It was a fatal delusion. "Old man" Smith sold drink for gain. The more he sold the better he liked it. John Allandale's "Collins" developed, as it always did now, into three or four potent drinks. So that by the time he returned to the ranch for breakfast his remorse was pushed well into the background, and with feverish craving he lodged for the fateful game.
In spite of his devotion to the bottle John Allandale usually made a hearty breakfast. But this morning the sight of Jacky presiding at his table upset him, and he left his food almost untasted. Remorse was deadened but conscience was yet unsilenced within him. Every time she spoke to him, every time he encountered her piercing gray eyes he felt himself to be a worse than Judas. In his rough, exaggerated way he told himself that he was selling this girl as surely as did the old slave owners sell their slaves in bygone days. He endeavored to persuade himself that what he was doing was for the best, and certainly that it was forced upon him. He would not admit that his mania for poker was the main factor in his acceptance of Lablache's terms. Gradually, however, his thoughts became intolerable to him, and when Jacky at last remarked on the fact that he was eating nothing and drinking only his coffee, he could stand it no longer. He pushed his chair back and rose from the table, and, muttering an excuse, fled from the room.
Her uncle's precipitate flight alarmed Jacky. She had seen, as anybody with half an eye could see, that he had had a heavy night. The bleared eyes, the puffed lids, the working, nervous face were simple enough evidence. She knew, too, that he had already been drinking this morning. But these things were not new to her, only painful facts which she was unable to alter; but his strange behavior and lack of appetite were things to set her thinking.
She was a very active-minded girl. It was not her way to sit wondering and puzzling over anything she could not understand. She had a knack of setting herself to unravel problems which required explanation in the most common-sense way. After giving her uncle time to leave the house—intuition told her that he would do so—she rose and rang the bell. Then she moved to the window while she waited for an answer to her summons. She saw the burly figure of her uncle walking swiftly down towards the settlement and in the direction of the saloon.
She turned with a sigh as a servant entered.
"Did any one call last night while I was out?" she asked.
"Not for you, miss."
"Oh!"
"No, miss, but Mr. Lablache was here. He was with your uncle for a long time—in the office."
"Did he come in with Mr. Allandale?"
"Oh, no, miss, the master didn't go out. At least not that I know of. Mr. Lablache didn't call exactly. I think he just came straight to the office. I shouldn't have known he was there, only I was passing the door and heard his voice—and the master's."
"Oh, that will do—just wait a moment, though. Say, is Silas around? Just find him and send him right along. Tell him to come to the veranda."
The servant departed, and Jacky sat down at a writing-table and wrote a note to "Lord" Bill. The note was brief but direct in its tone.
"Can you see me this afternoon? Shall be in after tea."
That was all she put, and added her strong, bold signature to it. Silas came to the window and she gave him the note with instructions to deliver it into the hands of the Hon. Bunning-Ford.
The letter dispatched she felt easier in her mind.
What had Lablache been closeted with her uncle for? This was the question which puzzled—nay, alarmed her. She had seen her uncle early on the previous evening, and he had seemed happy enough. She wished now, when she had returned from visiting Mrs. Abbot, that she had thought to see if her uncle was in. It had become such a custom for him lately to be out all the evening that she had long ceased her childhood's custom of saying "Good-night" to him before retiring to bed. One thing was certain, she felt her uncle's strange behavior this morning was in some way due to Lablache's visit. She meant to find out what that visit meant.
To this end several plans occurred to her, but in each case were abandoned as unsuitable.
"No," she murmured at last, "I guess I'll tax him with it. He'll tell me. If Lablache means war, well—I've a notion he'll get a hustling he don't consider."
Then she left the sitting-room that she might set about her day's work. She would see her uncle at dinner-time.
Foss River had not yet risen to the civilized state of late dinners and indigestion. Early rising and hard work demanded early meals and hearty feeding. Dinner generally occurred at noon—an hour at which European society thinks of taking its déjeuner. By rising late society can thus avoid what little fresh, wholesome air there is to be obtained in a large city. Civilization jibs at early rising. Foss River was still a wild and savage country.
At noon Jacky came in to dinner. She had not seen her uncle since breakfast. The old man had not returned from the settlement. Truth to tell he wished to avoid his niece as much as possible for to-day. As dinner-time came round he grew nervous and uncomfortable, and was half inclined to accept "old man" Smith's invitation to dine at the saloon. Then he realized that this would only alarm Jacky and set her thinking. Therefore he plucked up the shattered remains of his moral courage and returned to the ranch. When a man looses his last grip on his self-respect he sinks with cruel rapidity. "Poker" John told himself that he was betraying his niece's affection, and with this assurance he told himself that he was the lowest-down cur in the country. The natural consequence to a man of his habit and propensity was—drink. The one time in his life when he should have refrained from indulgence he drank; and with each drink he made the fatal promise to himself that it should be the last.
When Jacky saw him swaying as he came up towards the house she could have cried out in very anguish. It smote her to the heart to see the old man whom she so loved in this condition. Yet when he lurched on to the veranda she smiled lovingly up into his face and gave no sign that she had any knowledge of his state.
"Come right along, uncle," she said gayly, linking her arm within his, "dinner is on. You must be good and hungry, you made such a poor breakfast this morning."
"Yes, child, I wasn't very well," he mumbled thickly. "Not very well—now."
"You poor dear, come along," and she led him in through the open window.
During the meal Jacky talked incessantly. She talked of everything but what had upset her uncle. She avoided any reference to Lablache with great care. But, in spite of her cheerfulness, she could not rouse the degenerate old man. Rather it seemed that, as the meal progressed, he became gloomier. The truth was the girl's apparent light-heartedness added to his self-revilings and made him feel more criminal than ever. He ate his food mechanically, and he drank glass after glass of ale.
Jacky heaved a sigh of relief when the meal was over. She felt that she could not much longer have kept up her light-hearted talk. Her uncle was about to move from the table. The girl stayed him with a gesture. He had eaten a good dinner and she was satisfied. Now she would question him.
It is strange how a woman, in whatever relationship she may stand, loves to see a man eat well. Possibly she understands the effect of a good dinner upon the man in whom she centers her affection; possibly it is the natural maternal instinct for his well-being.
"Uncle, what did Lablache come to see you for last night?"
The question was abrupt. It had the effect of bringing the rancher back to his seat with a drunken lurch.
"Eh?" he queried, blinking nervously.
"What did he come for?" Jacky persisted.
The girl could be relentless even with her uncle.
"Lablache—oh—er—talk bus—bus'ness, child—bus'ness," and he attempted to get up from his chair again.
But Jacky would not let him go.
"Wait a moment, uncle dear, I want to talk to you. I sha'n't keep you long." The old man looked anywhere but at his companion. A cold sweat was on his forehead, and his cheek twitched painfully under the steady gaze of the girl's somber eyes. "I don't ofte
n get a chance of talking to you now," she went on, with a slight touch of bitterness. "I just want to talk about that skunk, Lablache. I guess he didn't pass the evening talking of Retief—and what he intends to do towards his capture? Say, uncle, what was it about?"
The old man grasped at the suggestion.
"Yes—yes, child. It was Retief."
He kept his eyes averted. The girl was not deceived.
"All the time?"
"Poker" John remained silent. He would have lied but could not.
"Uncle!"
Her tone was a moral pressure. The old man turned for relief to his avuncular authority.
"I must go. You've no right—question me," he stuttered. "I refu—"
"No, uncle, you won't refuse me." The girl had risen and had moved round to where the old man sat. She fondled him lovingly and his attempt at angry protest died within him. "Come, dear, tell me all about it. You are worried and I can help you. What did he threaten you with? I suppose he wants money," contemptuously. "How much?"
The old drunkard was powerless to resist her loving appeal.
He was cornered. Another might have lied and so escaped, but John Allandale's weakness was such that he had not the courage to resort to subterfuge. Moreover, there was a faint spark of honor nickering deep down in his kindly heart. The girl's affectionate display was surely fanning that spark into a flame. Would the flame grow or would it sparkle up for one brief moment and then go out from pure lack of fuel? Suddenly something of the truth of the cause of her uncle's distress flashed across Jacky's mind. She knew Lablache's wishes in regard to herself. Perhaps she was the subject of that interview.
"Uncle, it is I who am causing you this trouble. What is it that Lablache wants of me?" She asked the question with her cheek pressed to the old man's face. His whisky-laden breath reeked in her nostrils.
Her question took him unawares, and he started up pushing her from him.
"Who—who told you, girl?" His bleared eyes were now turned upon her, and they gazed fearfully into hers.
"I thought so," she exclaimed, smiling back into the troubled face. "No one told me, uncle, I guess that beast wants to marry me. Say, uncle, you can tell me everything right here. I'll help you. He's smart, but he can't mate with me."
"But—but—" He struggled to collect his thoughts.
"No 'buts,' dear. I've refused Lablache once. I guess I can size up the racket he thinks to play. Money—money! He'd like to buy me, I take it. Say, uncle, can't we frolic him some? Now—what did he say?"
"I—can't tell you, child," the old man protested desperately. Then he weakened further before those deep, steadfast eyes. "Don't—press me. Don'—press me." His voice contained maudlin tears. "I'm a vill'n, girl. I'm worse. Don'—look a' me—like that. Ja'y—Ja'y—I've—sol'—you!"
The miserable old man flung himself back in his chair and his head bowed until his chin sank heavily upon his chest. Two great tears welled into his bloodshot eyes and trickled slowly down his seared old cheeks. It was a pitiable sight. Jacky looked on silently for a moment. Her eyes took in every detail of that picture of despair. She had heard the old man's words but took no heed of them. She was thinking very hard. Suddenly she seemed to arrive at a decision. Her laugh rang out, and she came and knelt at her uncle's side.
"So you've sold me, you old dear, and not a bad thing too. What's the price?"
Her uncle raised his bowed head. Her smiling face dried his tears and put fresh heart into him. He had expected bitter invective, but instead the girl smiled.
Jacky's task now became a simple one. A mere matter of pumping. Sharp questions and rambling replies. Bit by bit she learned the story of Lablache's proposal and the manner in which an acceptance had been forced upon her uncle. She did not relinquish her task until the minutest detail had been gleaned. At last she was satisfied with her cross-examination.
She rose to her feet and passed her hand with a caressing movement over her uncle's head, gazing the while out of the window. Her mind was made up. Her uncle needed her help now. That help should be his. She condoned his faults; she saw nothing but that which was lovable in his weakness. Hers was now the strength to protect him, who, in the days of his best manhood had sheltered her from the cruel struggles of a life in the half-breed camp, for such, at the death of her impecunious father, must otherwise have been her lot.
Now she looked down into that worn, old face, and her brisk, business-like tones roused him into new life.
"Uncle, you must meet Lablache and play—the game. For the rest, leave it to me. All I ask is—no more whisky to-day. Stay right here and have a sleep. Guess you might go an' lie down. I'll call you for supper. Then you'll be fit. One thing you must remember; watch that ugly-faced cur when you play. See he don't cheat any. I'll tell you more before you start out. Come right along now and have that sleep."
The old man got up and the girl led him from the room. She saw him to his bedroom and then left him. She decided that, for herself, she would not leave the house until she had seen Bill. She must get her uncle sober before he went to meet Lablache.
* * *
CHAPTER XXVI - IN WHICH MATTERS REACH A CLIMAX
Foss River Settlement was, at the time, a very small place, and of practically no importance. It was brought into existence by the neighborhood of one or two large ranches; these ranches employed considerable labor. Foss River might be visited by an earthquake, and, provided the earthquake was not felt elsewhere, the world would not be likely to hear of it for weeks. The newspapers of the Western cities were in their infancy, and contented themselves with the news of their own towns and feverish criticisms of politics which were beyond the understanding of their editors. Progress in the West was very slow—almost at a standstill.
After the death of Horrocks the police had withdrawn to report and to receive augmentation. No one felt alarm at their absence. The inhabitants of Foss River were a self-reliant people—accustomed to look to themselves for the remedy of a grievance. Besides, Horrocks, they said, had shown himself to be a duffer—merely a tracker, a prairie-man and not the man to bring Retief to justice. Already the younger members of the settlement and district were forming themselves into a vigilance committee. The elders—those to whom the younger looked for a lead in such matters—had chosen to go to the police; now the younger of the settlement decided to act for themselves.
This was the condition and feeling in Foss River at the time of the death of Horrocks; this was the state of affairs when the insouciant Bill leisurely strolled into the sitting-room at the Foss River Ranch, about the time that Joaquina Allandale had finished her tea. With the familiarity of the West, Bill entered by the French window. His lazy smile was undisturbed. He might have been paying an ordinary call instead of answering a summons which he knew must be a matter of emergency, for it was understood between these two that private meetings were tabooed, except when necessity demanded them.
Jacky's greeting was not reassuring, but her lover's expression remained unchanged, except that his weary eyelids further unclosed.
"Guess we're side-tracked, Bill," she said meaningly. "The line's blocked. Signals dead against us."
Bill looked into her eyes; then he turned and closed the window, latching it securely. The door was closed. His keen eyes noted this.
"What do you mean?"
The girl shrugged.
"The next twelve hours must finish our game."
"Ah!"
"Yes," the girl went on, "it is Lablache's doing. We must settle our reckoning with him to-night."
Bill flung himself into a chair.
"Will you explain?—I don't understand. May I smoke?"
Jacky smiled. The request was so unnecessary. She always liked Bill's nonchalance. It conveyed such a suggestion of latent power.
"Yes, smoke, Bill; smoke and get your thinking box in order. My yarn won't take a deal of time to tell. But it'll take a deal of thought to upset Lablache's last move, without—shootin'."
"Um—shooting's an evil, but sometimes—necessary. What's his racket?"
The girl told her story quickly. She forgot nothing. She never allowed herself to fall into the womanly mistake of omitting details, however small.
Bill fully appreciated her cleverness in this direction. He could trust what she said implicitly. At the conclusion of the story he sat up and rolled another cigarette.
"And your uncle is upstairs in bed?"
"Yes, when he wakes I guess he'll need a bracer. He'll be sober. He must play. Lablache means to win."
"Yes, he means to win. He has had a bad scare."
"What are we going to do?"
The girl eyed her lover keenly. She saw by his manner that he was thinking rapidly.
"The game must be interrupted—with another scare."
"What?"
Bill shrugged and laughed.
"What are you going to do?"
"Burn him out—his store. And then—"
"And then?" eagerly.
"Retief will be present at the game. Tell him what has happened and—if he doesn't leave Foss River—shoot him. Mortgages and all records of debts, etc., are in his store."
"Good."
After expressing her approval the girl sat gazing into her lover's face. They talked a little longer, then Bill rose to go.
"Eleven o'clock to-night you say is the appointed hour?"
"Yes. I shall meet you at the gate of the fifty-acre pasture."
"Better not."
"Yes, I am going to be there," with a decisive nod. "One cannot be sure. You may need me."
"Very well. Good-by, little woman." "Lord" Bill bent and kissed her. Then something very like a sigh escaped him. "I think with you this game is nearly up. To-night will settle things one way or the other."
"Yes. Trouble is not far off. Say, Bill, when it comes, I want to be with you."
Bill looked tenderly down into the upturned face.
The Story of the Foss River Ranch Page 26
