The Story of the Foss River Ranch

by Cullum, Ridgwell

  They relapsed into silence for some moments. "Lord" Bill lit a cigarette, and leant himself against one of the veranda posts. He was worried at the turn events had taken. He had no grudge against Horrocks; the man was but doing his duty. But his meditated attempt he considered to be an exaggerated sense of that duty. Presently he spoke again.

  "Jacky—do you know, I feel that somehow the end of this business is approaching. What the end is to be I cannot foretell. One thing, however, is clear. Sooner or later we must run foul of people, and when that occurs—well," throwing his cigarette from him viciously, "it simply means shooting. And—"

  "Yes, Bill, I know what you would say. Shooting means killing, killing means murder, and murder means swinging. You're right, but," and the girl's eyes began to blaze, "before that, Lablache must go under. Whatever happens, Bill, before we decorate any tree with our bodies, if our object is not already obtained, I'll shoot him with my own pistol. I guess we're embarked on a game that we're going to see through."

  "That's so. We'll see it through. Do you know what stock we've taken, all told? Close on twenty thousand head, and—all Lablache's. They're snug over at 'Bad Man's' Hollow, and a tidy fine bunch they are. The division with the boys is a twentieth each, and the balance is ours. Our share is ten thousand." He ceased speaking. Then presently he went on, harking back to the subject of Horrocks. "I wish that man could be stayed. His failure must precipitate matters. Should he drown, as he surely will, the whole countryside will join in the hue and cry. It is only his presence here that keeps the settlers in check. Well, so be it. It's a pity. But I'm not going to swing. They'll never take me alive."

  "If it comes to that, Bill, you'll not be alone, I guess. You can gamble your soul, when it comes to open warfare I'm with you, an' I guess I can shoot straight."

  Bill looked at the girl in astonishment. He noted the keen deep eyes, the set little mouth. The fearless expression on her beautiful face. Her words had fairly taken his breath away, but he saw that she had meant what she said.

  "No, no, girlie. No one will suspect you. Besides, this is my affair. You have your uncle."

  "Say, boy, I love my uncle—I love him real well. I'm working for him, we both are—and we'll work for him to the last. But our work together has taught me something, Bill, and when I cotton to teaching there's nothing that can knock what I learn out of my head. I've just learned to love you, Bill. And, as the Bible says, old Uncle John's got to take second place. That's all. If you go under—well, I guess I'll go under too."

  Jacky gave her lover no chance to reply. As he opened his lips to expostulate and took a step towards her she darted away, and disappeared into the sitting-room. He followed her in, but the room was empty.

  He paused. Then a smile spread over his face.

  "I don't fancy we shall go under, little woman," he muttered, "at least, not if I can help it."

  He turned back to the veranda and strolled away towards the settlement.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXIII - THE PAW OF THE CAT

  Lablache was alone. Horrocks had left him to set out on his final effort to discover Retief's hiding-place. The great man was eagerly waiting for his return. Evening was drawing on and the officer had not yet put in an appearance, neither had the money-lender received any word from him. In consequence he was beginning to hope that Horrocks had succeeded.

  All day the wretched man had been tortured by horrid fears. And, as time passed and evening drew on, his mood became almost a panic. The money-lender was in a deplorable state of mind; his nerves were shaken, and he was racked by a dread of he scarce knew what. What he had gone through the night before had driven him to the verge of mental collapse. No bodily injury could have thus reduced him; for, whatever might have been his failings, physical cowardice was not amongst the number. Any moral weakness which might have been his had been so obscured by long years of success and prosperity, that no one knowing him would have believed him to be so afflicted. No, in spite of his present condition Lablache was a strong man.

  But the frightful mental torture he had endured at Retief's hands had told its tale. The attack of the last twenty-four hours had been made against him alone; at least, so Lablache understood it. Retief's efforts were only in his direction; the raider had robbed him of twenty thousand head of cattle; he had burnt his beautiful ranch out, in sheer wantonness it seemed to the despairing man; what then would be his next move if he were not stopped? What else was there of his—Lablache's—that the Breed could attack? His store—yes—yes; his store! That was all that was left of his property in Foss River. And then—what then? There was nothing after that, except, perhaps—except his life.

  Lablache stirred in his seat and wheezed heavily as he arrived at this conclusion. His horrified thoughts were expressed in the look of fear that was in his lashless eyes.

  His life—yes! That must be the raider's culminating object. Or would he leave him that, so that he might further torture him by burning him out of Calford. He pondered fearfully, and hard, practical as was his nature, the money-lender allowed his imagination to run riot over possibilities which surely his cooler judgment would have scoffed at.

  Lablache rose hurriedly from his chair. It only wanted a quarter to five. Putting his head through the partition doorway he ordered his astonished clerks to close up. He felt that he could not—dare not keep the store open longer. Then he inspected the private door of his office. The spring catch was fast. He locked his safe. All the time he moved about fearfully—like some hunted criminal. At last he returned to his seat. His bilious eyes roved over the various objects in the room. A hunted look was in them. His mind seemed fixed on one thought alone—the coming of Retief.

  After this he grew more calm. Perhaps the knowledge that the store was secure now against any intruder helped to steady his nerves. Then he started—was the store secure? He rose again and went to the window to put up the shutter. He gazed out towards the Foss River Ranch, and, as he gazed, he saw some one riding fast towards the settlement.

  The horseman came nearer; the sight fascinated the great man. Now the traveler had reached the market place, and was coming on towards the store. Suddenly the money-lender recognized in the horseman one of Horrocks's troopers, mounted on a horse from John Allandale's stable. A wild hope leapt up in his heart. Then, as the man drew nearer and Lablache saw the horrified expression of his face, hope went from him, and he feared the worst.

  The clatter of hoofs ceased outside the office door. Lablache stepped heavily forward and threw it open. He stood framed in the doorway as the man gasped out his terrible news.

  "He's drowned, sir, drowned before our eyes. We tried, but couldn't save him. He would go, sir; we tried to persuade him, but he would go. No more than fifty yards from the bank, and then down he went. He was out of sight in two minutes. It was horrible, sir, and him never uttered a sound. I'm going in to Stormy Cloud to report an' get instructions. Anything I can do, sir?"

  So the worst was realized. For the moment the money-lender could find no words. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. His last hope—the last barrier between him and the man whom he considered his arch enemy, Retief, seemed to have been shattered. He thought not of the horror of the policeman's drowning; he felt no sorrow at the reckless man's ghastly end. He merely thought of himself. He saw only how the man's death affected his personal interests. At last he gurgled out some words. He scarce knew what he said.

  "There's nothing to be done. Yes—no—yes, you'd better go up to the Allandales," he went on uncertainly. "They'll send a rescue party."

  The trooper dashed off and Lablache securely fastened the door. Then he put the shutter over the window, and, notwithstanding that it was broad daylight still, he lit the lamp.

  Once more he returned to his protesting chair, into which he almost fell. To him this last catastrophe was as the last straw. What was now to become of the settlement; what was to become of him? Horrocks gone; the troopers withdrawn, or, at least, w
ithout a guiding hand, what might Retief not be free to do while the settlement awaited the coming of a fresh detachment of police. He impotently cursed the raider. The craven weakness, induced by his condition of nervous prostration, was almost pitiable. All the selfishness which practically monopolized his entire nature displayed itself in his terror. He cared nothing for others. He believed that Retief was at war with him alone. He believed that the raider sought only his wealth—his wealth which his years of hard work and unscrupulous methods had laboriously piled up—the wealth he loved and lived for—the wealth which was to him as a god. He thought of all he had already lost. He counted it up in thousands, and his eyes grew wide with horror and despair as the figures mounted up, up, until they represented a great fortune.

  The long-suffering chair creaked under him as he flung himself back in it, his pasty, heavy-jowled face was ghastly under the lash of despairing thought. Only a miser, one of those wretched creatures who live only for the contemplation of their hoarded wealth, could understand the feelings of the miserable man as he lay back in his chair.

  The man who had thus reduced the money-lender must have understood his nature as did the inquisitors of old understand the weaknesses of their victims. For surely he could have found no other vulnerable spot in the great man's composition.

  The first shock of the trooper's news began to pass. Lablache's mind began to balance itself again. Such a state of nerves as was his could not last and the man remain sane. Possibly the thought that he was still a rich man came to his aid. Possibly the thought of hundreds of thousands of dollars sunk in perfect securities, in various European centers, toned down the grievousness of his losses. Whatever it was he grew calmer, and with calmness his scheming nature reasserted itself.

  He moved from his seat and helped himself liberally to the whisky which was in his cabinet. He needed the generous spirit, and drank it off at a gulp. His chair behind him creaked. He started. His ashen face became more ghastly in its hue. He looked round fearfully. Then he understood, and he wheezed heavily. Once more he sat himself down, and the warming spirit steadily did its work.

  Suddenly his mind leapt forward, as it were, from its stagnatory condition of abject fear. It traveled swiftly, urged by a pursuing dread over plans for the future. The guiding star of his thought was safety. At all costs he must find safety for his property and himself. So long as Retief was at large there could be no safety for him in Foss River. He must get away. He must get away, bearing with him the fruits which yet remained to him of his life's toil. He had contemplated retiring before. His retirement from business would mean ruin to many of those who had borrowed from him he knew, and to those on whose property he held mortgages as security. But that could not be helped. He was not going to allow himself to suffer through what he considered any humanitarian weakness. Yes, he would retire—get away from the reach of Retief and his companions, and—ah!

  His thoughts merged into another channel—a channel which, under the stress of his terrors, had for the moment been obscured. He suddenly thought of the Allandales. Here for the instant was a stumbling block. Or should he renounce his passion for Jacky? He drummed thoughtfully with his finger-tips upon the arms of his chair.

  No, why should he give her up? Something of his old nerve was returning. He held all the cards. He knew he could, by foreclosing, ruin "Poker" John. Why should he give the girl up, and see her calmly secured by that cursed Bunning-Ford? His bilious eyes half closed and his sparse eyebrows drew together in a deep concentration of thought. Then presently his forehead smoothed, and his lashless eyes gleamed wickedly. He rose heavily to his feet and labored to and fro across the floor, with his beefy hands clasped behind his back.

  "Excellent—excellent," he muttered. "The devil could not have designed it better." There was a grim, evil smile about his mouth. "Yes, a game—a game. It will tickle old John, and will carry out my purpose. The mortgages which I hold on his property are nothing to me. Most are gambling debts. For the rest the interest has covered the principal. I have seen to that. But he is in arrears now. Good—good. Their abandonment represents no loss to me—ha, ha." He chuckled mirthlessly. "A little game—a gentle flutter, friend John, and the stakes all in my favor. But I do not intend to lose. Oh, no. The girl might outwit me if I lost. I shall win, and on my wedding day I shall be magnanimous—good." He unclasped his hands and rubbed them together gleefully.

  "The uncle's consent—his persuasion. She will do as he wishes or—ruin. It is capital—a flawless scheme. And then to leave Foss River forever. God, but I shall be glad," with a return to his nervous dread. He looked about him; eagerly, his great paunchy figure pictured grotesquely beneath the pasty, fearful face.

  "Now to see John," he went on, after a moment's pause. "How—how? I wish I could get him here. It would be better here. There would be no chance of listening ears. Besides, there is the whisky." He paused again thinking. "Yes," he muttered presently. "Delay would be bad. I must not give my enemy time. At once—at once. Nothing like doing things at once. I must go to John. But—" and he looked dubiously at the darkened window—"when I return it will be dark." He picked up his other revolver and slipped it into his breast pocket. "Yes, yes, I am getting foolish—old. Come along, my friend, we will go."

  He seized his hat and went to the office door. He paused with his hand upon the lock, and gave one final look round, then he turned the spring with a great show of determination and passed out.

  It was a different man who left the little office on that evening to the man who had for so many years governed the destinies of the smaller ranching world of the Foss River district. He had truly said that he was getting old—but he did not quite realize how old. His enemies had done their work only too well. The terrible consequences of the night of terror were to have far-reaching results.

  The money-lender set out for the ranch bristling with eagerness to put into execution his hastily conceived plan.

  He found the old rancher in his sanctum. He was alone brooding over the calamity which had befallen the police-officer, and stimulating his thought with silent "nippings" at the whisky bottle. He was in a semi-maudlin condition when the money-lender entered, and greeted his visitor with almost childish effusion.

  Lablache saw and understood, and a sense of satisfaction came to him. He hoped his task would be easier than he had anticipated. His evil nature rose to the occasion, and, for the moment, his own troubles and fears were forgotten. There was a cat-like licking of the lips as he contemplated the pitiful picture before him.

  "Well?" said old John, looking into the other's face with a pair of bloodshot eyes, as he re-seated himself after rising to greet his visitor. "Well, poor Horrocks has gone—gone, a victim to his sense of duty. I guess, Lablache, there are few men would have shown his grit."

  "Grit! Yes, that's so." The money-lender had been about to say "folly," but he checked himself. He did not want to offend "Poker" John—now.

  "Yes. The poor fellow was too good for his work," he went on, in tones of commiseration. "'Tis indeed a catastrophe, John. And we are the losers by it. I regret now that I did not altogether agree with him when he first came amongst us."

  John wagged his head. He looked to be near weeping. His companion's sympathetic tone was almost too much for his whisky-laden heart. But Lablache had not come here to discuss Horrocks, or, for that matter, to sympathize with the gray-headed wreck of manhood before him. He wished to find out first of all if anybody was about whom his plans concerned, and then to force his proposition upon his old companion. He carefully led the rancher to talk of other things.

  "The man has gone into Stormy Cloud to report?"

  "Yes."

  "And who are they likely to send down in place—ah—of the unfortunate Horrocks, think you?"

  "Can't say. I guess they'll send a good man. I've asked for more men."

  The old man roused somewhat from his maudlin state.

  "Ah, that's a good move, John," said the money-lender. "
What does Jacky think about—these things?"

  The question was put carelessly. John yawned, and poured out a "tot" of whisky for his friend.

  "Guess I haven't seen the child since breakfast. She seemed to take it badly enough then."

  "Thanks. Aren't you going to have one?" as John pushed the glass over to the other.

  "Why, yes, man. Never shirk my liquor."

  He dashed a quantity of raw spirit into his glass and drank it off. Lablache looked on with intense satisfaction. John rose unsteadily, and, supporting himself against the furniture as he went, moved over to the French window and closed it. Then he lurched heavily back into his chair again. His eyes half closed. But he roused at the sound of Lablache's guttural tones.

  "John, old friend." Muddled as he was the rancher started at the term. "I've come to have a long chat with you. This morning I could not talk. I was too broken up—too, too ill. Now listen and you shall hear of all that happened last night, and then you will the better be able to judge of the wisdom of my decision."

  John listened while Lablache told his tale. The money-lender embellished the facts slightly so as the further to emphasize them. Then, at the conclusion of the story of his night's doings, he went on to matters which concerned his future.

  "Yes, John, there is nothing left for me but to get out of the country. Mind this is no sudden determination, but a conclusion I have long arrived at. These disastrous occurrences have merely hastened my plans. I am not so young as I was, you know," with an attempt at lightness, "I simply dare not stay. I fear that Retief will soon attempt my life."

  He sighed and looked for sympathy. Old John seemed too amazed to respond. He had never realized that the raider's efforts were solely directed against Lablache. The money-lender went on.

  "And that is why I have come to you, my oldest friend. I feel you should be the first to know, for with no one else in Foss River have I lived in such perfect harmony. And, besides, you are the most interested."