually 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 interrupted him with a gay laugh.
"Bother the 'old stories.' I'm going across there this evening after tea—coming?"
Bunning-Ford looked across at the clock—the hands pointed to half-past one. 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 to do 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 about it. See here, boy, 'mum's' the word."
The craving of the Hon. Bunning-Ford's life was excitement. His temperament bordered on the lethargic. He felt that unless he could obtain excitement life was utterly unbearable. He had sought it all over the world before he had adopted the life of a rancher. Here in the West of Canada he had found something of what he sought. There was the big game shooting in the mountains, and the pursuit of the "grizzly" is the most 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 of cattle which never failed to give unlimited excitement. And then, at all times, was the inevitable poker, that king of all excitements among card games. The West of Canada had pleased "Lord" Bill as did no other country, and so he had invested the remains of his younger son's portion in stock.
He had asked for excitement and Canada had responded generously. Bill had found more than excitement, he had found love; and had found a wealth of real friendship rarely equaled in the busy cities of civilization.
In the midst of all these things which, seeking, he had found, came this suggestion from a girl. The muskeg—the cruel, relentless muskeg, that mire, dreaded and shunned by white men and natives alike. It could be crossed by a secret, path. The thought pleased him. And none knew of this path except a man who was dead and this girl he loved. There was a strange excitement in the thought of such a journey.
"Lord" Bill, ignoring his stirrup, vaulted into his saddle, and, as he swung his horse round and headed towards the settlement, he wondered what 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 reluctantly contemplated a gamble.
Had he only known it, a turning-point in his life was rapidly approaching—a turning-point which would lead to events which, if told as about to occur in the nineteenth century, would surely bring down derision upon the head of the teller. And yet would the derided one have right on his side.
* * *
CHAPTER VI
"WAYS THAT ARE DARK"
It was less than a quarter of a mile from the Allandales' house to the saloon—a den of reeking atmosphere and fouler spirits.
The saloon at Foss River was no better and no worse than hundreds of others in the North-West at the time of which we write. It was a fairly large wooden building standing at the opposite end of the open space which answered the purpose of a market-place, and facing Lablache's store. Inside, it was gloomy, and the air invariably reeked of stale tobacco and drink. The bar was large, and at one end stood a piano kept for the purpose of "sing-songs"—nightly occurrences when the execrable whisky had done its work. Passing through the bar one finds a large dining-room on one side of a passage, and, on the other, a number of smaller rooms devoted to the use of those who wished to play poker.
It was towards this place that the Hon. Bunning-Ford was riding in the leisurely manner of one to whom time is no object.
His thoughts were far from matters pertaining to his destination, and he would gladly have welcomed anything which could have interfered with his projected game. For the moment poker had lost its charm.
This man was at no time given to vacillation. All his methods were, as a rule, very direct. Underneath his easy nonchalance he was of a very decided nature. His thin face at times could suddenly become very keen. His true character was hidden by the cultivated lazy expression of his eyes. Bunning-Ford was one of those men who are at their best in emergency. At all other times life was a thing which it was impossible for him to take seriously. He valued money as little as he valued anything in the world. Poker he looked upon as a means to an end. He had no religious principles, but firmly believed in doing as he would be done by. Honesty and truth he loved, because to him they were clean. It mattered nothing to him what his surroundings might be, for, though living in them, he was not of them. He would as soon sit down to play cards with three known murderers as play in the best club in London, and he would treat them honestly and expect the same in return—but a loaded revolver would be slung upon his hip and the holster would be open and handy.
As he neared the saloon he recognized the figures of two men walking in the direction of the saloon. They were the doctor and John Allandale. He rode towards them.
"Hallo, Bill, whither bound?" said the old rancher, as the younger man came up. "Going to join us in the parlor of Smith's fragrant hostelry? The spider is already there weaving the web in which he hopes to ensnare us."
Bunning-Ford shook his head.
"Who's the spider—Lablache?"
"Yes, we're going to play. It's the first time for some days. Guess we've all been too busy with the round-up. Won't you really join us?"
"Can't. I've promised Mancha and 'Pickles' revenge for a game we played the other night, when I happened to relieve them of a few dollars."
"Sensible man—Lablache is too consistent," put in the doctor, quietly.
"Nonsense," said "Poker" John, optimistically. "You're always carping about the man's luck. We must break it soon."
"Yes, we've suggested that before."
Bill spoke with meaning and finished up with a purse of the lips.
They were near the saloon.
"How long are you going to play?" he went on quietly.
"Right through the evening," replied "Poker" John, with keen satisfaction. "And you?"
"Only until four o'clock. I am going to take tea up at your place."
The old man offered no comment and Bill dismounted and tied the horse to a post, and the three men entered the stuffy bar. The room was half full of people. They were mostly cow-boys or men connected with the various ranches about the neighborhood. Words of greeting hailed the new-comers on all sides, but old John, who led the way, took little or no notice of those whom he recognized. The lust of gambling was upon him, and, as a dipsomaniac craves for drink, so he was longing to feel the smooth surface of pasteboard between his fingers. While Bunning-Ford stop
ped to exchange a word with some of those he met, the other two men went straight up to the bar. Smith himself, a grizzled old man, with a tobacco-stained gray moustache and beard, and the possessor of a pair of narrow, wicked-looking eyes, was serving out whisky to a couple of worse-looking half-breeds. It was noticeable that every man present wore at his waist either a revolver or a long sheath knife. Even the proprietor was fully armed. The half-breeds wore knives.
"Poker" John was apparently a man of distinction here. Possibly the knowledge that he played a big game elicited for him a sort of indifferent respect. Anyway, the half-breeds moved to allow him to approach the bar.
"Lablache here?" asked the rancher, eagerly.
"He is," replied Mr. Smith, in a drawling voice, as he pushed the two whiskies across to the waiting half-breeds. "Been here half an hour. Jest pass right through, mister. Maybe you'll find him located in number two."
There was no doubt that John B. Smith hailed from America. Although the Canadian is not devoid of the American accent there is not much doubt of nationality when one hears the real thing.
"Good; come on, Doc. No, thanks, Smith," as the man behind the bar reached towards a bottle with a white seal. "We'll have something later on. Number two on the right, I think you said."
The two men passed on into the back part of the premises.
"Guess dollars'll be flyin' 'fore the night's out," said Smith, addressing any who cared to listen, and indicating "Poker" John with a jerk of the head in the direction of the door through which the two men had just passed. "Make the banks hum when they raise the 'bid.' Guess ther' ain't many o' ther' likes roun' these parts. Rye or Scotch?" to "Lord" Bill and three other men who came up at that moment. Mancha and "Pickles" were with him, and a fourth player—the deposed captain of the "round-up," Sim Lory.
"Scotch, you old heathen, of course," replied Bill, with a tolerant laugh. "You don't expect us to drink fire-water. If you kept decent Rye it would be different. We're going to have a flutter. Any room?"
"Number two, I guess. Chock-a-block in the others. Tolerable run on poker these times. All the round-up hands been gettin' advances, I take it. Say when."
The four men said "when" in due course, and each watered his own whisky. The proprietor went on, with a quick twinkle of his beady eyes,—
"Ther's Mr. Allandale an' Lablache and company in number two. Nobody else, I guess. I've a notion you'll find plenty of room. Chips, no? All right; goin' to play a tidy game? Good!"
The four men, having swallowed their drink, followed in the footsteps of the others.
There was something very brisk and business-like about this gambling-hell. Early settlers doubtless remember in the days of "prohibition," when four per cent. beer was supposed to be the only beverage of the country, and before rigid legislation, backed by the armed force of the North-West Mounted Police, swept these frightful pollutions from the fair face of the prairie, how they thrived on the encouragement of gambling and the sale of contraband spirits. The West is a cleaner country now, thanks to the untiring efforts of the police.
In number two "Poker" John and his companions were already getting to work when Bill and his friends entered. Beyond a casual remark they seemed to take little notice of each other. One and all were eager to begin the play.
A deep silence quickly fell upon the room. It was the silence of suppressed excitement. A silence only broken by monosyllabic and almost whispered betting and "raising" as the games proceeded. An hour passed thus. At the table where Lablache and John Allandale were playing the usual luck prevailed. The money-lender seemed unable to do wrong, and at the other table Bunning-Ford was faring correspondingly badly. Pedro Mancha, the Mexican, a man of obscure past and who lived no one quite knew how, but who always appeared to find the necessary to gamble with, was the favored one of dame Fortune. Already he had heaped before him a pile of "bills" and I.O.U.'s most of which bore "Lord" Bill's signature. Looking on at either table, no one from outward signs could have said which way the luck was going. Only the scribblings of the pencils upon the memo pads and the gradual accumulation of the precious slips of paper before Lablache at one table and the wild-eyed, dark-skinned Mexican at the other, told the story of the ruin which was surely being accomplished.
At length, with a loser's privilege, Bunning-Ford, after glancing at his watch, rose from the table. His lean face was in no way disturbed. He seemed quite indifferent to his losses.
"I'll quit you, Pedro," he said, smiling lazily down at the Mexican. "You're a bit too hot for me to-day."
The dark-skinned man smiled a vague, non-committing smile and displayed a double row of immaculate teeth.
"Good. You shall have your revenge. Doubtless you would like some of these papers back," he said, as he swept them leisurely into his pocket-book, and then sugar-bagging a cigarette paper he poured a few grains of granulated tobacco into it.
"Yes, I daresay I shall relieve you of some later on," replied Bill, quietly. Then he turned to the other table and stood watching the play.
He glanced anxiously at the bare table in front of the old rancher. Even Dr. Abbot was well stocked with slips of paper. Then his gaze fell upon the money-lender, behind whose huge back he was standing.
He moved slightly to one side. It is an unwritten law amongst poker players, in a public place in the west of the American continent, that no onlooker should stand immediately behind any player. He moved to Lablache's right. The money-lender was dealing. "Lord" Bill lit a cigarette.
The cards were dealt round. Then the draw. Then Lablache laid the pack down. Bunning-Ford had noted these things mechanically. Then something caught his attention. It was his very indifference which caused his sudden attention. Had he been following the game with his usual keenness he would only have been thinking of the betting.
Lablache was writing upon his memo, pad, which was a gorgeous effort in silver mounting. One of those oblong blocks with a broad band of burnished silver at the binding of the perforated leaves. He knew that this was the pad the money-lender always used; anyway, it was similar in all respects to his usual memorandum pads.
How it was his attention had become fixed upon that pad he could not have told, but now an inspiration came to him. His face remained unchanged in its expression, but those lazy eyes of his gleamed wickedly as he leisurely puffed at his cigarette.
The bet went round. Lablache raised and raised again. Eventually the rancher "saw" him. The other took the pool. No word was spoken, but "Lord" Bill gritted his teeth and viciously pitched his cigarette to the other end of the room.
During the next two deals he allowed his attention to wander. Lablache dropped out one hand, and, in the next, he merely "filled" his "ante" and allowed the doctor to take in the pool. John Allandale's face was serious. The nervous twitching of the cheek was still, but the drawn lines around his mouth were in no way hidden by his gray mustache, nor did the eager light which burned luridly in his eyes for one moment deceive the onlooker as to the anxiety of mind which his features masked.
Now it was Lablache's deal. "Lord" Bill concentrated his attention upon the dealer. The money-lender was left-handed. He held the pack in his right, and, in dealing, he was slow and slightly clumsy. The object of Bunning-Ford's attention quickly became apparent. Each card as it left the pack was passed over the burnished silver of the dealer's memorandum pad. It was smartly done, and Lablache was assisted by the fact that the piece of metal was inclined towards him. There was no necessity to look down deliberately to see the reflection of each card as it passed on its way to its recipient, a glance—just the glance necessary when dealing cards—and the money-lender, by a slight effort of memory, knew every hand that was out. Lablache was cheating.
To say that "Lord" Bill was astonished would be wrong. He was not. He had long suspected it. The steady run of luck which Lablache had persisted in was too phenomenal. It was enough to set the densest thinking. Now everything was plain. Standing where he was, Bill had almost been able to rea
d the index numerals himself. He gave no sign of his discovery. Apparently the matter was of no consequence to him, for he merely lit a fresh cigarette and walked towards the door. He turned as he was about to pass out.
"What time shall I tell Jacky to expect you home, John?" he said quietly, addressing the old rancher.
Lablache looked up with a swift, malevolent glance, but he said nothing. Old John turned a drawn face to the speaker.
"Supper, I guess," he said in a thick voice, husky from long silence. "And tell Smith to send me in a bottle of 'white seal' and some glasses."
"Right you are." Then "Lord" Bill passed out. "Poker without whisky is bad," he muttered as he made his way back to the bar, "but poker and whisky together can only be the beginning of the end. We'll see. Poor old John!"
* * *
CHAPTER VII - ACROSS THE GREAT MUSKEG
It was on the stroke of four o'clock when Bunning-Ford left the saloon. He had said that he would be at the ranch at four, and usually he liked to be punctual. He was late now, however, and made no effort to make up time. Instead, he allowed his horse to walk leisurely in the direction of the Allandales' house. He wanted time to think before he again met Jacky.
He was confronted by a problem which taxed all his wit. It was perhaps a fortunate thing that his was not a hasty temperament. He well knew the usual method of dealing with men who cheated at cards in those Western wilds. Each man carried his own law in his holster. He had realized instantly that Lablache was not a case for the usual treatment. Pistol law would have defeated its own ends. Such means would not recover the terrible losses of "Poker" John, neither would he recover thereby his own lost property. No, he congratulated himself upon the restraint he had exercised when he had checked his natural impulse to expose the money-lender. Now, however, the case looked more complicated, and, for the moment, he could see no possible means of solving the difficulty. Lablache must be made to disgorge—but how? John Allandale must be stopped playing and further contributing to Lablache's ill-gotten gains. Again—but how?
The Story of the Foss River Ranch Page 6
