The Story of the Foss River Ranch

by Cullum, Ridgwell

  "Is that why you insist on coming to-night?"

  "Yes."

  Another embrace and Bill left the house.

  He sauntered leisurely down the avenue of pines. He kept straight on towards the muskeg. Then he turned away from the settlement, and was soon lost behind the rising ground which shored the great mire. Once out of sight of the house he quickened his pace, gradually swinging away from the keg, and heading towards the half-breed camp.

  Foss River might have been deserted for all signs of life he encountered. The prairie was calmly silent. Not even the call of the birds broke the stillness around. The heat of the afternoon had lulled all nature to repose.

  He strode on swiftly until he came to a small bluff. Here he halted and threw himself full length upon the ground in a welcome shade. He was within sight of the half-breed camp. He shifted his position until his head was in the sun. In this way he could see the scattered dwellings of the prairie outcasts. Then he drew a small piece of looking-glass from his pocket and held it out in the sun. Turning and twisting it in the direction of the camp, as might a child who wishes to dazzle a play-fellow's eyes. For several minutes he thus manipulated his impromptu heliograph. Then, as he suddenly beheld an answering flash in the distance, he desisted, and returned the glass to his pocket. Now he drew back in the shade and composed himself to smoke.

  The half-closed eyes of the recumbent man gazed steadily out towards the camp. He had nearly finished his third cigarette when his quick ears caught the sound of footsteps. Instantly he sat up. The steps grew louder and then round the sheltering bush came the thick-set form of Gautier. He was accompanied by an evil-looking dog which growled sulkily as it espied the white man.

  "Ugh! Hot walkin'," said the newcomer, by way of greeting.

  "Not so hot as it'll be to-night," said the white man, quietly. "Sit down."

  "More bonfires, boss?" said the half-breed, with a meaning grin, seating himself as he spoke.

  "More bonfires. See you, I want six of the boys at Lablache's store to-night at eleven o'clock. We are going to burn his place. It will be quite easy. Lablache will be away, and only his clerks on the premises. The cellar underneath the building is lit by barred windows, two under the front, and two under the office at the back. All you have to do is to break the glass of the window at the back and pour in a couple of gallons of coal oil. Then push in some straw, and then light a piece of oil-soaked rope and drop it in. The cellar is full of cases of goods and barrels of oil. The fire will be unextinguishable. Directly it is well lit see that the clerks are warned. We want no lives lost. You understand? The stables are adjacent and will catch fire too. I sha'n't be there until later. There will be no risk and lots of loot. Savee?"

  The cunning face of the half-breed was lit by an unholy grin. He rubbed his hands with the unctuous anticipation of a shop-walker. Truly, he thought, this white man was a man after his own heart. He wagged his head in approval.

  "Easy—easy? It is childlike," he said in ecstasy. "I have long thought of it, sure. An' thar is a big store of whisky thar, eh, boss? Good—good! And what time will you come?"

  "When the fire is lit. I go to deal with Lablache. Look you here, Gautier, you owe that man a grudge. You would kill him but you don't dare. I may pay off that grudge for you. Pay it by a means that is better than killing."

  "Torture," grinned the half-breed.

  Bill nodded.

  "Now see and be off. And don't make any mistake, or we may all swing for it. Tell Baptiste he must go over the keg at once and bring Golden Eagle to my shack at about half-past ten. Tell him to be punctual. Now scoot. No mistakes, or—" and Bill made a significant gesture.

  The man understood and hurried away. "Lord" Bill was satisfied that his orders would be carried out to the letter. The service he demanded of this man was congenial service, in so far that it promised loot in plenty and easily acquired. Moreover, the criminal side of the half-breed's nature was tickled. A liberal reward for honesty would be less likely to secure good service from such as Gautier than a chance of gain for shady work. It was the half-breed nature.

  After the departure of the half-breed, Bill remained where he was for some time. He sat with his hands clasped round his knees, gazing thoughtfully out towards the camp. He was reviewing his forces and mentally struggling to penetrate the pall which obscured the future. He felt himself to be playing a winning game; at least, that his vengeance and chastisement of Lablache had been made ridiculously easy for him. But now he had come to that point when he wondered what must be the outcome of it all as regarded himself and the girl he loved. Would his persecution drive Lablache from Foss River to the security of Calford, Where he would be able to follow him and still further prosecute his inexorable vengeance? Or would he still choose to remain? He knew Lablache to be a strong man, but he also knew, by the money-lender's sudden determination to force Jacky into marriage with him, that he had received a scare. He could not decide on the point. But he inclined to the belief that Lablache must go after to-night. He would not spare him. He had yet a trump card to play. He would be present at the game of cards, and—well, time would show.

  He threw away his mangled cigarette end and rose from the ground. One glance of his keen eyes told him that no one was in sight. He strolled out upon the prairie and made his way back to the settlement. He need not have troubled himself about the future. The future would work itself out, and no effort of his would be capable of directing its course. A higher power than man's was governing the actions of the participants in the Foss River drama.

  For the rest of the day "Lord" Bill moved about the settlement in his customary idle fashion. He visited the saloon; he showed himself on the market-place. He discussed the doings of Retief with the butcher, the smith, Dr. Abbot. And, as the evening closed in and the sun's power lessened, he identified himself with others as idle as himself, and basked in the warmth of its feeble, dying rays.

  When darkness closed in he went to his shack and prepared his evening meal with a simple directness which no thoughts of coming events could upset. Bill was always philosophical. He ate to live, and consequently was not particular about his food. He passed the evening between thought and tobacco, and only an occasional flashing of his lazy eyes gave any sign of the trend of his mental effort.

  At a few minutes past ten he went into his bedroom and carefully locked the door. Then he drew from beneath his bed a small chest; it was an ammunition chest of very powerful make. The small sliding lid was securely padlocked. This he opened and drew from within several articles of apparel and a small cardboard box.

  Next he divested himself of his own tweed clothes and donned the things he had taken from the box. These consisted of a pair of moleskin trousers, a pair of chaps, a buckskin shirt and a battered Stetson hat. From the cardboard box he took out a tin of greasy-looking stuff and a long black wig made of horse hair. Stepping to a glass he smeared his face with the grease, covering his own white flesh carefully right down to the chest and shoulders, also his hands. It was a brownish ocher and turned his skin to the copperish hue of the Indian. The wig was carefully adjusted and secured by sprigs to his own fair hair. This, with the hat well jammed down upon his head, completed the transformation, and out from the looking-glass peered the strong, eagle face of the redoubtable half-breed, Retief.

  He then filled the chest with his own clothes and relocked it. Suddenly his quick ear caught the sound of some one approaching. He looked at his watch; it wanted two minutes to half-past ten. He waited.

  Presently he heard the rattle of a stick down the featheredged boarding of the outer walls of the hut. He picked up his revolver belt and secured it about his waist, and then, putting out the light, unlocked the back door which opened out of his bedroom.

  A horse was standing outside, and a man held the bridle reins looped upon his arm.

  "That you, Baptiste?"

  "Yup."

  "Good, you are punctual."

  "It's as well."

&
nbsp; "Yes."

  "I go to join the boys," the half-breed said slowly. "And you?"

  "I—oh, I go to settle a last account with Lablache," replied Bill, with a mirthless laugh.

  "Where?"

  Bill looked sharply at the man. He understood the native distrust of the Breed. Then he nodded vaguely in the direction of the Foss River Ranch.

  "Yonder. In old John's fifty-acre pasture. Lablache and John meet at the tool-shed there to-night. Why?"

  "And you go not to the fire?" Baptiste's voice had a surprised ring in it.

  "Not until later. I must be at the meeting soon after eleven."

  The half-breed was silent for a minute. He seemed to be calculating. At length he spoke. His words conveyed resolve.

  "It is good. Guess you may need assistance. I'll be there—and some of the boys. We ain't goin' ter interfere—if things goes smooth."

  Bill shrugged.

  "You need not come."

  "No? Nuthin' more?"

  "Nothing. Keep the boys steady. Don't burn the clerks in the store."

  "No."

  "S'long."

  "S'long."

  "Lord" Bill vaulted into the saddle, and Golden Eagle moved restively away.

  It was as well that Foss River was a sleepy place. "Lord" Bill's precautions were not elaborate. But then he knew the ways of the settlement.

  Dr. Abbot chanced to be standing in the doorway of the saloon. Bill's shack was little more than a hundred yards away. The doctor was about to step across to see if he were in, for the purpose of luring his friend into a game. Poker was not so plentiful with the doctor now since Bill had dropped out of Lablache's set.

  He saw the dim outline of a horseman moving away from the back of "Lord" Bill's hut. His curiosity was aroused. He hastened across to the shack. He found it locked up, and in darkness. He turned away wondering. And as he turned away he found himself almost face to face with Baptiste. The doctor knew the man.

  "Evening, Baptiste."

  "Evening," the man growled.

  The doctor was about to speak again but the man hurried away.

  "Damned funny," the medical man muttered. Then he moved off towards his own home. Somehow he had forgotten his wish for poker.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXVII - THE LAST GAMBLE

  The fifty-acre pasture was situated nearly a quarter of a mile away to the left of John Allandale's house. Then, too, the whole length of it must be crossed before the implement shed be reached. This would add another half a mile to the distance, for the field was long and narrow, skirting as it did the hay slough which provided the ranch with hay. The pasture was on the sloping side of the slough, and on the top of the ridge stretched a natural fence of pines nearly two miles in extent.

  The shed was erected for the accommodation of mowers, horse-rakes, and the necessary appurtenances for haying. At one end, as Lablache had said, was a living-room. It was called so by courtesy. It was little better than the rest of the building, except that there was a crazy door to it—also a window; a rusty iron stove, small, and—when a fire burned in it—fierce, was crowded into a corner. Now, however, the stove was dismantled, and lengths of stove pipe were littered about the floor around it. A rough bed, supported on trestles, and innocent of bedding, filled one end of this abode; a table made of packing cases, and two chairs of the Windsor type, one fairly sound and the other minus a back, completed the total of rude furniture necessary for a "hired man's" requirements.

  A living-room, the money-lender had said, therefore we must accept his statement.

  A reddish, yellow light from a dingy oil lamp glowed sullenly, and added to the cheerlessness of the apartment. At intervals black smoke belched from the chimney top of the lamp in response to the draughts which blew through the sieve-like boarding of the shed. One must feel sorry for the hired man whose lot is cast in such cheerless quarters.

  It was past eleven. Lablache and John Allandale were seated at the table. The lurid light did not improve the expression of their faces.

  "Poker" John was eager—keenly eager now that Jacky had urged him to the game. Moreover, he was sober—sober as the proverbial "judge." Also he was suspicious of his opponent. Jacky had warned him. He looked very old as he sat at that table. His senility appeared in every line of his face; in every movement of his shaking hands; in every glance of his bleared eyes.

  Lablache, also, was changed slightly, but it was not in the direction of age; he showed signs of elation, triumph. He felt that he was about to accomplish the object which had long been his, and, at the same time, outwit the half-breed who had so lately come into his life, with such disastrous results to his, the money-lender's, peaceful enjoyment of his ill-gotten wealth.

  Lablache turned his lashless eyes in the direction of the window. It was a square aperture of about two feet in extent.

  "We are not likely to be interrupted," he said wheezily, "but it never does to chance anything. Shall we cover the window? A light in this room is unusual—"

  "Yes, let us cover it." "Poker" John chafed at the delay. "No one is likely to come this way, though."

  Lablache looked about for something which would answer his purpose. There was nothing handy. He drew out his great bandanna and tried it. It exactly covered the window. So he secured it. It would serve to darken the light to any one who might chance to be within sight of the shed. He returned to his seat. He bulged over it as he sat down, and its legs creaked ominously.

  "I have brought three packs of cards," he said, laying them upon the table.

  "So have I."

  "Poker" John looked directly into the other's bilious eyes.

  "Ah—then we have six packs."

  "Yes—six."

  "Whose shall we—" Lablache began.

  "We'll cut for it. Ace low. Low wins."

  The money-lender smiled at the rancher's eagerness. The two men cut in silence. Lablache cut a "three"; "Poker" John, a "queen."

  "We will use your cards, John." The money-lender's face expressed an unctuous benignity.

  The rancher was surprised, and his tell-tale cheek twitched uncomfortably.

  "For deal," said Lablache, stripping one of John's packs and passing it to his companion. The rancher shuffled and cut—Lablache cut. The deal went to the latter.

  "We want something to score on," the money-lender said. "My memorandum pad—"

  "We'll have nothing on the table, please." John had been warned.

  Lablache shrugged and smiled. He seemed to imply that the precaution was unnecessary. "Poker" John was in desperate earnest.

  "A piece of chalk—on the wall." The rancher produced the chalk and set it on the floor close by the wall and returned to his seat.

  Lablache shuffled clumsily. His fingers seemed too gross to handle cards. And yet he could shuffle well, and his fingers were, in reality, most sensitive. John Allandale looked on eagerly. The money-lender, contrary to his custom, dealt swiftly—so swiftly that the bleared eyes of his opponent could not follow his movements.

  Both men picked up their cards. The old instincts of poker were not so pronounced in the rancher as they used to be. Doubtless the game he was now playing did not need such mask-like impassivity of expression as an ordinary game would. After all, the pot opened, it merely became a question of who held the best hand. There would be no betting. John's eyes lighted up as he glanced at the index numerals. He held two "Jacks."

  "Can you?" Lablache's husky voice rasped in the stillness.

  "Yes."

  The dealer eyed his opponent for a second. His face was that of a graven image.

  "How many?"

  "Three."

  The money-lender passed three cards across the table. Then he discarded two cards from his own hand and drew two more.

  "What have you got?" he asked, with a grim pursing of his sagging lips.

  "Two pairs. Jacks up."

  Lablache laid his own cards on the table, spreading them out face upwards for the rancher to se
e. He held three "twos."

  "One to you," said John Allandale; and he went and chalked the score upon the wall.

  There was something very business-like about these two men when they played cards. And possibly it was only natural. The quiet way in which they played implied the deadly earnestness of their game. Their surroundings, too, were impressive when associated with the secrecy of their doings.

  Each man meant to win, and in both were all the baser passions fully aroused. Neither would spare the other, each would do his utmost. Lablache was sure. John was consumed with a deadly nervousness. But John Allandale at cards was the soul of honor. Lablache was confident in his superior manipulation—not play—of cards. He knew that, bar accidents, he must win. The mystery of being able to deal himself "three of a kind" and even better was no mystery to him. He preferred his usual method—the method of "reflection," as he called it; but in the game he was now playing such a method would be useless for obvious reasons. First of all, knowing his opponent's cards would only be of advantage where betting was to ensue. Now he needed the clumsier, if more sure, method of dealing himself a hand. And he did not hesitate to adopt it.

  "Poker" John dealt The pot was not opened. Lablache again dealt. Still the hand passed without the pot being opened. The next time John dealt Lablache opened the pot and was promptly beaten. He drew to two queens and missed. John drew to a pair of sevens and got a third. The game was one all. After this Lablache won three pots in succession and the game stood four—one, in favor of the money-lender.

  The old rancher's face more than indicated the state of the game. His features were gray and drawn. Already he saw his girl married to the man opposite to him. For an instant his weakness led him to think of refusing to play further—to defy Lablache and bid him do his worst. Then he remembered that the girl herself had insisted that he must see the game through—besides, he might yet win. He forced his thoughts to the coming hand. He was to deal.

  The deal, as far as he was concerned, was successful, His spirits rose.

  Four—two.

  Lablache took up the cards to deal. John was watching as though his life depended upon what he saw. Lablache's clumsy shuffle annoyed him. The lashless eyes of the money-lender were bent upon the cards, but he had no difficulty in observing the old man's attention. This unusual attention he set down to a natural excitement. He had not the smallest idea that the old man suspected him. He passed the cards to be cut. The rancher cut them carelessly. He had a natural cut. The pack was nearly halved. Lablache had prepared for this.