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The Story of the Foss River Ranch: A Tale of the Northwest

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Title: The Story of the Foss River Ranch: A Tale of the Northwest

Author: Ridgwell Cullum


        
Release date: December 27, 2004 [eBook #14482]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF THE FOSS RIVER RANCH: A TALE OF THE NORTHWEST ***

The Story of the Foss River Ranch

A Tale of the Northwest

By RIDGWELL CULLUM

Author of

"The Law Breakers," "The Way of the Strong,"
"The Watchers of the Plains." Etc.

A.L. BURT COMPANY Publishers  New York

Published by Arrangement with THE PAGE COMPANY

Published August, 1903




TO MY WIFE




CONTENTS

CHAP.                                 PAGE

I THE POLO CLUB BALL      1

II THE BLIZZARD: ITS CONSEQUENCES      12

III A BIG GAME OF POKER      24

IV AT THE FOSS RIVER RANCH      32

V THE "STRAY" BEYOND THE MUSKEG      45

VI "WAYS THAT ARE DARK"      56

VII ACROSS THE GREAT MUSKEG      64

VIII TOLD IN BAD MAN'S HOLLOW      76

IX LABLACHE'S "COUP"      88

X "AUNT" MARGARET REFLECTS      96

XI THE CAMPAIGN OPENS      110

XII LABLACHE FORCES THE FIGHT      120

XIII THE FIRST CHECK      128

XIV THE HUE AND CRY      138

XV AMONG THE HALF-BREEDS      150

XVI GAUTIER CAUSES DISSENSION      163

XVII THE NIGHT OF THE PUSKY      176

XVIII THE PUSKY      188

XIX LABLACHE'S MIDNIGHT VISITOR      200

XX A NIGHT OF TERROR      210

XXI HORROCKS LEARNS THE SECRET OF THE MUSKEG      219

  XXII THE DAY AFTER      230

 XXIII THE PAW OF THE CAT      243

  XXIV "POKER" JOHN ACCEPTS      253

   XXV UNCLE AND NIECE      261

  XXVI IN WHICH MATTERS REACH A CLIMAX      270

 XXVII THE LAST GAMBLE      279

XXVIII SETTLING THE RECKONING      287

  XXIX THE MAW OF THE MUSKEG      297




CHAPTER I

THE POLO CLUB BALL


It was a brilliant gathering--brilliant in every sense of the word. The
hall was a great effort of the decorator's art; the people were
faultlessly dressed; the faces were strong, handsome--fair or dark
complexioned as the case might be; those present represented the wealth
and fashion of the Western Canadian ranching world. Intellectually, too,
there was no more fault to find here than is usual in a ballroom in the
West End of London.

It was the annual ball of the Polo Club, and that was a social function
of the first water--in the eyes of the Calford world.

"My dear Mrs. Abbot, it is a matter which is quite out of my province,"
said John Allandale, in answer to a remark from his companion. He was
leaning over the cushioned back of the Chesterfield upon which an old
lady was seated, and gazing smilingly over at a group of young people
standing at the opposite end of the room. "Jacky is one of those young
ladies whose strength of character carries her beyond the control of
mere man. Yes, I know what you would say," as Mrs. Abbot glanced up into
his face with a look of mildly-expressed wonder; "it is true I am her
uncle and guardian, but, nevertheless, I should no more dream of
interfering with her--what shall we say?--love affairs, than suggest
her incapacity to 'boss' a 'round up' worked by a crowd of Mexican
greasers."

"Then all I can say is that your niece is a very unfortunate girl,"
replied the old lady, acidly. "How old is she?"

"Twenty-two."

John Allandale, or "Poker" John as he was more familiarly called by all
who knew him, was still looking over at the group, but an expression had
suddenly crept into his eyes which might, in a less robust-looking man,
have been taken for disquiet--even fear. His companion's words had
brought home to him a partial realization of a responsibility which was
his.

"Twenty-two," she repeated, "and not a relative living except a
good-hearted but thoroughly irresponsible uncle. That child is to be
pitied, John."

The old man sighed. He took no umbrage at his companion's
brusquely-expressed estimation of himself. He was still watching the
group at the other end of the room. His face was clouded, and a keen
observer might have detected a curious twitching of his bronzed right
cheek, just beneath the eye. His eyes followed the movement of a
beautiful girl surrounded by a cluster of men, immaculately dressed,
bronzed--and, for the most part, wholesome-looking. She was dark, almost
Eastern in her type of features. Her hair was black with the blackness
of the raven's wing, and coiled in an ample knot low upon her neck. Her
features, although Eastern, had scarcely the regularity one expects in
such a type, whilst her eyes quashed without mercy any idea of such
extraction for her nationality. They were gray, deeply ringed at the
pupil with black. They were keen eyes--fathomless in their suggestion of
strength--eyes which might easily mask a world of good or evil.

The music began, and the girl passed from amidst her group of admirers
upon the arm of a tall, fair man, and was soon lost in the midst of the
throng of dancers.

"Who is that she is dancing with now?" asked Mrs. Abbot, presently. "I
didn't see her go off; I was watching Mr. Lablache standing alone and
disconsolate over there against the door. He looks as if some one had
done him some terrible injury. See how he is glaring at the dancers."

"Jacky is dancing with 'Lord' Bill. Yes, you are right, Lablache does
not look very amiable. I think this would be a good opportunity to
suggest a little gamble in the smoking-room."

"Nothing of the sort," snapped Mrs. Abbot, with the assurance of an old
friend. "I haven't half finished talking to you yet. It is a most
extraordinary thing that all you people of the prairie love to call each
other by nicknames. Why should the Hon. William Bunning-Ford be dubbed
'Lord' Bill, and why should that sweet niece of yours, who is the
possessor of such a charming name as Joaquina, be hailed by every man
within one hundred miles of Calford as 'Jacky'? I think it is both
absurd and--vulgar."

"Possibly you are right, my dear lady. But you can never alter the ways
of the prairie. You might just as well try to stem the stream of our
Foss River in early spring as try to make the prairie man call people by
their legitimate names. For instance, do you ever hear me spoken of by
any other name than 'Poker' John?"

Mrs. Abbot looked up sharply. A malicious twinkle was in her eyes.

"There is reason in your sobriquet, John. A man who spends his substance
and time in playing that fascinating but degrading game called 'Draw
Poker' deserves no better title."

John Allandale made a "clucking" sound with his tongue. It was his way
of expressing irritation. Then he stood erect, and glanced round the
room in search of some one. He was a tall, well-built man and carried
his fifty odd years fairly well, in spite of his gray hair and the bald
patch at the crown of his head. Thirty years of a rancher's life had in
no way lessened the easy carriage and distinguished bearing acquired
during his upbringing. John Allandale's face and figure were redolent of
the free life of the prairie. And although, possibly, his fifty-five
years might have lain more easily upon him he was a man of commanding
appearance and one not to be passed unnoticed.

Mrs. Abbot was the wife of the doctor of the Foss River Settlement and
had known John Allandale from the first day he had taken up his abode on
the land which afterwards became known as the Foss River Ranch until
now, when he was acknowledged to be a power in the stock-raising world.
She was a woman of sound, practical, common sense; he was a man of
action rather than a thinker; she was a woman whose moral guide was an
invincible sense of duty; he was a man whose sense of responsibility and
duty was entirely governed by an unreliable inclination. Moreover, he
was obstinate without being possessed of great strength of will. They
were characters utterly opposed to one another, and yet they were the
greatest of friends.

The music had ceased again and once more the walls were lined with
heated dancers, breathing hard and fanning themselves. Suddenly John
Allandale saw a face he was looking for. Murmuring an excuse to Mrs.
Abbot, he strode across the room, just as his niece, leaning upon the
arm of the Hon. Bunning-Ford, approached where he had been standing.

Mrs. Abbot glanced admiringly up into Jacky's face.

"A successful evening, Joaquina?" she interrogated kindly.

"Lovely, Aunt Margaret, thanks." She always called the doctor's wife
"Aunt."

Mrs. Abbot nodded.

"I believe you have danced every dance. You must be tired, child. Come
and sit down."

Jacky was intensely fond of this old lady and looked upon her almost as
a mother. Her affection was reciprocated. The girl seated herself and
"Lord" Bill stood over her, fan in hand.

"Say, auntie," exclaimed Jacky, "I've made up my mind to dance every
dance on the program. And I guess I sha'n't Waste time on feeding."

The girl's beautiful face was aglow with excitement. Mrs. Abbot's face
indicated horrified amazement.

"My dear child, don't--don't talk like that. It is really dreadful."

"Lord" Bill smiled.

"I'm so sorry, auntie, I forgot," the girl replied, with an irresistible
smile. "I never can get away from the prairie. Do you know, this evening
old Lablache made me mad, and my hand went round to my hip to get a grip
on my six-shooter, and I was quite disappointed to feel nothing but
smooth silk to my touch. I'm not fit for town life, I guess. I'm a
prairie girl; you can bet your life on it, and nothing will civilize me.
Billy, do stop wagging that fan."

"Lord" Bill smiled a slow, twinkling smile and desisted. He was a tall,
slight man, with a faint stoop at the shoulders. He looked worthy of his
title.

"It is no use trying to treat Jacky to a becoming appreciation of social
requirements," he said, addressing himself with a sort of weary
deliberation to Mrs. Abbot. "I suggested an ice just now. She said she
got plenty on the ranch at this time of year," and he shrugged his
shoulders and laughed pleasantly.

"Well, of course. What does one want ices for?" asked the girl,
disdainfully. "I came here to dance. But, auntie, dear, where has uncle
gone? He dashed off as if he were afraid of us when we came up."

"I think he has set his mind on a game of poker, dear, and--"

"And that means he has gone in search of that detestable man, Lablache,"
Jacky put in sharply.

Her beautiful face flushed with anger as she spoke. But withal there was
a look of anxiety in her eyes.

"If he must play cards I wish he would play with some one else," she
pursued.

"Lord" Bill glanced round the room. He saw that Lablache had
disappeared.

"Well, you see, Lablache has taken a lot of money out of all of us.
Naturally we wish to get it back," he said quietly, as if in defense of
her uncle's doings.

"Yes, I know. And--do you?" The girl's tone was cutting.

"Lord" Bill shrugged. Then,--

"As yet I have not had that pleasure."

"And if I know anything of Lablache you never will," put in Mrs. Abbot,
curtly. "He is not given to parting easily. The qualification most
necessary amongst gentlemen in the days of our grandfathers was keen
gambling. You and John, had you lived in those days, might have aspired
to thrones."

"Yes--or taken to the road. You remember, even then, it was necessary to
be a 'gentleman' of the road."

"Lord" Bill laughed in his lazy fashion. His keen gray eyes were half
veiled with eyelids which, seemed too weary to lift themselves. He was a
handsome man, but his general air of weariness belied the somewhat eagle
cast of countenance which was his. Mrs. Abbot, watching him, thought
that the deplorable lassitude which he always exhibited masked a very
different nature. Jacky possibly had her own estimation of the man.
Whatever it was, her friendship for him was not to be doubted, and, on
his part, he never attempted to disguise his admiration of her.

A woman is often a much keener observer of men than she is given credit
for. A man is frequently disposed to judge another man by his mental
talents and his peculiarities of temper--or blatant self-advertisement.
A woman's first thought is for that vague, but comprehensive trait
"manliness. She drives straight home for the peg upon which to hang her
judgment. That is why in feminine regard the bookworm goes to the wall
to make room for the athlete. Possibly Jacky and Mrs. Abbot had probed
beneath "Lord" Bill's superficial weariness and discovered there a
nature worthy of their regard. They were both, in their several ways,
fond of this scion of a noble house.

"It is all very well for you good people to sit there and lecture--or,
at least, say 'things,'" "Lord" Bill went on. "A man must have
excitement. Life becomes a burden to the man who lives the humdrum
existence of ranch life. For the first few years it is all very well. He
can find a certain excitement in learning the business. The 'round-ups'
and branding and re-branding of cattle, these things are
fascinating--for a time. Breaking the wild and woolly broncho is
thrilling and he needs no other tonic; but when one has gone through all
this and he finds that no Broncho--or, for that matter, any other
horse--ever foaled cannot be ridden, it loses its charm and becomes
boring. On the prairie there are only two things left for him to
do--drink or gamble. The first is impossible. It is low, degrading.
Besides it only appeals to certain senses, and does not give one that
'hair-curling' thrill which makes life tolerable. Consequently the wily
pasteboard is brought forth--and we live again."

"Stuff," remarked Mrs. Abbot, uncompromisingly.

"Bill, you make me laugh," exclaimed Jacky, smiling up into his face.
"Your arguments are so characteristic of you. I believe it is nothing
but sheer indolence that makes you sit down night after night and hand
over your dollars to that--that Lablache. How much have you lost to him
this week?"

"Lord" Bill glanced quizzically down at the girl.

"I have purchased seven evenings' excitement at a fairly reasonable
price."

"Which means?"

The girl leant forward and in her eyes was a look of anxiety. She meant
to have the truth.

"I have enjoyed myself."

"But the price?"

"Ah--here comes your partner for the next dance," "Lord" Bill went on,
still smiling. "The band has struck up."

At that moment a broad-shouldered man, with a complexion speaking loudly
of the prairie, came up to claim the girl.

"Hallo, Pickles," said Bill, quietly turning upon the newcomer and
ignoring Jacky's question. "Thought you said you weren't coming in
to-night?"

"Neither was I," the man addressed as "Pickles" retorted, "but Miss
Jacky promised me two dances," he went on, in strong Irish brogue; "that
settled it. How d'ye do, Mrs. Abbot? Come along, Miss Jacky, we're
losing half our dance."

The girl took the proffered arm and was about to move off. She turned
and spoke to "Lord" Bill over her shoulder.

"How much?"

Bill shrugged his shoulders in a deprecating fashion. The same gentle
smile hovered round his sleepy eyes.

"Three thousand dollars."

Jacky glided off into the already dancing throng.

For a moment the Hon. Bunning-Ford and Mrs. Abbot watched the girl as
she glided in and out amongst the dancers, then, with a sigh, the old
lady turned to her companion. Her kindly wrinkled old face wore a sad
expression and a half tender look was in her eyes as they rested upon
the man's face. When she spoke, however, her tone was purely
conversational.

"Are you not going to dance?"

"No," abstractedly. "I think I've had enough."

"Then come and sit by me and help to cheer an old woman up."

"Lord" Bill smiled as he seated himself upon the lounge.

"I don't think there is much necessity for my cheering influence, Aunt
Margaret. Amongst your many other charming qualities cheerfulness is not
the least. Doesn't Jacky look lovely to-night?"

"To-night?--always."

"Yes, of course--but Jacky always seems to surpass herself under
excitement. One would scarcely expect it, knowing her as we do. But she
is as wildly delighted with dancing as any miss fresh from school."

"And why not? It is little pleasure that comes into her life. An
orphan--barely twenty-two--with the entire responsibility of her uncle's
ranch upon her shoulders. Living in a very hornet's nest of blacklegs
and--and--"

"Gamblers," put in the man, quietly.

"Yes," Aunt Margaret went on defiantly, "gamblers. With the certain
knowledge that the home she struggles for, through no fault of her own,
is passing into the hands of a man she hates and despises--"

"And who by the way is in love with her." "Lord" Bill's mouth was
curiously pursed.

"What pleasure can she have?" exclaimed Mrs. Abbot, vehemently.
"Sometimes, much as I am attached to John, I feel as if I should like
to--to bang him!"

"Poor old John!" Bill's bantering tone nettled the old lady, but she
said no more. Her anger against those she loved could not last long.

"'Poker' John loves his niece," the man went on, as his companion
remained silent. "There is nothing in the world he would not do for her,
if it lay within his power."

"Then let him leave poker alone. His gambling is breaking her heart."

The angry light was again in the old lady's eyes. Her companion did not
answer for a moment. His lips had assumed that curious pursing. When he
spoke it was with, great decision.

"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.

Lablache laughed quietly, but his keen, restless eyes shot an unpleasant
glance at the speaker from beneath their heavy lids.

He was a burly man. In bulk he was of much the same proportions as old
John Allandale. But while John was big with the weight of muscle and
frame, Lablache was flabby with fat. In face he was the antithesis of
the other. Whilst "Poker" John was the picture of florid tanning--While
his face, although perhaps a trifle weak in its lower formation, was
bold, honest, and redounding with kindly nature, Lablache's was
bilious-looking and heavy with obesity. Whatever character was there, it
was lost in the heavy folds of flesh with which it was wreathed. His
jowl was ponderous, and his little mouth was tightly compressed, while
his deep-sunken, bilious eyes peered from between heavy, lashless lids.

Such was Verner Lablache, the wealthiest man of the Foss River
Settlement. He owned a large store in the place, selling farming
machinery to the settlers and ranchers about. His business was always
done on credit, for which he charged exorbitant rates of interest,
accepting only first mortgages upon crops and stock as security. Besides
this he represented several of the Calford private banks, which many
people said were really owned by him, and there was no one more ready to
lend money--on the best of security and the highest rate of
interest--than he. Should the borrower fail to pay, he was always
suavely ready to renew the loan at increased interest--provided the
security was sound. And, in the end, every ounce of his pound of flesh,
plus not less than fifty per cent. interest, would come back to him.
After Verner Lablache had done with him, the unfortunate rancher who
borrowed generally disappeared from the neighborhood. Sometimes this
man's victims were never heard of again. Sometimes they were discovered
doing the "chores" round some obscure farmer's house. Anyway, ranch,
crops, stock--everything the man ever had--would have passed into the
hands of the money-lender, Lablache.

Hard-headed dealer--money-grubber--as Lablache was, he had a weakness.
To look at him--to know him--no one would have thought it, but he had.
And at least two of those present were aware of his secret. He was in
love with Jacky. That is to say, he coveted her--desired her. When
Lablache desired anything in that little world of his, he generally
secured it to himself, but, in this matter, he had hitherto been
thwarted. His desire had increased proportionately. He was annoyed to
think that Jacky had retired at his coming. He was in no way blind to
the reason of her sudden departure, but beyond his first remark he was
not the man to advertise his chagrin. He could afford to wait.

"You'll take a bite o' supper, Mr. Lablache?" said old Norton, in a tone
of inquiry.

"Supper?--no, thanks, Norton. But if you've a drop of something hot I
can do with that."

"We've gener'ly got somethin' o' that about," replied the old man.
"Whiskey or rum?"

"Whisky, man, whisky. I've got liver enough already without touching
rum." Then he turned to "Poker" John.

"It's a devilish night, John, devilish. I started before you. Thought I
could make the river in time. I was completely lost on the other side of
the creek. I fancy the storm worked up from that direction."

He lumped into a chair close beside the stove. The others had already
seated themselves.

"We didn't chance it. Bill drove us straight here," said "Poker" John.

"Guess Bill knew something--he generally does," as an afterthought.

"I know a blizzard when I see it," said Bunning-Ford, indifferently.

Lablache sipped his whisky. A silence fell on that gathering of
refugees. Mrs. Norton had cleared the supper things.

"Well, if you gents'll excuse me I'll go back to bed. Old Joe'll look
after you," she said abruptly. "Good-night to you all."

She disappeared up the staircase. The men remained silent for a moment
or two. They were getting drowsy. Suddenly Lablache set his glass down
and looked at his watch.

"Four o'clock, gentlemen. I suppose, Joe, there are no beds for us." The
old farmer shook his head. "What say, John--Doc--a little game until
breakfast?"

John Allandale's face lit up. His sobriquet was no idle One. He lived
for poker--he loved it. And Lablache knew it. Old John turned to the
others. His right cheek twitched as he waited the decision. "Doc" Abbot
smiled approval; "Lord" Bill shrugged indifferently. The old gambler
rose to his feet.

"That's all right, then. The kitchen table is good enough for us. Come
along, gentlemen."

"I'll slide off to bed, I guess," said Norton, thankful to escape a
night's vigil. "Good-night, gentlemen."

Then the remaining four sat down to play.

The far-reaching consequences of that game were undreamt of by the
players, except, perhaps, by Lablache. His story of the reason of his
return to Norton's farm was only partially true. He had returned in the
hopes of this meeting; he had anticipated this game.




CHAPTER III

A BIG GAME OF POKER


"What about cards?" said Lablache, as the four men sat down to the
table.

"Doc will oblige, no doubt," Bunning-Ford replied quietly. "He generally
carries the 'pernicious pasteboards' about with him."

"The man who travels in the West without them," said Dr. Abbot,
producing a couple of new packs from his pocket, "either does not know
his country or is a victim of superstition."

No one seemed inclined to refuse the doctor's statement, or enter into a
discussion upon the matter. Instead, each drew out a small memorandum
block and pencil--a sure indication of a "big game."

"Limit?" asked the doctor.

Lablache shrugged his shoulders, affectionately shuffling the cards the
while. He kept his eyes averted.

"What do the others say?"

There was a challenge in Lablache's tone. Bunning-Ford flushed slightly
at the cheek-bones. That peculiar pursing was at his lips.

"Anything goes with me. The higher the game the greater the excitement,"
he said, shooting a keen glance at the pasty face of the money-lender.

Old John was irritated. His ruddy face gleamed in the light of the lamp.
The nervous twitching of the cheek indicated his frame of mind. Lablache
smiled to himself behind the wood expression of his face.

"Twenty dollars call for fifty. Limit the bet to three thousand
dollars. Is that big enough for you, Lablache? Let us have a regulation
'ante.' No 'straddling.'"

There was a moment's silence. "Poker" John had proposed the biggest game
they had yet played. He would have suggested no limit, but this he knew
would be all in favor of Lablache, whose resources were vast.

John glanced over from the money-lender to the doctor. The doctor and
Bunning-Ford were the most to be considered. Their resources were very
limited. The old man knew that the doctor was one of those careful
players who was not likely to allow himself to suffer by the height of
the stakes. There was no bluffing the doctor. "Lord" Bill was able to
take care of himself.

"That's good enough for me," said Bunning-Ford. "Let it go at that."

Outwardly Lablache was indifferent; inwardly he experienced a sense of
supreme satisfaction at the height of the stakes.

The four men relapsed into silence as they cut for the deal. It was an
education in the game to observe each man as he, metaphorically
speaking, donned his mask of impassive reserve. As the game progressed
any one of those four men might have been a graven image as far as the
expression of countenance went. No word was spoken beyond "Raise you so
and so"--"See you that." So keen, so ardent was the game that the stake
might have been one of life and death. No money passed. Just slips of
paper; and yet any one of those fragments represented a small fortune.

The first few hands resulted in but desultory betting. Sums of money
changed hands but there was very little in it. Lablache was the
principal loser. Three "pots" in succession were taken by John
Allandale, but their aggregate did not amount to half the limit. A
little luck fell to Bunning-Ford. He once raised Lablache to the limit.
The money-lender "saw" him and lost. Bill promptly scooped in three
thousand dollars. The doctor was cautious. He had lost and won nothing.
Then a change came over the game. To use a card-player's expression, the
cards were beginning to "run."

"Lord" Bill dealt. Lablache was upon his right and next to him the
doctor.

The money-lender picked up his cards, and partially opening them glanced
keenly at the index numerals. His stolid face remained unchanged. The
doctor glanced at his and "came in." "Poker" John "came in." The dealer
remained out. The doctor drew two cards; "Poker" John, one; Lablache
drew one. The veteran rancher held four nines. "Lord" Bill gathered up
the "deadwood," and, propping his face upon his hands, watched the
betting.

It was the doctor's bet; he cautiously dropped out. He had an inkling of
the way things were going. "Poker" John opened the ball with five
hundred dollars. He had a good thing and he did not want to frighten his
opponent by a plunge. He would leave it to Lablache to start raising.
The money-lender raised him one thousand. Old John sniffed with the
appreciation of an old war-horse at the scent of battle. The nervous,
twitching cheek remained unmoved. The old gambler in him rose uppermost.

He leisurely saw the thousand, and raised another five hundred. Lablache
allowed his fishy eyes to flash in the direction of his opponent. A
moment after he raised another thousand. The gamble was becoming
interesting. The two onlookers were consumed with the lust of play. They
forgot that in the result they would not be participants. Old John's
face lost something of its impassivity as he in turn raised to the
limit. Lablache eased his great body in his chair. His little mouth was
very tightly clenched. His breathing, at times stertorous, was like the
breathing of an asthmatical pig. He saw, and again raised to the limit.
There was now over twelve thousand dollars in the pool.

It was old John's turn. The doctor and "Lord" Bill waited anxiously. The
old rancher was reputed very wealthy. They felt assured that he would
not back down after having gone so far. In their hearts they both wished
to see him relieve Lablache of a lot of money.

They need have had no fears. Whatever his faults "Poker" John was a
"dead game sport." He dashed a slip of paper into the pool. The keen
eyes watching read "four thousand dollars" scrawled upon it. He had
again raised to the limit. It was now Lablache's turn to accept or
refuse the challenge. The onlookers were not so sure of the
money-lender. Would he accept or not?

A curious thought was in the mind of that monument of flesh. He knew for
certain that he held the winning cards. How he knew it would be
impossible to say. And yet he hesitated. Perhaps he knew the limits of
John Allandale's resources, perhaps he felt, for the present, there was
sufficient in the pool; perhaps, even, he had ulterior motives. Whatever
the cause, as he passed a slip of paper into the pool merely seeing his
opponent, his face gave no outward sign of what was passing in the brain
behind it.

Old John laid down his hand.

"Four nines," he said quietly.

"Not good enough," retorted Lablache; "four kings." And he spread his
cards out upon the table before him and swept up the pile of papers
which represented his win.

A sigh, as of relief to pent-up feelings, escaped the two men who had
watched the gamble. Old John said not a word and his face betrayed no
thought or regret that might have been in his mind at the loss of such a
large amount of money. He merely glanced over at the money-lender.

"Your deal, Lablache," he said quietly.

Lablache took the cards and a fresh deal went round. Now the game became
one-sided. With that one large pull the money-lender's luck seemed to
have set in. Seemingly he could do no wrong. If he drew to "three of a
kind," he invariably filled; if to a "pair," he generally secured a
third; once, indeed, he drew to jack, queen, king of a suit and
completed a "royal flush." His luck was phenomenal. The other men's
luck seemed "dead out." Bunning-Ford and the doctor could get no hands
at all, and thus they were saved heavy losses. Occasionally, even, the
doctor raked in a few "antes." But John Allandale could do nothing
right. He was always drawing tolerable cards--just good enough to lose
with. Until, by the time daylight came, he had lost so heavily that his
two friends were eagerly seeking an excuse to break up the game.

At last "Lord" Bill effected this purpose, but at considerable loss to
himself. He had a fairly good hand, but not, as he knew, sufficiently
good to win with. Lablache and he were left in. The money-lender had in
one plunge raised the bet to the "limit." Bill knew that he ought to
drop out, but, instead of so doing, he saw his opponent. He lost the
"pot."

"Thank you, gentlemen," he said, quietly rising from the table, "my
losses are sufficient for one night. I have finished. It is daylight and
the storm is 'letting up' somewhat."

He turned as he spoke, and, glancing at the staircase, saw Jacky
standing at the top of it. How long she had been standing there he did
not know. He felt certain, although she gave no sign, that she had heard
what he had just said.

"Poker" John saw her too.

"Why, Jacky, what means this early rising?" said the old man kindly.
"Too tired last night to sleep?"

"No, uncle. Guess I slept all right. The wind's dropping fast. I take it
it'll be blowing great guns again before long. This is our chance to
make the ranch." She had been an observer of the finish of the game. She
had heard Bill's remarks on his loss, and yet not by a single word did
she betray her knowledge. Inwardly she railed at herself for having gone
to bed. She wondered how it had fared with her uncle.

Bunning-Ford left the room. Somehow he felt that he must get away from
the steady gaze of those gray eyes. He knew how Jacky dreaded, for her
uncle's sake, the game they had just been playing. He wondered, as he
went to test the weather, what she would have thought had she known the
stakes, or the extent of her uncle's losses. He hoped she was not aware
of these facts.

"You look tired, Uncle John," said the girl, solicitously, as she came
down the stairs. She purposely ignored Lablache. "Have you had no
sleep?"

"Poker" John laughed a little uneasily.

"Sleep, child? We old birds of the prairie can do with very little of
that. It's only pretty faces that want sleep, and I'm thinking you ought
still to be in your bed."

"Miss Jacky is ever on the alert to take advantage of the elements," put
in Lablache, heavily. "She seems to understand these things better than
any of us."

The girl was forced to notice the money-lender. She did so reluctantly,
however.

"So you, too, sought shelter from the storm beneath old man Norton's
hospitable roof. You are dead right, Mr. Lablache; we who live on the
prairie need to be ever on the alert. One never knows what each hour may
bring forth."

The girl was still in her ball-dress. Lablache's fishy eyes noticed her
charming appearance. The strong, beautiful face sent a thrill of delight
over him as he watched it--the delicate rounded shoulders made him suck
in his heavy breath like one who anticipates a delicate dish. Jacky
turned from him in plainly-expressed disgust.

Her uncle was watching her with a gaze half uneasy and wholly tender.
She was the delight of his old age, the center of all his affections,
this motherless child of his dead brother. His cheek twitched painfully
as he thought of the huge amount of his losings to Lablache. He shivered
perceptibly as he rose from his seat and went over to the cooking stove.

"I believe you people have let the stove out," the girl exclaimed, as
she noted her uncle's movement. She had no intention of mentioning the
game they had been playing. She feared to hear the facts. Instinct told
her that her uncle had lost again. "Yes, I declare you have," as she
knelt before the grate and raked away at the ashes.

Suddenly she turned to the money-lender.

"Here, you, fetch me some wood and coal-oil. Men can never be trusted."

Jacky was no respecter of persons. When she ordered there were few men
on the prairie who would refuse to obey. Lablache heaved his great bulk
from before the table and got on to his feet. His bilious eyes were
struggling to smile. The effect was horrible. Then he moved across the
room to where a stack of kindling stood.

"Hurry up. I guess if we depended much on you we'd freeze."

And Lablache, the hardest, most unscrupulous man for miles around,
endeavored to obey with the alacrity of any sheep-dog.

In spite of himself John Allandale could not refrain from smiling at the
grotesque picture the monumental Lablache made as he lumbered towards
the stack of kindling.

When "Lord" Bill returned Lablache was bending over the stove beside the
girl.

"I've thrown the harness on the horses--watered and fed 'em," he said,
taking in the situation at a glance. "Say, Doc," turning to Abbot,
"better rouse your good lady."

"She'll be down in a tick," said Jacky, over her shoulder. "Here,
doctor, you might get a kettle of water--and Bill, see if you can find
some bacon or stuff. And you, uncle, came and sit by the stove--you're
cold."

Strange is the power and fascination of woman. A look--a glance--a
simple word and we men hasten to minister to her requirements. Half an
hour ago and all these men were playing for fortunes--dealing in
thousands of dollars on the turn of a card, the passion for besting his
neighbor uppermost in each man's mind. Now they were humbly doing one
girl's bidding with a zest unsurpassed by the devotion to their recent
gamble.

She treated them indiscriminately. Old or young, there was no
difference. Bunning-Ford she liked--Dr. Abbot she liked--Lablache she
hated and despised, still she allotted them their tasks with perfect
impartiality. Only her old uncle she treated differently. That dear,
degenerate old man she loved with an affection which knew no bounds. He
was her all in the world. Whatever his sins--whatever his faults, she
loved him.




CHAPTER IV

AT THE FOSS RIVER RANCH


Spring is already upon the prairie. The fur coat has already been
exchanged for the pea-jacket. No longer is the fur cap crushed down upon
the head and drawn over the ears until little more than the oval of the
face is exposed to the elements; it is still worn occasionally, but now
it rests upon the head with the jaunty cant of an ordinary headgear.

The rough coated broncho no longer stands "tucked up" with the cold,
with its hind-quarters towards the wind. Now he stands grazing on the
patches of grass which the melting snow has placed at his disposal. The
cattle, too, hurry to and fro as each day extends their field of fodder.
When spring sets in in the great North-West it is with no show of
reluctance that grim winter yields its claims and makes way for its
gracious and all-conquering foe. Spring is upon everything with all the
characteristic suddenness of the Canadian climate. A week--a little
seven days--and where all before had been cheerless wastes of snow and
ice, we have the promise of summer with us. The snow disappears as with
the sweep of a "chinook" in winter. The brown, saturated grass is tinged
with the bright emerald hue of new-born pasture. The bared trees don
that yellowish tinge which tells of breaking leaves. Rivers begin to
flow. Their icy coatings, melting in the growing warmth of the sun,
quickly returning once more to their natural element.

With the advent of spring comes a rush of duties to those whose interest
are centered in the breeding of cattle. The Foss River Settlement is
already teeming with life. For the settlement is the center of the great
spring "round-up." Here are assembling the "cow-punchers" from all the
outlying ranches, gathering under the command of a captain (generally a
man elected for his vast experience on the prairie) and making their
preparations to scour the prairie east and west, north and south, to the
very limits of the far-reaching plains which spread their rolling
pastures at the eastern base of the Rockies. Every head of cattle which
is found will be brought into the Foss River Settlement and thence will
be distributed to its lawful owners. This is but the beginning of the
work, for the task of branding calves and re-branding cattle whose
brands have become obscured during the long winter months is a process
of no small magnitude for those who number their stocks by tens of
thousands.

At John Allandale's ranch all is orderly bustle. There is no confusion.
Under Jacky's administration the work goes on with a simple directness
which would astonish the uninitiated. There are the corrals to repair
and to be put in order. Sheds and out-buildings to be whitewashed.
Branding apparatus to be set in working order, fencing to be repaired,
preparations for seeding to commence; a thousand and one things to be
seen to; and all of which must be finished before the first "bands" of
cattle are rounded up into the settlement.

It is nearly a month since we saw this daughter of the prairie garbed in
the latest mode, attending the Polo Ball at Calford, and widely
different is her appearance now from what it was at the time of our
introduction to her.

She is returning from an inspection of the wire fencing of the home
pastures. She is riding her favorite horse, Nigger, up the gentle slope
which leads to her uncle's house. There is nothing of the woman of
fashion about her now--and, perhaps, it is a matter not to be regretted.

She sits her horse with the easy grace of a childhood's experience. Her
habit, if such it can be called, is a "dungaree" skirt of a hardly
recognizable blue, so washed out is it, surmounted by a beautifully
beaded buckskin shirt. Loosely encircling her waist, and resting upon
her hips, is a cartridge belt, upon which is slung the holster of a
heavy revolver, a weapon without which she never moves abroad. Her head
is crowned by a Stetson hat, secured in true prairie fashion by a strap
which passes under her hair at the back, while her beautiful hair itself
falls in heavy ringlets over her shoulders, and waves untrammelled in
the fresh spring breeze as her somewhat unruly charger gallops up the
hill towards the ranch.

The great black horse was heading for the stable. Jacky leant over to
one side and swung him sharply towards the house. At the veranda she
pulled him up short. High mettled, headstrong as the animal was, he knew
his mistress. Tricks which he would often attempt to practice upon other
people were useless here--doubtless she had taught him that such was the
case.

The girl sprang, unaided, to the ground and hitched her picket rope to a
tying-post. For a moment she stood on the great veranda which ran down
the whole length of the house front. It was a one-storied,
bungalow-shaped house, built with a high pitch to the roof and entirely
constructed of the finest red pine-wood. Six French windows opened on to
the veranda. The outlook was westerly, and, contrary to the usual
custom, the ranch buildings were not overlooked by it. The corrals and
stables were in the background.

She was about to turn in at one of the windows when she suddenly
observed Nigger's ears cocked, and his head turned away towards the
shimmering peaks of the distant mountains. The movement fixed her
attention instantly. It was the instinct of one who lives in a country
where the eyes and ears of a horse are often keener and more
far-reaching than those of its human masters. The horse was gazing with
statuesque fixedness across a waste of partially-melted snow. A stretch
of ten miles lay flat and smooth as a billiard-table at the foot of the
rise upon which the house was built. And far out across this the beast
was gazing.

Jacky shaded her eyes with her hand and followed the direction of the
horse's gaze. For a moment or two she saw nothing but the dazzling glare
of the snow in the bright spring sunlight. Then her eyes became
accustomed to the brilliancy, and far in the distance, she beheld an
animal peacefully moving along from patch to patch of bare grass,
evidently in search of fodder.

"A horse," she muttered, under her breath. "Whose?"

She could find no answer to her monosyllabic inquiry. She realized at
once that to whomsoever it belonged its owner would never recover it,
for it was grazing on the far side of the great "Muskeg," that mighty
bottomless mire which extends for forty miles north and south and whose
narrowest breadth is a span of ten miles. She was looking across it now,
and innocent enough that level plain of terror appeared at that moment.
And yet it was the curse of the ranching district, for, annually,
hundreds of cattle met an untimely death in its cruel, absorbing bosom.

She turned away for the purpose of fetching a pair of field-glasses. She
was anxious to identify the horse. She passed along the veranda
towards the furthest window. It was the window of her uncle's office.
Just as she was nearing it she heard the sound of voices coming from
within. She paused, and an ominous pucker drew her brows together. Her
beautiful dark face clouded. She had no wish to play the part of an
eavesdropper, but she had recognized the voices of her uncle and
Lablache. She had also heard the mention of her own name. What woman,
or, for that matter, man, can refrain from listening when they hear two
people talking about them. The window was open; Jacky paused--and
listened.

Lablache's thick voice lolled heavily upon the brisk air.

"She is a good girl. But don't you think you are considering her future
from a rather selfish point of view, John?"

"Selfish?" The old man laughed in his hearty manner "Maybe you're right,
though. I never thought of that. You see I'm getting old now. I can't
get around like I used to. Bless me, she's two-an'-twenty.
Three-and-twenty years since my brother Dick--God rest his
soul!--married that half-breed girl, Josie. Yes, I guess you're right,
she's bound to marry soon."

Jacky smiled a curious dark smile. Something told her why Lablache and
her uncle were discussing her future.

"Why, of course she is," said Lablache, "and when that happy event is
accomplished I hope it will not be with any improvident--harum-scarum
man like--like--"

"The Hon. Bunning-Ford I suppose you would say, eh?"

There was a somewhat sharp tone in the old man's voice which Jacky was
not slow to detect.

"Well," went on Lablache, with one of those deep whistling breaths which
made him so like an ancient pug, "since you mention him, for want of a
better specimen of improvidence, his name will do."

"So I thought--so I thought," laughed the old man. But his words rang
strangely. "Most people think," he went on, "that when I die Jacky will
be rich. But she won't."

"No," replied Lablache, emphatically.

There was a world of meaning in his tone.

"However, I guess we can let her hunt around for herself when she wants
a husband. Jacky's a girl with a head. A sight better head than I've got
on my old shoulders. When she chooses a husband, and comes and tells me
of it, she shall have my blessing and anything else I have to give. I'm
not going to interfere with that girl's matrimonial affairs, sir, not
for any one. That child, bless her heart, is like my own child to me. If
she wants the moon, and there's nothing else to stop her having it but
my consent, why, I guess that moon's as good as fenced in with
triple-barbed wire an' registered in her name in the Government Land
Office."

"And in the meantime you are going to make that same child work for her
daily bread like any 'hired man,' and keep company with any scoun--"

"Hi, stop there, Lablache! Stop there," thundered "Poker" John, and
Jacky heard a thud as of a fist falling upon the table. "You've taken
the unwarrantable liberty of poking your nose into my affairs, and,
because of our old acquaintance, I have allowed it. But now let me tell
you this is no d----d business of yours. There's no make with Jacky.
What she does, she does of her own accord."

At that moment the girl in question walked abruptly in from the veranda.
She had heard enough.

"Ah, uncle," she said, smiling tenderly up into the old man's face,
"talking of me, I guess. You shouted my name just as I was coming along.
Say, I want the field-glasses. Where are they?"

Then she turned on Lablache as if she had only just become aware of his
presence.

"What, Mr. Lablache, you here? And so early, too. Guess this isn't like
you. How is your store--that temple of wealth and high interest--to get
on without you? How are the 'improvident'--'harum-scarums' to live if
you are not present to minister to their wants--upon the best of
security?" Without waiting for a reply the girl picked up the glasses
she was in search of and darted out, leaving Lablache glaring his
bilious-eyed rage after her.

"Poker" John stood for a moment a picture of blank surprise; then he
burst into a loud guffaw at the discomfited money-lender. Jacky heard
the laugh and smiled. Then she passed out of earshot and concentrated
her attention upon the distant speck of animal life.

The girl stood for some moments surveying the creature as it moved
leisurely along, its nose well down amongst the roots of the tawny
grass, seeking out the tender green shoots of the new-born pasture. Then
she closed her glasses and her thoughts wandered to other matters.

The gorgeous landscape was, for a moment, utterly lost upon her. The
snowy peaks of the Rockies, stretching far as the eye could see away to
the north and south, like some giant fortification set up to defend the
rolling pastures of the prairies from the ceaseless attack of the stormy
Pacific Ocean, were far from her thoughts. Her eyes, it is true, were
resting on the level flat of the muskeg, beyond the grove of slender
pines which lined the approach to the house, but she was not thinking of
that. No, recollection was struggling back through two years of a busy
life, to a time when, for a brief space, she had watched over the
welfare of another than her uncle, when the dark native blood which
flowed plentifully in her veins had asserted itself, and a nature which
was hers had refused to remain buried beneath a superficial European
training. She was thinking of a man who had formed a secret part of her
life for a few short years, when she had allowed her heart to dictate a
course for her actions which no other motive but that of love could have
brought about. She was thinking of Peter Retief, a pretty scoundrel, a
renowned "bad man," a man of wild and reckless daring. He had been the
terror of the countryside. A cattle-thief who feared neither man nor
devil; a man who for twelve months and more had carried, his life in his
hands, the sworn enemy of law and order, but who, in his worst moments,
had never been known to injure a poor man or a woman. The wild blood of
the half-breed that was in her had been stirred, as only a woman's blood
can be, by his reckless dealings, his courage, effrontery, and withal
his wondrous kindliness of disposition. She was thinking of this man
now, this man whom she knew to be numbered amongst the countless victims
of that dreadful mire. And what had conjured this thought? A horse--a
horse peacefully grazing far out across the mire in the direction of the
distant hills which she knew had once been this desperado's home.

Her train of recollection suddenly became broken, and a sigh escaped her
as the sound of her uncle's voice fell upon her ears. She did not move,
however, for she knew that Lablache was with him, and this man she hated
with the fiery hatred only to be found in the half-breeds of any native
race.

"I'm sorry, John, we can't agree on the point," Lablache was saying in
his wheezy voice, as the two men stood at the other end of the veranda,
"but I'm quite determined Upon the matter myself. The land intersects
mine and cuts me clean off from the railway siding, and I am forced to
take my cattle a circle of nearly fifteen miles to ship them. If he
would only be reasonable and allow a passage I would say nothing. I will
force him to sell."

"If you can," put in the rancher. "I reckon you've got chilled steel to
deal with when you endeavor to 'force' old Joe Norton to sell the finest
wheat land in the country."

At this point in the conversation three men came round from the back of
the house. They were "cow" hands belonging to the ranch. They approached
Jacky with the easy assurance of men who were as much companions as
servants of their mistress. All three, however, touched their
wide-brimmed hats in unmistakable respect. They were clad in buckskin
shirts and leather "chaps," and each had his revolver upon his hip. The
girl lost the rest of the conversation between her uncle and Lablache,
for her attention was turned to the men.

"Well?" she asked shortly, as the men stood before her.

One of the men, a tall, lank specimen of the dark-skinned prairie
half-breed, acted as spokesman.

He ejected a squirt of tobacco juice from his great, dirty mouth before
he spoke. Then with a curious backward jerk of the head he blurted out a
stream of Western jargon.

"Say, missie," he exclaimed in a high-pitched nasal voice, "it ain't no
use in talkin', ye kent put no tenderfoot t' boss the round-up. There's
them all-fired Donoghue lot jest sent right in t' say, 'cause, I s'pose,
they reckon as they're the high muck-i-muck o' this location, that that
tarnation Sim Lory, thar head man, is to cap' the round-up. Why, he
ain't cast a blamed foot on the prairie sence he's been hyar. An' I'll
swear he don't know the horn o' his saddle from a monkey stick. Et ain't
right, missie, an' us fellers t' work under him an' all."

His address came to an abrupt end, and he gave emphasis to his words by
a prolonged expectoration. Jacky, her eyes sparkling with anger, was
quick to reply.

"Look you here, Silas, just go right off and throw your saddle on your
pony--"

"Guess it's right thar, missie," the man interrupted.

"Then sling off as fast as your plug can lay foot to the ground, and
give John Allandale's compliments to Jim Donoghue and say, if they don't
send a capable man, since they've been appointed to find the 'captain,'
he'll complain to the Association and insist on the penalty being
enforced. What, do they take us for a lot of 'gophers'? Sim Lory,
indeed; why, he's not fit to prise weeds with a two tine hay fork."

The men went off hurriedly. Their mistress's swift methods of dealing
with matters pleased them. Silas was more than pleased to be able to get
a "slant" (to use his own expression) at his old enemy, Sim Lory. As the
men departed "Poker" John came and stood beside his niece.

"What's that about Sim Lory, Jacky?"

"They've sent him to run this 'round-up.'"

"And?"

"Oh, I just told them it wouldn't do," indifferently.

Old John smiled.

"In those words?"

"Well, no, uncle," the girl said with a responsive smile. "But they
needed a 'jinning' up. I sent the message in your name."

The old man shook his head, but his indulgent smile remained.

"You'll be getting me into serious trouble with that impetuosity of
yours, Jacky," he said absently. "But there--I daresay you know best."

His words were characteristic of him. He left the entire control of the
ranch to this girl of two-and-twenty, relying implicitly upon her
judgment in all things. It was a strange thing to do, for he was still a
vigorous man. To look at him was to make oneself wonder at the reason.
But the girl accepted the responsibility without question. There was a
subtle sympathy between uncle and niece. Sometimes Jacky would gaze up
into his handsome old face and something in the twitching cheek, the
curiously-shaped mouth, hidden beneath the gray mustache, would cause
her to turn away with a sigh, and, with stimulated resolution, hurl
herself into the arduous labors of managing the ranch. What she read in
that dear, honest face she loved so well she kept locked in her own
secret heart, and never, by word or act, did she allow herself to betray
it. She was absolute mistress of the Foss River Ranch and she knew it.
Old "Poker" John, like the morphine "fiend," merely continued to keep up
his reputation and the more fully deserve his sobriquet. His mind, his
character, his whole being was being slowly but surely absorbed in the
lust of gambling.

The girl laid her hand upon the old man's arm.

"Uncle--what was Lablache talking to you about? I mean when I came for
the field-glasses."

"Poker" John was gazing abstractedly into the dense growth of pines
which fringed the house. He pulled himself together, but his eyes had in
them a far-away look.

"Many things," he replied evasively.

"Yes, I know, dear, but," bending her face while she removed one of her
buckskin gauntlets from her hand, "I mean about me. You two
were-discussing me, I know."

She turned her keen gray eyes upon her relative as she finished
speaking. The old man turned away. He felt that those eyes were reading
his very soul. They made him uncomfortable.

"Oh, he said I ought not to let you associate with certain people."

"Why?" The sharp question came with the directness of a pistol-shot.

"Well, he seemed to think that you might think of marrying."

"Ah, and--"

"He seemed to fancy that you, being impetuous, might make a mistake and
fall--"

"In love with the wrong man. Yes, I understand; and from his point of
view, if ever I do marry it will undoubtedly be the wrong man."

And the girl finished up with a mirthless laugh.

They stood for some moments in silence. They were both thinking. The
noise from the corrals behind the house reached them. The steady drip,
drip of the water from the melting snow upon the roof of the house
sounded loudly as it fell on the sodden ground beneath.

"Uncle, did it ever strike you that that greasy money-lender wants to
marry me himself?"

The question startled John Allandale more than anything else could have
done. He turned sharply round and faced his niece.

"Marry you, Jacky?" he repeated. "I never thought of it."

"It isn't to be supposed that you would have done so."

There was the faintest tinge of bitterness in the girl's answer.

"And do you really think that he wants to marry you?"

"I don't know quite. Perhaps I am wrong, uncle, and my imagination has
run away with me. Yes, I sometimes think he wants to marry me."

They both relapsed into silence. Then her uncle spoke again.

"Jacky, what you have just said has made something plain to me which I
could not understand before. He came and gave me--unsolicited, mind--"a
little eagerly, "a detailed account of Bunning-Ford's circumstances,
and--"

"Endeavored to bully you into sending him about his business. Poor old
Bill! And what was his account of him?"

The girl's eyes were glowing with quickly-roused passion, but she kept
them turned from her uncle's face.

"He told me that the boy had heavy mortgages on his land and stock. He
told me that if he were to realize to-morrow there would be little or
nothing for himself. Everything would go to some firm in Calford. In
short, that he has gambled his ranch away."

"And he told this to you, uncle, dear." Then the girl paused and looked
far out across the great muskeg. In her abrupt fashion she turned again
to the old man. "Uncle," she went on, "tell me truly, do you owe
anything to Lablache? Has he any hold upon you?"

There was a world of anxiety in her voice as she spoke. John Allandale
tried to follow her thought before he answered. He seemed to grasp
something of her meaning, for in a moment his eyes took on an expression
of pain. Then his words came slowly, as from one who is not sure of what
he is saying.

"I owe him some--money--yes--but--"

"Poker?"

The question was jerked viciously from the girl's lips.

"Yes."

Jacky turned slowly away until her eyes rested upon the distant, grazing
horse. A strange restlessness seemed to be upon her. She was fidgeting
with the gauntlet which she had just removed. Then slowly her right hand
passed round to her hip, where it rested upon the butt of her revolver.
There was a tight drawnness about her lips and her keen gray eyes looked
as though gazing into space.

"How much?" she said at last, breaking the heavy silence which had
followed upon her uncle's admission. Then before he could answer she
went on deliberately: "But there--I guess it don't cut any figure.
Lablache shall be paid, and I take it his bill of interest won't amount
to more than we can pay if we're put to it. Poor old Bill!"




CHAPTER V

THE "STRAY" BEYOND THE MUSKEG


The Foss River Settlement nestles in one of those shallow
hollows--scarcely a valley and which yet must be designated by such a
term--in which the Canadian North-West abounds.

We are speaking now of the wilder and less-inhabited parts of the great
country, where grain-growing is only incidental, and the prevailing
industry is stock-raising. Where the land gradually rises towards the
maze-like foothills before the mighty crags of the Rockies themselves be
reached. A part where yet is to be heard of the romantic crimes of the
cattle-raiders; a part to where civilization has already turned its
face, but where civilizaton has yet to mature. In such a country is
situate the Foss River Settlement.

The settlement itself is like dozens of others of its kind. There is the
school-house, standing by itself, apart from other buildings, as if in
proud distinction for its classic vocation. There is the church, or
rather chapel, where every denomination holds its services. A saloon,
where four per cent. beer and prohibition whiskey of the worst
description is openly sold over the bar; where you can buy poker "chips"
to any amount, and can sit down and play from daylight till dark, from
dark to daylight. A blacksmith and wheelwright; a baker; a carpenter; a
doctor who is also a druggist; a store where one can buy every article
of dry goods at exorbitant prices--and on credit; and then, besides all
this, well beyond the township limit there is a half-breed settlement, a
place which even to this day is a necessary evil and a constant thorn
in the side of that smart, efficient force--the North-West Mounted
Police.

Lablache's store stands in the center of the settlement, facing on to
the market-place--the latter a vague, undefined space of waste ground on
which vendors of produce are wont to draw up their wagons. The store is
a massive building of great extent. Its proportions rise superior to its
surroundings, as if to indicate in a measure its owner's worldly status
in the district It is built entirely of stone, and roofed with
slate--the only building of such construction in the settlement.

A wonderful center of business is Lablache's store--the chief one for a
radius of fifty miles. Nearly the whole building is given up to the
stocking of goods, and only at the back of the building is to be found a
small office which answers the multifarious purposes of office, parlor,
dining-room, smoking-room--in short, every necessity of its owner,
except bedroom, which occupies a mere recess partitioned off by thin
matchwood boarding.

Wealthy as Lablache was known to be he spent little or no money upon
himself beyond just sufficient to purchase the bare necessities of life.
He had few requirements which could not be satisfied under the headings
of tobacco and food--both of which he indulged himself freely. The
saloon provided the latter, and as for the former, trade price was best
suited to his inclinations, and so he drew upon his stock. He was a
curious man, was Verner Lablache--a man who understood the golden value
of silence. He never even spoke of his nationality. Foss River was
content to call him curious--some people preferred other words to
express their opinion.

Lablache had known John Allandale for years. Who, in Foss River, had he
not known for years? Lablache would have liked to call old John his
friend, but somehow "Poker" John had never responded to the
money-lender's advances. Lablache showed no resentment. If he cared at
all he was careful to keep his feelings hidden. One thing is certain,
however, he allowed himself to think long and often of old John--and his
household. Often, when in the deepest stress of his far-reaching work,
he would heave his great bulk back in his chair and allow those fishy,
lashless, sphinx-like eyes of his to gaze out of his window in the
direction of the Foss River Ranch. His window faced in the direction of
John's house, which was plainly visible on the slope which bounded the
southern side of the settlement.

And so it came about a few days later, in one of these digressions of
thought, that the money-lender, gazing out towards the ranch, beheld a
horseman riding slowly up to the veranda of the Allandale's house. There
was nothing uncommon in the incident, but the sight riveted his
attention, and an evil light came into his usually expressionless eyes.
He recognized the horseman as the Hon. Bunning-Ford.

Lablache swung round on his revolving chair, and, in doing so, kicked
over a paper-basket. The rapidity of his movement was hardly to be
expected in one of his bulk. His thin eyebrows drew together in an ugly
frown.

"What does he want?" he muttered, under his heavy breath.

He hazarded no answer to his own question. It was answered for him. He
saw the figure of a woman step out on to the veranda.

The money-lender rose swiftly to his feet and took a pair of
field-glasses from their case. Adjusting them he gazed long and
earnestly at the house on the hill.

Jacky was talking to "Lord" Bill. She was habited in her dungaree skirt
and buckskin bodice. Presently Bill dismounted and passed into the
house.

Lablache shut his glasses with a snap and turned away from the window.
For some time he stood gazing straight before him and a swift torrent of
thought flowed through his active brain. Then, with the directness of
one whose mind is made up, he went over to a small safe which stood in
a corner of the room. From this he took an account book. The cover bore
the legend "Private." He laid it upon the table, and, for some moments,
bent over it as he scanned its pages.

He paused at an account headed John Allandale. The figures of this
account were very large, totalling into six figures. The balance against
the rancher was enormous. Lablache gave a satisfied grunt as he turned
over to another account.

"Safe--safe enough. Safe as the Day of Doom," he said slowly. His mouth
worked with a cruel smile.

He paused at the account of Bunning-Ford.

"Twenty thousand dollars--um," the look of satisfaction was changed. He
looked less pleased, but none the less cruel. "Not enough--let me see.
His place is worth fifty thousand dollars. Stock another thirty
thousand. I hold thirty-five thousand on first mortgage for the Calford
Trust and Loan Co." He smiled significantly. "This bill of sale for
twenty thousand is in my own name. Total, fifty-five thousand. Sell him
up and there would still be a margin. No, not yet, my friend."

He closed the book and put it away. Then he walked to the window.
Bunning-Ford's horse was still standing outside the house.

"He must be dealt with soon," he muttered.

And in those words was concentrated a world of hate and cruel purpose.

Who shall say of what a man's disposition is composed? Who shall
penetrate those complex feelings which go to make a man what his secret
consciousness knows himself to be? Not even the man himself can tell the
why and wherefore of his passions and motives. It is a matter beyond the
human ken. It is a matter which neither science nor learning can tell us
of. Verner Lablache was possessed of all that prosperity could give him.
He was wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, and no pleasure which money
could buy was beyond his reach. He knew, only too well, that when the
moment came, and he wished it, he could set out for any of the great
centers of fashion and society, and there purchase for himself a wife
who would fulfill the requirements of the most fastidious. In his own
arrogant mind he went further, and protested that he could choose whom
he would and she would be his. But this method he set aside as too
simple, and, instead, had decided to select for his wife a girl whom he
had watched grow up to womanhood from the first day that she had opened
her great, wondering eyes upon the world. And thus far he had been
thwarted. All his wealth went for nothing. The whim of this girl he had
chosen was more powerful in this matter than was gold--the gold he
loved. But Lablache was not the man to sit down and admit of defeat; he
meant to marry Joaquina Allandale willy-nilly. Love was impossible to
such a man as he. He had conceived an absorbing passion for her, it is
true, but love--as it is generally understood--no. He was not a young
man--the victim of a passion, fierce but transient. He was matured in
all respects--in mind and body. His passion was lasting, if impure, and
he meant to take to himself the girl-wife. Nothing should stand in his
way.

He turned back to his desk, but not to work.

In the meantime the object of his forcible attentions was holding an
interesting _tête-à-tête_ with the man against whom he fostered an evil
purpose.

Jacky was seated at a table in the pleasant sitting-room of her uncle's
house. Spread out before her were several open stock books, from which
she was endeavoring to estimate the probable number of "beeves" which
the early spring would produce. This was a task which she always liked
to do herself before the round-up was complete, so as the easier to sort
the animals into their various pastures when they should come in. Her
visitor was standing with his back to the stove, in typical Canadian
fashion. He was, clad in a pair of well-worn chaps drawn over a pair of
moleskin trousers, and wore a gray tweed coat and waistcoat over a soft
cotton shirt, of the "collar attached" type. As he stood there the stoop
of his shoulders was very pronounced. His fair hair was carefully
brushed, and although his face was slightly weather-stained, still, it
was quite easy to imagine the distinguished figure he would be, clad in
all the solemn pomp of broadcloth and the silk glaze of fashionable
society in the neighborhood of Bond Street.

The girl was not looking at her books. She was looking up and smiling at
a remark her companion had just made.

"And so your friend, Pat Nabob, is going up into the mountains after
gold. Does he know anything about prospecting?"

"I think so--he's had some experience."

Jacky became serious. She rose and turned to the window, which commanded
a perfect view of the distant peaks of the Rockies, towering high above
the broad, level expanse of the great muskeg. With her back still turned
to him she fired an abrupt question.

"Say, Bill, guess 'Pickles' has some other reason for this mad scheme.
What is it? You can't tell me he's going just for love of the adventure
of the thing. Now, let's hear the truth."

Unobserved by the girl, her companion shrugged his shoulders.

"If you want his reason you'd better ask him, Jacky. I can only
surmise."

"So can I." Jacky turned sharply. "I'll tell you why he's going, Bill,
and you can bet your last cent I'm right. Lablache is at the bottom of
it. He's at the bottom of everything that causes people to leave Foss
River. He's a blood-sucker."

Bunning-Ford nodded. He was rarely expansive. Moreover, he knew he could
add nothing to what the girl had said. She expressed his sentiments
fully. There was a pause. Jacky was keenly eyeing the tall thin figure
at the stove.

"Why did you come to tell me of this?" she asked at last.

"Thought you'd like to know. You like 'Pickles.'"

"Yes--Bill, you are thinking of going with him."

Her companion laughed uneasily. This girl was very keen.

"I didn't say so."

"No, but still you are thinking of doing so. See here, Bill, tell me all
about it."

Bill coughed. Then he turned, and stooping, shook the ashes from the
stove and opened the damper.

"Beastly cold in here," he remarked inconsequently.

"Yes--but, out with it."

Bill stood up and turned his indolent eyes upon his interrogator.

"I wasn't thinking of going--to the mountains."

"Where then?"

"To the Yukon."

"Ah!"

In spite of herself the girl could not help the exclamation.

"Why?" she went on a moment later.

"Well, if you must have it, I shan't be able to last out this
summer--unless a stroke of luck falls to my share."

"Financially?"

"Financially."

"Lablache?"

"Lablache--and the Calford Trust Co."

"The same thing," with conviction.

"Exactly--the same thing."

"And you stand?"

"If I meet the interest on my mortgages it will take away every head of
fat cattle I can scrape together, and then I cannot pay Lablache other
debts which fall due in two weeks' time." He quietly drew out his
tobacco-pouch and rolled a cigarette. He seemed quite indifferent to his
difficulties. "If I realize on the ranch now there'll be something left
for me. If I go on, by the end of the summer there won't be."

"I suppose you mean that you will be deeper in debt."

He smiled in his own peculiarly lazy fashion as he held a lighted match
to his cigarette.

"Just so. I shall owe Lablache more," he said, between spasmodic draws
at his tobacco.

"Lablache has wonderful luck at cards."

"Yes," shortly.

Jacky returned to the table and sat down. She turned the pages of a
stock book idly. She was thinking and the expression of her dark,
determined little face indicated the unpleasant nature of her thoughts.
Presently she looked up and encountered the steady gaze of her
companion. They were great friends--these two. In that glance each read
in the other's mind something of a mutual thought. Jacky, with womanly
readiness, put part of it into words.

"No one ever seems to win against him, Bill. Guess he makes a steady
income out of poker."

The man nodded and gulped down a deep inhalation from his cigarette.

"Wonderful luck," the girl went on.

"Some people call it 'luck,'" put in Bill, quietly, but with a curious
purse of the lips.

"What do you call it?" sharply.

Bunning-Ford refused to commit himself. He contented himself with
blowing the ash from his cigarette and crossing over to the window,
where he stood looking out. He had come there that afternoon with a
half-formed intention of telling this girl something which every girl
must hope to hear sooner or later in her life. He had come there with
the intention of ending, one way or the other, a
friendship--_camaraderie_--whatever you please to call it, by telling
this hardy girl of the prairie the old, old story over again. He loved
this woman with an intensity that very few would have credited him with.
Who could associate lazy, good-natured, careless "Lord" Bill with
serious love? Certainly not his friends. And yet such was the case, and
for that reason had he come. The affairs of Pat Nabob were but a
subterfuge. And now he found it impossible to pronounce the words he had
so carefully thought out. Jacky was not the woman to approach easily
with sentiment, she was so "deucedly practical." So Bill said to
himself. It was useless to speculate upon her feelings. This girl never
allowed anything approaching sentiment to appear upon the surface. She
knew better than to do so. She had the grave responsibility of her
uncle's ranch upon her shoulders, therefore all men must be kept at
arm's length. She was in every sense a woman, passionate, loyal, loving.
But in addition nature had endowed her with a spirit which rose superior
to feminine attributes and feelings. The blood in her veins--her life on
the prairie--her tender care and solicitude for her uncle, of whose
failings and weaknesses she was painfully aware, had caused her to put
from her all thoughts of love and marriage. Her life must be devoted to
him, and while he lived she was determined that no thought of self
should interfere with her self-imposed duty.

At last "Lord" Bill broke the silence which had fallen upon the room
after the girl's unanswered question. His remark seemed irrevelant and
inconsequent.

"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 stopped 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 read 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?

Bill was roused out of his usual apathetic indifference. The moment had
arrived when he must set aside the old indolent carelessness. He was
stirred to the core. A duty had been suddenly forced upon him. A duty to
himself and also a duty to those he loved. Lablache had consistently
robbed him, and also the uncle of the girl he loved. Now, how to
restore that property and prevent the villain's further depredations?

Again and again he asked himself the question as he allowed his horse to
mouche, with slovenly step, over the sodden prairie; but no answer
presented itself. His thin, eagle face was puckered with perplexity. The
sleepy eyes gleamed vengefully from between his half-closed eyelids as
he gazed across the sunlit prairie. His aquiline nose, always bearing a
resemblance to an eagle's beak, was rendered even more like that
aristocratic proboscis by reason of the down-drawn tip, consequent upon
the odd pursing of his tightly-compressed lips. For the moment "Lord"
Bill was at a loss. And, oddly enough, he began to wonder if, after all,
silence had been his best course.

He was still struggling in the direst perplexity when he drew up at the
veranda of the ranch. Dismounting, he hitched his picket rope to the
tying-post and entered the sitting-room by the open French window. Tea
was set upon the table and Jacky was seated before the stove.

"Late, Bill, late! Guess that 'plug' of yours is a rapid beast, judging
by the pace you came up the hill."

For the moment Bunning-Ford's face had resumed its wonted air of lazy
good-nature.

"Glad you took the trouble to watch for me, Jacky," he retorted quickly,
with an attempt at his usual lightness of manner. "I appreciate the
honor."

"Nothing of the sort. I was looking for uncle. The mail brought a letter
from Calford. Dawson, the cattle buyer of the Western Railway Company,
wants to see him. The Home Government are buying largely. He is
commissioned to purchase 30,000 head of prime beeves. Come along, tea's
ready."

Bill seated himself at the table and Jacky poured out the tea. She was
dressed for the saddle.

"Where is Dawson now?" asked Bill.

"Calford. Guess he'll wait right there for uncle."

Suddenly a look of relief passed across the man's face.

"This is Wednesday. At six o'clock the mail-cart goes back to town. Send
some one down to the _saloon_ at once, and John will be able to go in
to-night."

As Bill spoke his eyes encountered a direct and steady glance from the
girl. There was much meaning in that mute exchange. For answer Jacky
rose and rang a bell sharply.

"Send a hand down to the settlement to find my uncle. Ask him to come up
at once. There is an important letter awaiting him," she said, to the
old servant who answered the summons.

"Bill, what's up?" she went on, when the retainer had departed.

"Lots. Look here, Jacky, we mustn't be long over tea. We must both be
out of the house when your uncle returns. He may not want to go into
town to-night. Anyway, I don't want to give him the chance of asking any
questions until we have had a long talk. He's losing to Lablache again."

"Ah! I don't want anything to eat. Whenever you are ready, Bill, I am."

Bunning-Ford drank his tea and rose from the table. The girl followed
his example.

There was something very strong and resolute in the brisk,
ready-for-emergency ways of this girl. There was nothing of the
ultra-feminine dependence and weakness of her sex about her. And yet her
hardiness detracted in no way from her womanly charm; rather was that
complex abstract enhanced by her wonderful self-reliance. There are
those who decry independence in women, but surely only such must come
from those whose nature is largely composed of hectoring selfishness.
There was a resolute set of the mouth as Jacky sent word to the stables
to have her horse brought round. She asked no questions of her
companion, as, waiting for compliance with her orders, she drew on her
stout buckskin gauntlets. She understood this man well enough to be
aware that his suggestion was based upon necessity. "Lord" Bill rarely
interfered with anything or anybody, but when such an occasion arose his
words carried a deal of weight with those who knew him.

A few minutes later and they were both riding slowly down the avenue of
pines leading from the house. The direction in which they were moving
was away from the settlement, down towards where the great level flat of
the muskeg began. At the end of the avenue they turned directly to the
southeast, leaving the township behind them. The prairie was soft and
springy. There was still a keen touch of winter in the fresh spring air.
The afternoon sun was shining coldly athwart the direction of their
route.

Jacky led the way, and, as they drew clear of the bush, and the house
and settlement were hidden from view behind them, she urged her horse
into a good swinging lope. Thus they progressed in silence. The
far-reaching deadly mire on their right, looking innocent enough in the
shadow of the snow-clad peaks beyond, the ranch well behind them in the
hollow of the Foss River Valley, whilst, on their left, the mighty
prairie rolled away upwards to the higher level of the surrounding
country.

In this way they covered nearly a mile, then the girl drew up beside a
small clump of weedy bush.

"Are you ready for the plunge, Bill?" she asked, as her companion drew
up beside her. "The path's not more than four feet wide. Does your
'plug' shy any?"

"He's all right. You lead right on. Where you can travel I've a notion
I'm not likely to funk. But I don't see the path."

"I guess you don't. Never did nature keep her secret better than in the
setting out of this one road across her woeful man-trap. You can't see
the path, but I guess it's an open book to me, and its pages ain't
Hebrew either. Say, Bill, there's been many a good prairie man looking
for this path, but"--with a slight accent of exultation--"they've never
found it. Come on. Old Nigger knows it; many a time has he trodden its
soft and shaking surface. Good old horse!" and she patted the black neck
of her charger as she turned his head towards the distant hills and
urged him forward with a "chirrup."

Far across the muskeg the distant peaks of the mountain range glistened
in the afternoon sun like diamond-studded sugar loaves. So high were the
clouds that every portion of the mighty summits was clearly outlined.
The great ramparts of the prairie are a magnificent sight on a clear
day. Flat and smooth as any billiard-table stretched this silent,
mysterious muskeg, already green and fair to the eye, an alluring
pasture to the unwary. An experienced eye might have judged it too
green--too alluring. Could a more perfect trap be devised by evil human
ingenuity than this? Think for one instant of a bottomless pit of liquid
soil, absorbing in its peculiar density. Think of all the horrors of a
quicksand, which, embracing, sucks down into its cruel bosom the
despairing victim of its insatiable greed. Think of a thin, solid crust,
spread like icing upon a cake and concealing the soft, spongy matter
beneath, covering every portion of the cruel plain; a crust which yields
a crop of luxurious, enticing grass of the most perfect emerald hue; a
crust firm in itself and dry looking, and yet not strong enough to bear
the weight of a good-sized terrier. And what imagination can possibly
conceive a more cruel--more perfect trap for man or beast? Woe to the
creature which trusts its weight upon that treacherous crust. For one
fleeting instant it will sway beneath the tread, then, in the flash of a
thought, it will break, and once the surface gives no human power can
save the victim. Down, down into the depths must the poor wretch be
plunged, with scarce time to offer a prayer to God for the poor soul
which so swiftly passes to its doom. Such is the muskeg; and surely more
terrible is it than is that horror of the navigator--the quicksands.

The girl led the way without as much as a passing thought for the
dangers which surrounded her. Truly had her companion said "I don't see
the path," for no path was to be seen. But Jacky had learned her lesson
well--and learned it from one who read the prairie as the Bedouin reads
the desert. The path was there and with a wondrous assurance she
followed its course.

The travelers moved silently along. No word was spoken; each was wrapped
in thought. Now and again a stray prairie chicken would fly up from
their path with a whirr, and speed across the mire, calling to its mate
as it went. The drowsy chirrup of frogs went on unceasingly around, and
already the ubiquitous mosquito was on the prowl for human gore.

The upstanding horses now walked with down-drooped heads, with sniffing
noses low towards the ground, ears cocked, and with alert, careful
tread, as if fully alive to the danger of their perilous road. The
silence of that ride teemed with a thrill of danger. Half an hour passed
and then the girl gathered up her reins and urged her willing horse into
a canter.

"Come on, Bill, the path is more solid now, and wider. The worst part is
on the far side," she called back over her shoulder.

Her companion followed her unquestioningly.

The sun was already dipping towards the distant peaks and already a
shadowy haze was rising upon the eastern prairie. The chill of winter
grew keener as the sun slowly sank.

Two-thirds of the journey were covered and Jacky, holding up a warning
hand, drew up her horse. Her companion came to a stand beside her.

"The path divides in three here," said the girl, glancing keenly down at
the fresh green grass. "Two of the branches are blind and end abruptly
further on. Guess we must avoid 'em," she went on shortly, "unless we
are anxious to punctuate our earthly career. This is the one we must
take," turning her horse to the left path. "Keep your eye peeled and
stick to Nigger's footprints."

The man did as he was bid, marvelling the while at the strange knowledge
of his companion. He had no fear; he only wondered. The trim, graceful
figure on the horse ahead of him occupied all his thoughts. He watched
her as, with quiet assurance she guided her horse. He had known Jacky
for years. He had watched her grow to womanhood, but although her
up-bringing must of necessity have taught her an independence and
courage given to few women, he had never dreamt of the strength of the
sturdy nature she was now displaying. Again his thoughts went to the
tales of the gossips of the settlement, and the strange figure of the
daring cattle-thief loomed up over his mental horizon. He rode, and as
he rode he wondered. The end Of this journey would be a fitting place
for the explanations which must take place between them.

At length the shaking path came to an end and the mire was crossed. A
signal from the girl brought her companion to her side.

"We have crossed it," she said, glancing up at the sun, and indicating
the muskeg with a backward jerk of her head. "Now for the horse."

"What about your promise to tell me about Peter Retief?"

"Guess being the narrator you must let me take my time."

She smiled up into her companion's eagle face.

"The horse is a mile or so further up towards the foothills. Come
along."

They galloped side by side over the moist, springy grass--moist with the
recently-melted snow. "Lord" Bill was content to wait her pleasure.
Suddenly the man brought his horse up with a severe "yank."

"What's up?" The girl's beautiful eyes were fixed upon the ground with a
peculiar instinct. Bill pointed to the ground on the side furthest from
his companion.

"Look!"

Jacky gazed at the spot indicated.

"The tracks of the horse," she said sharply.

She was on the ground in an instant and inspecting the hoof-prints
eagerly, with that careful study acquired by experience.

"Well?" said the other, as she turned back to her horse.

"Recent." Then in an impressive tone which her companion failed to
understand, "That horse has been shod. The shoes are off--all except a
tiny bit on his off fore. We must track it."

They now separated and rode keeping the hoof-prints between them. The
marks were quite fresh and so plain in the soft ground that they were
able to ride at a good pace. The clear-cut indentations led away from
the mire up the gently-sloping ground. Suddenly they struck upon a path
that was little more than a cattle-track, and instantly became mingled
with other hoof-marks, older and going both ways. Hitherto the girl had
ridden with her eyes closely watching the tracks, but now she suddenly
raised her sweet, weather-tanned face to her companion, and, with a
light of the wildest excitement in her eyes, she pointed along the path
and set her horse at a gallop.

"Come on! I know," she cried, "right on into the hills."

Bill followed willingly enough, but he failed to understand his
companion's excitement. After all they were merely bent upon "roping" a
stray horse. The girl galloped on at breakneck speed; the heavy black
ringlets of hair were swept like an outspread fan from under the broad
brim of her Stetson hat, her buckskin bodice ballooning in the wind as
rider and horse charged along, utterly indifferent to the nature of the
country they were traveling--indifferent to everything except the mad
pursuit of an unseen quarry. Now they were on the summit of some
eminence whence they could see for miles the confusion of hills, like
innumerable bee-hives set close together upon an endless plain; now
down, tearing through a deep hollow, and racing towards another abrupt
ascent. With every hill passed the country became less green and more
and more rugged. "Lord" Bill struggled hard to keep the girl in view as
she raced on--on through the labyrinth of seemingly endless hillocks.
But at last he drew up on the summit of a high cone-like rise and
realized that he had lost her.

For a moment he gazed around with that peculiar, all-observing keenness
which is given to those whose lives are spent in countries where human
habitation is sparse--where the work of man is lost in the immensity of
Nature's effort. He could see no sign of the girl. And yet he knew she
could not be far away. His instincts told him to search for her horse
tracks. He was sure she had passed that way. While yet he was thinking,
she suddenly reappeared over the brow of a further hill. She halted at
the summit, and, seeing him, waved a summons. Her gesticulations were
excited and he hastened to obey. Down into the intervening valley his
horse plunged with headlong recklessness. At the bottom there was a
hard, beaten track. Almost unconsciously he allowed his beast to adopt
it. It wound round and upwards, at the base of the hill on which Jacky
was waiting for him. He passed the bend, then, with a desperate,
backward heave of the body, he "yanked" his horse short up, throwing the
eager animal on to its haunches.

He had pulled up on what, at first appeared to be the brink of a
precipice, and what in reality was a declivity, down which only the slow
and sure foot of a steer or broncho might safely tread. He sat aghast at
his narrow escape. Then, turning at the sound of a voice behind him, he
found that Jacky had come down from the hill above.

"See, Bill," she cried, as she drew abreast of his hard-breathing horse,
"there he is! Down there, peacefully, grazing."

Her excitement was intense, and the hand with which she pointed shook
like an aspen. Her agitation was incomprehensible to the man. He looked
down. Hitherto he had seen little beyond the brink at which he had come
to such a sudden stand. But now, as he gazed down, he beheld a deep
dark-shadowed valley, far-reaching and sombre. From their present
position its full extent was beyond the range of vision, but sufficient
was to be seen to realize that here was one of those vast hiding-places
only to be found in lands where Nature's fanciful mood has induced the
mighty upheaval of the world's greatest mountain ranges. On the far side
of the deep, sombre vale a towering craig rose wall-like, sheer up,
overshadowing the soft, green pasture deep down at the bottom of the
yawning gulch. Dense patches of dark, relentless pinewoods lined its
base, and, over all, in spite of the broad daylight, a peculiar shadow,
as of evening, added mystery to the haunting view.

It was some seconds before the man was able to distinguish the tiny
object which had roused the girl to such unaccountable excitement. When
he did, however, he beheld a golden chestnut horse quietly grazing as it
made its way leisurely towards the ribbon-like stream which flowed in
the bosom of the mysterious valley. "Lord" Bill's voice was quite
emotionless when he spoke.

"Ah, a chestnut!" he said quietly. "Well, our quest is vain. He is
beyond our reach."

For a moment the girl looked at him in indignant surprise. Then her mood
changed and she nearly laughed outright. She had forgotten that this man
as yet knew nothing of what had all along been in her thoughts. As yet
he knew nothing of the secret of this hollow. To her it meant a world of
recollection--a world of stirring adventure and awful hazard. When first
she had seen that horse, grazing within sight of her uncle's house, her
interest had been aroused--suspicions had been sent teeming through her
brain. Her thoughts had flown to the man whom she had once known, and
who was now dead. She had believed his horse had died with him. And now
the strange apparition had yielded up its secret. The beast had been
traced to the old, familiar haunt, and what had been only suspicion had
suddenly become a startling reality.

"Ah, I forgot," she replied, "you don't understand. That is Golden
Eagle. Can't you see, he has the fragments of his saddle still tied
round his body. To think of it--and after two years."

Her companion still seemed dense.

"Golden Eagle?" he repeated questioningly. "Golden Eagle?" The name
seemed familiar but he failed to comprehend.

"Yes, yes," the girl broke out impatiently. "Golden Eagle--Peter
Retief's horse. The grandest beast that ever stepped the prairie. See,
he is keeping watch over his master's old
hiding-place--faithful--faithful to the memory of the dead."

"And this is--is the haunt of Peter Retief," Bill exclaimed, his
interest centering chiefly upon the yawning valley before him.

"Yes--follow me closely, and we'll get right along down. Say, Bill, we
must round up that animal."

For a fleeting space the man looked dubious, then, with lips pursed, and
a quiet look of resolution in his sleepy eyes, he followed in his
companion's wake. The grandeur--the solitude--the mystery and
associations, conveyed by the girl's words, of the place were upon him.
These things had set him thinking.

The tortuous course of that perilous descent occupied their full
attention, but, at length, they reached the valley in safety. Now,
indeed, was a wonderful scene disclosed. Far as the eye could reach the
great hollow extended. Deep and narrow; deep in the heart of the hills
which towered upon either side to heights, for the most part,
inaccessible, precipitous. It was a wondrous gulch, hidden and
unsuspected in the foothills, and protected by those amazing wilds, in
which the ignorant or unwary must infallibly be lost. It was a perfect
pasture, a perfect hiding-place, watered by a broad running stream;
sheltered from all cold and storm. No wonder then that the celebrated
outlaw, Peter Retief, had chosen it for his haunt and the harborage of
his ill-gotten stock.

With characteristic method the two set about "roping" the magnificent
crested horse they had come to capture. They soon found that he was
wild--timid as a hare. Their task looked as though it would be one of
some difficulty.

At first Golden Eagle raced recklessly from point to point. And so long
as this lasted his would-be captors could do little but endeavor to
"head" him from one to the other, in the hope of getting him within
range of the rope. Then he seemed suddenly to change his mind, and, with
a quick double, gallop towards the side of the great chasm. A cry of
delight escaped the girl as she saw this. The horse was making for the
mouth of a small cavern which had been boarded over, and, judging by the
door and window in the woodwork, had evidently been used as a dwelling
or a stable. It was the same instinct which led him to this place that
had caused the horse to remain for two years the solitary tenant of the
valley. The girl understood, and drew her companion's attention. The
capture at once became easy. Keeping clear of the cave they cautiously
herded their quarry towards it. Golden Eagle was docile enough until he
reached the, to him, familiar door. Then, when he found that his
pursuers still continued to press in upon him, he took alarm, and,
throwing up his head, with a wild, defiant snort he made a bolt for the
open.

Instantly two lariats whirled through the air towards the crested neck.
One missed its mark, but the other fell, true as a gun-shot over the
small, thoroughbred head. It was Jacky's rope which had found its mark.
A hitch round the horn of her saddle, and her horse threw himself back
with her forefeet braced, and faced the captive. Then the rope tightened
with a jerk which taxed its rawhide strands to their utmost. Instantly
Golden Eagle, after two years' freedom, stood still; he knew that once
more he must return to captivity.




CHAPTER VIII

TOLD IN BAD MAN'S HOLLOW


Jacky held her treasure fast. The choking grip of the running noose
quieted Golden Eagle into perfect docility. Bunning-Ford was off his
horse in a moment. Approaching the primitive dwelling he forced open the
crazy door. It was a patchwork affair and swung back on a pair of hinges
which lamented loudly as the accumulation of rust were disturbed. The
interior was essentially suggestive of the half-breed, and his guess at
its purpose had been a shrewd one. Part storehouse for forage, part
bedroom, and part stable, it presented a squalid appearance. The portion
devoted to stable-room was far in the back; the curious apparatus which
constituted the bed was placed under the window.

The man propped the door open, and then went to relieve the girl from
the strain of holding her captive. Seizing the lariat he gripped it
tightly and proceeded to pass slowly, hand over hand, towards the
beautiful, wild-eyed chestnut. Golden Eagle seemed to understand, for,
presently, the tension of the rope relaxed. For a moment the animal
looked fearfully around and snorted, then, as "Lord" Bill determinedly
attempted to lead him, he threw himself backward. His rebellion lasted
but for an instant, for, presently, drooping his proud head as though in
token of submission, he followed his captor quietly into the stable
which had always been his.

The girl dismounted, and, shortly after, "Lord" Bill rejoined her.

"Well?" she asked, her questioning eyes turned in the direction of the
cave.

"He's snug enough," Bill replied quietly, glancing at his watch. He
looked up at the chilly sky, then he seated himself on the edge of a
boulder which reposed beside the entrance to the stable. "We've just got
two hours and a half before dark," he added slowly. "That means an hour
in which to talk." Then he quietly prepared to roll a cigarette. "Now,
Jacky, let's have your yarn first; after that you shall hear mine."

He leisurely proceeded to pick over the tobacco before rolling it in the
paper. He was usually particular about his smoke. He centered his
attention upon the matter now, purposely, so as to give his companion a
chance to tell her story freely. He anticipated that what she had to
tell would affect her nearly. But his surmise of the direction in which
she would be affected proved totally incorrect. Her first words told him
this.

She hesitated only for the fraction of a second, then she plunged into
her story with a directness which was always hers.

"This is Bad Man's Hollow--he--he was my half-brother."

So the stories of the gossips were not true. Bill gave a comprehensive
nod, but offered no comment. Her statement appeared to him to need none.
It explained itself; she was speaking of Peter Retief.

"Mother was a widow when she married father--widow with one son. Mother
was a half-breed."

An impressive silence ensued. For a moment a black shadow swept across
the valley. It was a dense flight of geese winging their way back to the
north, as the warm sun melted the snow and furnished them with
well-watered feeding-grounds. The frogs were chirruping loudly down at
the edge of the stream which trickled its way ever southwards. She went
on.

"Mother and Peter settled at Foss River at different times. They never
hit it off. No one knew that there was any relationship between them up
at the camp. Mother lived in her own shack. Peter located himself
elsewhere. Guess it's only five years since I learned these things.
Peter was fifteen years older than I. I take it they made him 'bad' from
the start. Poor Peter!--still, he was my half-brother."

She conveyed a world of explanation in her last sentence. There was a
tender, far-away look in her great, sorrowful eyes as she told her jerky
story. "Lord" Bill allowed himself a side-long glance in her direction,
then he turned his eyes towards the south end of the valley and
something very like a sigh escaped him. She had struck a sympathetic
chord in his heart. He longed to comfort her.

"There's no use in reckoning up Peter's acts. You know 'em as well as I
do, Bill. He was slick--was Peter," she went on, with an inflection of
satisfaction. She was returning to a lighter manner as she contemplated
the cattle-thief's successes. "Cattle, mail-trains, mail-carts--nothing
came amiss to him. In his own line Peter was a Jo-dandy." Her face
flushed as she proceeded. The half-breed blood in her was stirred in all
its passionate strength. "But he'd never have slipped the coyote
sheriffs or the slick red-coats so long as he did without my help. Say,
Bill," leaning forward eagerly and peering into his face with her
beautiful glowing eyes, "for three years I just--just lived! Poor Peter!
Guess I'm reckoned kind of handy 'round a bunch of steers. There aren't
many who can hustle me. You know that. All the boys on the round-up know
that. And why? Because I learnt the business from Peter--and Peter
taught me to shoot quick and straight. Those three years taught me a
deal, and I take it those things didn't happen for nothing," with a
moody introspective gaze. "Those years taught me how to look after
myself--and my uncle. Say, Bill, what I'm telling you may sicken you
some. I can't help that. Peter was my brother and blood's thicker than
water. I wasn't going to let him be hunted down by a lot of bloodthirsty
coyotes who were no better than he. I wasn't going to let my mother's
flesh feed the crows from the end of a lariat. I helped Peter to steer
clear of the law--lynch at that--and if he fell at last, a victim to
the sucking muck of the muskeg, it was God's judgment and not
man's--that's good enough for me. I'd do it all again, I guess, if--if
Peter were alive."

"Peter had some shooting on the account against him," said Bill, without
raising his eyes from the contemplation of his cigarette. The girl
smiled. The smile hovered for a moment round her mouth and eyes, and
then passed, leaving her sweet, dark face bathed in the shadow of
regret. She understood the drift of his remark but in no way resented
it.

"No, Bill, I steered clear of that. I'd have shot to save Peter, but it
never came to that. Whatever shooting Peter did was done on his--lonely.
I jibbed at a frolic that meant--shooting. Peter never let me dirty my
hands to that extent. Guess I just helped him and kept him posted. If
I'd had law, they'd have called me accessory after the fact."

"Lord" Bill pondered. His lazy eyes were half-closed. He looked
indifferent but his thoughts were flowing fast. This girl's story had
given a fillup to a wild plan which had almost unconsciously found place
in his active brain. Now he raised his eyes to her face and was
astonished at the setness of its expression. She reminded him of those
women in history whose deeds had, at various periods, shaken the
foundations of empires. There was a deep, smouldering fire in her eyes,
for which only the native blood in her veins could account. Her
beautiful face was clouded beneath a somber shadow which is so often
accredited as a presage of tragedy. Surely her expression was one of a
great, passionate nature, of a soul capable of a wondrous love, or a
wondrous--hate. She had seated herself upon the ground with the careless
abandon of one used to such a resting-place. Her trim riding-boots were
displayed from beneath the hem of her coarse dungaree habit. Her Stetson
hat was pushed back on her head, leaving the broad low forehead exposed.
Her black waving hair streamed about her face, a perfect framing for
the Van Dyke coloring of her skin. She was very beautiful.

The man shifted his position.

"Tell me," he went on, gazing over towards where a flock of wild ducks
had suddenly settled upon a reedy swamp, and were noisily revelling in
the water, "did your uncle know anything about this?"

"Not a soul on God's earth knew. Did you ever suspect anything?"

Bill shook his head.

"Not a thing. I was as well posted on the subject of Peter as any one.
Sometimes I thought it curious that old John's stock and my own were
never interfered with. But I had no suspicion of the truth. Peter's
relationship to your mother--did the Breeds in the settlement know
anything of it?"

"No--I alone knew."

"Ah!"

The girl looked curiously into her companion's face. The tone of his
exclamation startled her. She wondered towards what end his questions
were leading. His face was inscrutable; she gained no inspiration from
it. There was a short pause. She wondered anxiously how her story had
affected him in regard to herself. After all, she was only a woman--a
woman of strong affections and deep feelings. Her hardihood, her mannish
self-reliance, were but outer coverings, the result of the surroundings
of her daily life. She feared lest he should turn from her in utter
loathing.

The Hon. Bunning-Ford had no such thoughts, however. Twenty-four hours
ago her story might have startled him. But now it was different. His was
as wild and reckless a nature as her own. Law and order were matters
which he regarded in the light of personal inclinations. He had seen too
much of the early life on the prairie to be horrified by the part this
courageous girl had taken in her blood-relative's interests. Under other
circumstances "Lord" Bill might well have developed into a "bad man"
himself. As it was, his sympathies were always with those whose daring
led them into ways of danger and risk of personal safety.

"How far does this valley extend?" he asked abruptly, stepping over as
though to obtain a view of the southern extremity of the mysterious
hollow.

"Guess we reckoned it 300 miles. Dead straight into the heart of the
mountains, then out again sharply into the foot-hills thirty miles south
of the border. It comes to an end in Montana."

"And Peter disposed of his stock that way--all by himself?" he asked,
returning to his seat upon the boulder.

"All by himself," the girl repeated, again wondering at the drift of his
questions. "My help only extended as far as this place. Peter used to
fatten his stock right here and then run them down into Montana. Down
there no one knew where he came from, and so wonderfully is this place
hidden that he was never traced. There is only one approach to it, and
that's across the keg. In winter that can be crossed anywhere, but no
sane persons would trust themselves in the foothills at that time of
year. For the rest it can only be crossed by the secret path. This
valley is a perfectly-hidden natural road for illicit traffic."

"Wonderful." The man permitted a smile to spread over his thin, eagle
face. "Peter's supposed to have made a pile of money."

"Yes, I guess Peter sunk a pile of dollars. He hid his bills right here
in the valley," Jacky replied, smiling back into the indolent face
before her. Then her face became serious again. "The secret of its
hiding-place died with him--it's buried deep down in the reeking keg."

"And you're sure he died in the 'reeking keg'?" There was a sharp
intonation in the question. The matter seemed to be of importance in the
story.

Jacky half started at the eagerness with which the question was put. She
paused for an instant before replying.

"I believe he died there," she said at length, like one weighing her
words well, "but it was never clearly proved. Most people think that he
simply cleared out of the country. I picked up his hat close beside the
path, and the crust of the keg had been broken. Yes, I believe he died
in the muskeg. Had he lived I should have known."

"But how comes it that Golden Eagle is still alive? Surely Peter would
never have crossed the keg on foot"

The girl looked perplexed for a moment. But her conviction was plainly
evident.

"No--he wouldn't have walked. Peter drank some."

"I see."

"Once I saved him from taking the wrong track at the point where the
path forks. He'd been drinking then. Yes," with a quiet assurance, "I
think he died in the keg."

Her companion seemed to have come to the end of his cross-examination.
He suddenly rose from his seat. The chattering of the ducks in the
distance caused him to turn his head. Then he turned again to the girl
before him. The indolence had gone from his eyes. His face was set, and
the firm pursing of his lips spoke of a determination arrived at. He
gazed down at the recumbent figure upon the ground. There was something
in his gaze which made the girl lower her eyes and look far out down the
valley.

"This brother of yours--he was tall and thin?"

The girl nodded.

"Am I right in my recollection of him when I say that he was possessed
of a dark, dark face, lantern jaws, thin--and high, prominent
cheek-bones?"

"That's so."

She faced him inquiringly as she answered his eager questions.

"Ah!"

He quickly turned again in the direction of the noisy water-fowl. Their
rollicking gambols sounded joyously on the brooding atmosphere of the
place. The wintry chill in the air was fast ousting the balmy breath of
spring. It was a warning of the lateness of the hour.

"Now listen to me," he went on presently, turning again from the
contemplation of his weird surroundings. "I lost all that was left to me
from the wreck of my little ranch this afternoon--no, not to Lablache,"
as the girl was about to pronounce the hated name, "but," with a wintry
smile, "to another friend of yours, Pedro Mancha. I also discovered,
this afternoon, the source of Lablache's phenomenal--luck. He has
systematically robbed both your uncle and myself--" He broke off with a
bitter laugh.

"My God!"

The girl had sprung to her feet in her agitation. And a rage
indescribable flamed into her face. The fury there expressed appalled
him, and he stood for a moment waiting for it to abate. What terrible
depths had he delved into? The hidden fires of a passionate nature are
more easily kept under than checked in their blasting career when once
the restraining will power is removed. For an instant it seemed that she
must choke. Then she hurled her feelings into one brief, hissing
sentence.

"Lablache--I hate him!"

And the man realized that he must continue his story.

"Yes, we lost our money not fairly, but by--cheating. I am ruined, and
your uncle--" Bill shrugged.

"My uncle--God help him!"

"I do not know the full extent of his losses, Jacky--except that they
have probably trebled mine."

"But I know to what extent the hound has robbed him," Jacky answered in
a tone of such bitter hatred as to cause her companion to glance
uneasily at the passionate young face before him. "I know, only too
well. And right thoroughly has Lablache done his work. Say, Bill, do you
know that that skunk holds mortgages on our ranch for two hundred
thousand dollars? And every bill of it is for poker. For twenty years,
right through, he has steadily sucked the old man's blood. Slick? Say a
six-year-old steer don't know more about a branding-iron than does
Verner Lablache about his business. For every dollar uncle's lost he's
made him sign a mortgage. Every bit of paper has the old man had to
redeem in that way. What he's done lately--I mean uncle--I can't say.
But Lablache held those mortgages nearly a year ago."

"Whew--" "Lord" Bill whistled under his breath. "Gee-whittaker. It's
worse than I thought. 'Poker' John's losses during the last winter, to
my knowledge, must have amounted to nearly six figures--the devil!"

"Ruin, ruin, ruin!"

The girl for a moment allowed womanly feeling to overcome her, for, as
her companion added his last item to the vast sum which she had quoted,
she saw, in all its horrible nakedness, the truth of her uncle's
position. Then she suddenly forced back the tears which had struggled
into her eyes, and, with indomitable courage, faced the catastrophe.

"But can't we fight him--can't we give him--"

"Law? I'm afraid not," Bill interrupted. "Once a mortgage is signed the
debt is no longer a gambling debt. Law is of no use to us, especially
here on the prairie. There is only one law which can save us. Lablache
must disgorge."

"Yes--yes! For every dollar he has stolen let him pay ten."

The passionate fire in her eyes burned more steadily now. It was the
fire which is unquenchable--the fire of a lasting hate, vengeful,
terrible. Then her tone dropped to a contemplative soliloquy.

"But how?" she murmured, looking away towards the stream in the heart of
the valley, as though in search of inspiration.

Bunning-Ford smiled as he heard the half-whispered question. But his
smile was not pleasant to look upon. All the latent recklessness which
might have made of him a good soldier or a great scoundrel was roused in
him. He was passing the boundary which divides the old Adam, which is in
every man, from the veneer of early training. He was
mutely--unconsciously--calling to his aid the savage instincts which the
best of men are not without. His face expressed something of what was
passing within his active brain, and the girl before him, as she turned
and watched the working features, usually so placid--indifferent, knew
that she was to see a side of his character always suspected by her but
never before made apparent. His thoughts at last found vent in words of
almost painful intensity.

"How?" he said, repeating the question as though it had been addressed
to himself. "He shall pay--pay! Everlastingly pay! So long as I have
life--and liberty, he shall pay!"

Then as if anticipating a request for explanation he told her the means
by which Lablache had consistently cheated. The girl listened,
speechless with amazement. She hung upon his every word. At the
conclusion of his story she put an abrupt question.

"And you gave no sign? He doesn't suspect that you know?"

"He suspects nothing."

"Good. You are real smart, Bill. Yes, shooting's no good. This is no
case for shooting. What do you propose? I see you mean business."

The man was still smiling but his smile had suddenly changed to one of
kindly humor.

"First of all Jacky," he said, taking a step towards her, "I can do
nothing without your help. I propose that you share this task with me.
No, no, I don't mean in that way," as she commenced to assure him of her
assistance. "What I mean is that--that I love you, dear. I want you to
give me the right to protect--your uncle."

He finished up with his hands stretched out towards her. Golden Eagle
stirred in his stable, and the two heard him whinny as if in approval.
Then as the girl made no answer Bill went on: "Jacky, I am a ruined man.
I have nothing, but I love you better than life itself. We now have a
common purpose in life. Let us work together."

His voice sank to a tender whisper. He loved this motherless girl who
was fighting the battle of life single-handed against overwhelming
odds, with all the strength of his nature. He had loved her ever since
she had reached woman's estate. In asking for a return of his affections
now he fully realized the cruelty of his course. He knew that the
future--his future--was to be given up to the pursuit of a terrible
revenge. And he knew that, in linking herself with him, she would
perforce be dragged into whatever wrong-doing his contemplated revenge
might lead him. And yet he dared not pause. It all seemed so plain--so
natural--that they should journey through the crooked, paths of the
future together. Was she not equally determined upon a terrible revenge?

He waited in patience for his answer. Suddenly she looked up into his
face and gently placed her hands in his. Her answer came with simple
directness.

"Do you really, Bill? I am glad--yes, glad right through. I love you,
too. Say, you're sure you don't think badly of me because--because I'm
Peter's sister?"

There was a smiling, half-tearful look in her eyes--those expressive
eyes which, but a moment before, had burnt with a vengeful fire--as she
asked the question. After all her nature was wondrously simple.

"Why should I, dear?" he replied, bending and kissing the gauntleted
hands which rested so lovingly in his. "My life has scarcely been a
Garden of Eden before the Fall. And I don't suppose my future, even
should I escape the laws of man, is likely to be most creditable. Your
past is your own--I have no right nor wish to criticise. Henceforth we
are united in a common cause. Our hand is turned against one whose power
in this part of the country is almost absolute. When we have wrested his
property from him, to the uttermost farthing, we will cry quits--"

"And on the day that sees Lablache's downfall, Bill, I will become your
wife."

There was a pause. Then Bill drew her towards him and they sealed the
compact with one long embrace. They were roused to the matters of the
moment by another whinny from Golden Eagle, who was chafing at his
forced imprisonment.

The two stood back from one another, hand in hand, and smiled as they
listened to the tuneful plaint. Then the man unfolded a wonderful plan
to this girl whom he loved. Her willing ears drank in the details like
one whose heart is set with a great purpose. They also talked of their
love in their own practical way. There was little display of sentiment.
They understood without that. Their future was not alluring, unless
something of the man's strange plan appealed to the wild nature of the
prairie which, by association, has somehow become affiliated with
theirs. In that quiet, evening-lit valley these two people arranged to
set aside the laws of man and deal out justice as they understood it. An
eye for an eye--a tooth for a tooth; fortune favoring, a cent, per cent,
interest in each case. The laws of the prairie, in those days always
uncertain, were more often governed by human passions than the calm
equity of unbiased jurymen. And who shall say that their idea of justice
was wrong? Two "wrongs," it has been said, do not make one "right." But
surely it is not a human policy when smote upon one cheek to turn the
other for a similar chastisement.

"Then we leave Golden Eagle where he is," said Jacky, as she remounted
her horse and they prepared to return home.

"Yes. I will see to him," Bill replied, urging his horse into a canter
towards the winding ascent which was to take them home.

The ducks frolicking in their watery playground chattered and flapped
their heavy wings. The frogs in their reedy beds croaked and chirruped
without ceasing. And who shall say how much they had heard, or had seen,
or knew of that compact sealed in Bad Man's Hollow?




CHAPTER IX

LABLACHE'S "COUP"


Lablache was seated in a comfortable basket chair in his little back
office. He preferred a basket chair--he knew its value. He had tried
other chairs of a less yielding nature, but they were useless to support
his weight; he had broken too many, and they were expensive--there is
nothing more durable than a strong basket chair. Lablache appreciated
strength combined with durability, especially when the initial outlay
was reduced to a minimum.

His slippered feet were posted on the lower part of the self-feeding
stove and he gazed down, deep in thought, at the lurid glow of the fire
shining through the mica sides of the firebox.

A clock was ticking away with that peculiar, vibrating aggressiveness
which characterizes the cheap American "alarm." The bare wood of the
desk aggravated the sound, and, in the stillness of the little room, the
noise pounded exasperatingly on the ear-drums. From time to time he
turned his great head, and his lashless eyes peered over at the paper
dial of the clock. Once or twice he stirred with a suggestion of
impatience. At times his heavy breathing became louder and shorter, and
he seemed about to give expression to some irritable thought.

At last his bulk heaved and he removed his feet from the stove. Then he
slowly raised himself from the depths of the yielding chair. His
slippered feet shuffled over the floor as he moved towards the window.
The blind was down, but he drew it aside and wiped the steam from the
glass pane with his soft, fat hand. The night was black--he could see
nothing of the outside world. It was nearly an hour since he had left
the saloon where he had been playing poker with John Allandale. He
appeared to be waiting for some one, and he wanted to go to bed.

Once more he returned to his complaining chair and lowered himself into
it. The minutes slipped by. Lablache did not want to smoke; he felt that
he must do something to soothe his impatience, so he chewed at the
quicks of his finger-nails.

Presently there came a tap at the window. The money-lender ponderously
rose, and, cautiously opening the door, admitted the dark, unkempt form
of Pedro Mancha. There was no greeting; neither spoke until Lablache had
again secured the door. Then the money-lender turned his fishy eyes and
mask-like face to the newcomer. He did not suggest that his visitor
should sit down. He merely looked with his cold, cruel eyes, and spoke.

"Well?--been drinking."

The latter part of his remark was an assertion. He knew the Mexican
well. The fellow had an expressive countenance, unlike most of his race,
and the least sign of drink was painfully apparent upon it. The man was
not drunk but his wild eyes testified to his recent libations.

"Guess you've hit it right thar," he retorted indifferently.

It was noticeable that this man had adopted the high-pitched, keen tone
and pronounced accent of the typical "South-Westerner." In truth he was
a border Mexican; a type of man closely allied to the "greaser." He was
a perfect scoundrel, who had doubtless departed from his native land for
the benefit of that fair but swarming hornet's nest.

"It's a pity when you have business on hand you can't leave that 'stuff'
alone."

Lablache made no effort to conceal his contempt. He even allowed his
mask-like face to emphasize his words.

"You're almighty pertickler, mister. You ask for dirty work to be done,
an' when that dirty work's done, gorl-darn-it you croak like a
flannel-mouthed temperance lecturer. Guess I came hyar to talk straight
biz. Jest leave the temperance track, an' hit the main trail."

Pedro's face was not pretty to look upon. The ring of white round the
pupils of his eyes gave an impression of insanity or animal ferocity.
The latter was his chief characteristic. His face was thin and scored
with scars, mainly long and narrow. These, in a measure, testified to
his past. His mouth, half hidden beneath a straggling mustache, was his
worst feature. One can only liken it to a blubber-lipped gash, lined
inside with two rows of yellow fangs, all in a more or less bad state of
decay.

The two men eyed one another steadily for a moment. Lablache could in no
way terrorize this desperado. Like all his kind this man was ready to
sell his services to any master, provided the forthcoming price of such
services was sufficiently exorbitant. He was equally ready to play his
employer up should any one else offer a higher price. But Lablache, when
dealing with such men, took no chances. He rarely employed this sort of
man, preferring to do his own dirty work, but when he did, he knew it
was policy to be liberal. Pedro served him well as a rule, consequently
the Mexican was enabled to ruffle it with the best in the settlement,
whilst people wondered where he got his money from. Somehow they never
thought of Lablache being the source of this man's means; the
money-lender was not fond of parting.

"You are right, I am particular. When I pay for work to be done I don't
want gassing over a bar. I know what you are when the whisky is in you."

Lablache stood with his great back to the fire watching his man from
beneath his heavy lids. Bad as he was himself the presence of this man
filled him with loathing. Possibly deep down, somewhere in that organ he
was pleased to consider his heart, he had a faint glimmer of respect for
an honest man. The Mexican laughed harshly.

"Guess all you know of me, mister, wouldn't make a pile o' literature.
But say, what's the game to-night?"

Lablache was gnawing his fingers.

"How much did you take from the Honorable?" he asked sharply.

"You told me to lift his boodle. Time was short--he wouldn't play for
long."

"I'm aware of that. How much?"

Lablache's tone was abrupt and peremptory. Mancha was trying to estimate
what he should be paid for his work.

"See hyar, I guess we ain't struck no deal yet. What do you propose to
pay me?"

The Mexican was sharp but he was no match for his employer. He fancied
he saw a good deal over this night's work.

"You played on paper, I know," said the money-lender, quietly. He was
quite unmoved by the other's display of cunning. It pleased him rather
than otherwise. He knew he held all the cards in his hands--he generally
did in dealing with men of this stamp. "To you, the amounts he lost are
not worth the paper they are written on. You could never realize them.
He couldn't meet 'em."

Lablache leisurely took a pinch of snuff from his snuff-box. He coughed
and sneezed voluminously. His indifferent coolness, his air of
patronage, aggravated the Mexican while it alarmed him. The deal he
anticipated began to assume lesser proportions.

"Which means, I take it, you've a notion you'd like the feel of those
same papers."

Mancha had come to drive a bargain. He was aware that the I.O.U.'s he
held would take some time to realize on, in the proper quarter, but, at
the same time, he was quite aware of the fact that Bunning-Ford would
ultimately meet them.

Lablache shrugged his shoulders with apparent indifference--he meant to
have them.

"What do you want for the debts? I am prepared to buy--at a reasonable
figure."

The Mexican propped himself comfortably upon the corner of the desk.

"Say, guess we're talkin' biz, now. His 'lordship' is due to ante up the
trifle of seven thousand dollars--"

The fellow was rummaging in an inside pocket for the slips of paper. His
eyes never left his companion's face. The amount startled Lablache, but
he did not move a muscle.

"You did your work well, Pedro," he said, allowing himself, for the
first time in this conversation, to recognize that the Mexican had a
name. He warmed towards a man who was capable of doing another down for
such a sum in such a short space of time. "I'll treat you well. Two
thousand spot cash, and you hand over the I.O.U.'s. What say? Is it a
go?"

"Be damned to you. Two thousand for a certain seven? Not me. Say, what
d'ye do with the skin when you eat a bananny? Sole your boots with it?
Gee-whiz! You do fling your bills around."

The Mexican laughed derisively as he jammed the papers back into his
pocket. But he knew that he would have to sell at the other's price.

Lablache moved heavily towards his desk. Selecting a book he opened it
at a certain page.

"You can keep them if you like. But you may as well understand your
position. What's Bunning-Ford worth? What's his ranch worth?"

The other suggested a figure much below the real value.

"It's worth more than that. Fifty thousand if it's worth a cent,"
Lablache said expansively. "I don't want to do you, my friend, but as
you said we're talking business now. Here is his account with me, you
see," pointing to the entries. "I hold thirty-five thousand on first
mortgage and twenty thousand on bill of sale. In all fifty-five
thousand, and his interest twelve months in arrears. Now, you refuse to
part with those papers at my price, and I'll sell him up. You will then
get not one cent of your money."

The money-lender permitted himself to smile a grim, cold smile. He had
been careful to make no mention of Bunning-Ford's further assets. He had
quite forgotten to speak of a certain band of cattle which he knew his
intended victim to possess. It was a well-known thing that Lablache knew
more of the financial affairs of the people of the settlement than any
one else; doubtless the Mexican thought only of "Lord" Bill's ranch.
Mancha shifted his position uneasily. But there was a cunning look on
his face as he retorted swiftly,--

"You're a'mighty hasty to lay your hands on his reckoning. How's it that
you're ready to part two thou' for 'em?"

There was a moment's silence as the two men eyed each other. It seemed
as if each were endeavoring to fathom the other's thoughts. Then the
money-lender spoke, and his voice conveyed a concentration of hate that
bit upon the air with an incisiveness which startled his companion.

"Because I intend to crush him as I would a rattlesnake. Because I wish
to ruin him so that he will be left in my debt. So that I can hound him
from this place by holding that debt over his head. It is worth two
thousand to me to possess that power. Now, will you part?"

This explanation appealed to the worst side of the Mexican's nature.
This hatred was after his own heart. Lablache was aware that such would
be the case. That is why he made it. He was accustomed to play upon the
feelings of people with whom he dealt--as well as their pocket. Pedro
Mancha grinned complacently. He thought he understood his employer.

"Hand over the bills. Guess I'll part. The price is slim, but it's not a
bad deal."

Lablache oozed over to the safe. He opened it, keeping one heavy eye
upon his companion. He took no chances--he trusted no one, especially
Pedro Mancha. Presently he returned with a roll of notes. It contained
the exact amount. The Mexican watched him hungrily as he counted out the
green-backed bills. His lips moistened beneath his mustache--his eyes
looked wilder than ever. Lablache understood his customer thoroughly. A
loaded revolver was in his own coat pocket. It is probable that the
brown-faced desperado knew this.

At last the money-lender held out the money. He held out both hands, one
to give and the other to receive. Pedro passed him the I.O.U.'s and took
the bills. One swift glance assured Lablache that the coveted papers
were all there. Then he pointed to the door.

"Our transaction is over. Go!"

He had had enough of his companion. He had no hesitation in thus
peremptorily dismissing him.

"You're in a pesky hurry to get rid of me. See hyar, pard, you'd best be
civil. Your dealin's ain't a sight cleaner than mine."

"I'm waiting." Lablache's tone was coldly commanding. His lashless eyes
gazed steadily into the other's face. Something the Mexican saw in them
impelled him towards the door. He moved backwards, keeping his face
turned towards the money-lender. At this moment Lablache was at his
best. His was a dominating personality. There was no cowardice in his
nature--at least no physical cowardice. Doubtless, had it come to a
struggle where agility was required, he would have fallen an easy prey
to his lithe companion; but with him, somehow, it never did come to a
struggle. He had a way with him that chilled any such thought that a
would-be assailant might have. Will and unflinching courage are splendid
assets. And, amongst others, this man possessed both.

Mancha slunk back to the door, and, fumbling at the lock, opened it and
passed out. Lablache instantly whipped out a revolver, and, stepping
heavily on one side, advanced to the door, paused and listened. He was
well under cover. The door was open. He was behind it. He knew better
than to expose himself in the light for Mancha to make a target of him
from without. Then he kicked the door to. Making a complete circuit of
the walls of the office he came to the opposite side of the door, where
he swiftly locked and bolted it. Then he drew an iron shutter across the
light panelling and secured it.

"Good," he muttered, as, sucking in a heavy breath, he returned to the
stove and turned his back to it. "It's as well to understand Mexican
nature."

Then he lounged into his basket chair and rubbed his fleshy hands
reflectively. There was a triumphant look upon his repulsive features.

"Quite right, friend Pedro, it's not a bad deal," he said to himself,
blinking at the red light of the fire. "Not half bad. Seven thousand
dollars for two thousand dollars, and every cent of it realizable." He
shook with inward mirth. "The Hon. William Bunning-Ford will now have to
disgorge every stick of his estate. Good, good!"

Then he relapsed into deep thought. Presently he roused himself from his
reverie and prepared for bed.

"But I'll give him a chance. Yes, I'll give him a chance," he muttered,
as, after undergoing the simple operation of removing his coat, he
stretched himself upon his bed and drew the blankets about him. "If
he'll consent to renounce any claim, fancied or otherwise, he may have
to Joaquina Allandale's regard I'll refrain from selling him up. Yes,
Verner Lablache will forego his money--for a time."

The great bed shook as the monumental money-lender suppressed a chuckle.
Then he turned over, and his stertorous inhalations soon suggested that
the great man slept.

Shylock, the Jew, determined on having his pound of flesh. But a woman
outwitted him.




CHAPTER X

"AUNT" MARGARET REFLECTS


It was almost dark when Jacky returned to the ranch. She had left "Lord"
Bill at the brink of the great keg, whence he had returned to his own
place. Her first thought, on entering the house, was for the letter
which she had left for her uncle. It was gone. She glanced round the
room uncertainly. Then she stood gazing into the stove, while she idly
drummed with her gauntleted fingers upon the back of a chair. She had as
yet removed neither her Stetson hat nor her gauntlets.

Her strong, dark face was unusually varying in its expression. Possibly
her thoughts were thus indexed. Now, as she stood watching the play of
the fire, her great, deep eyes would darken with a grave, almost anxious
expression; again they would smile with a world of untold happiness in
their depths. Again they would change, in a flash, to a hard, cold gleam
of hatred and unyielding purpose; then slowly, a tender expression, such
as that of a mother for Her new-born babe, would creep into them and
shine down into the depths of the fire with a world of sweet sympathy.
But through all there was a tight compression of the lips, which spoke
of the earnest purpose which governed her thoughts; a slight pucker of
the brows, which surely told of a great concentration of mind.

Presently she roused herself, and, walking to where a table-bell stood,
rang sharply upon it. Her summons was almost immediately answered by the
entry of a servant.

Jacky turned as the door opened, and fired an abrupt question.

"Has Uncle John been in, Mamie?"

The girl's face had resumed its usual strong, kindly expression.
Whatever was hidden behind that calm exterior, she had no intention of
giving a chance observer any clew to it.

"No, miss," the servant replied, in that awestruck tone which domestics
are apt to use when sharply interrogated. She was an intelligent-looking
girl. Her dark skin and coarse black hair pronounced her a half-breed.
Her mistress had said "blood is thicker than water." All the domestics
under Jacky's charge hailed from the half-breed camp.

"Was my message delivered to him?"

Unconcernedly as she spoke she waited with some anxiety for the answer.

"Oh, yes, miss. Silas delivered it himself. The master was in company
with Mr. Lablache and the doctor, miss," added the girl, discreetly.

"And what did he say?"

"He sent Silas for the letter, miss."

"He didn't say what time he would return, I suppose?"

"No, miss--" She hesitated and fumbled at the door handle.

"Well?" as the girl showed by her attitude that there was something she
had left unsaid.

Jacky's question rang acutely in the quiet room.

"Silas--" began the girl, with a deprecating air of unbelief--"you know
what strange notions he takes--he said--"

The girl stopped in confusion under the steady gaze of her mistress.

"Speak up, girl," exclaimed Jacky, impatiently. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing, miss," the girl blurted out desperately. "Only Silas said
as the master didn't seem well like."

"Ah! That will do." Then, as the girl still stood at the door, "You can
go."

The dismissal was peremptory, and the half-breed had no choice but to
depart. She had hoped to have heard something interesting, but her
mistress was never given to being communicative with servants.

When the door had closed behind the half-breed Jacky turned again
towards the stove. Again she was plunged in deep thought. This time
there could be no mistake as to its tenor. Her heart was racked with an
anxiety which was not altogether new to it. The sweet face was pale and
her eyelids flickered ominously. The servant's veiled meaning was quite
plain to her. Brave, hardy as this girl of the prairie was, the fear
that was ever in her heart had suddenly assumed the proportions of a
crushing reality. She loved her uncle with an affection that was almost
maternal. It was the love of a strong, resolute nature for one of a
kindly but weak disposition. She loved the gray-headed old man, whose
affection had made her life one long, long day of happiness, with a
tenderness which no recently-acquired faults of his could alienate.
He--and now another--was her world. A world in which it was her joy to
dwell. And now--now; what of the present? Racked by losses brought about
through the agency of his all-absorbing passion, the weak old man was
slowly but surely taking to drowning his consciousness of the appalling
calamity which he had consistently set to work to bring about, and which
in his lucid moments he saw looming heavily over his house, in drink.
She had watched him with the never-failing eye of love, and had seen, to
her horror, the signs she so dreaded. She could face disaster stoically,
she could face danger unflinchingly, but this moral wrecking of the old
man, who had been more to her than a father, was more than she could
bear. Two great tears welled up into her beautiful, somber eyes and
slowly rolled down her cheeks. She bowed like a willow bending to the
force of the storm.

Her weakness was only momentary, however; her courage, bred from the
wildness of her life surroundings, rose superior to her feminine
weakness. She dashed her gloved hands across her eyes and wiped the
tears away. She felt that she must be doing--not weeping. Had not she
sealed a solemn compact with her lover? She must to work without delay.

She glanced round the room. Her gaze was that of one who wishes to
reassure herself. It was as if the old life had gone from her and she
was about to embark on a career new--foreign to her. A career in which
she could see no future--only the present. She felt like one taking a
long farewell to a life which had been fraught with nothing but delight.
The expression of her face told of the pain of the parting. With a heavy
sigh she passed out of the room--out into the chill night air, where
even the welcome sounds of the croaking frogs and the lowing cattle were
not. Where nothing was to cheer her for the work which in the future
must be hers. Something of that solemn night entered her soul. The gloom
of disaster was upon her.

It was only a short distance to Dr. Abbot's house. The darkness of the
night was no hindrance to the girl. Hither she made her way with the
light, springing step of one whose mind is made up to a definite
purpose.

She found Mrs. Abbot in. The little sitting-room in the doctor's house
was delightfully homelike and comfortable. There was nothing pretentious
about it--just solid comfort. And the great radiating stove in the
center of it smelt invitingly warm to the girl as she came in out of the
raw night air. Mrs. Abbot was alternating between a basket of sewing and
a well-worn, cheap-edition novel. The old lady was waiting with
patience, the outcome of experience, for the return of her lord to his
supper.

"Well, 'Aunt' Margaret," said Jacky, entering with the confidence of an
assured welcome, "I've come over for a good gossip. There's nobody at
home--up there," with a nod in the direction of the ranch.

"My dear child, I'm so pleased," exclaimed Mrs. Abbot, coming forward
from her rather rigid seat, and kissing the girl on both cheeks with
old-fashioned cordiality. "Come and sit by the stove--yes, take that
hideous hat off, which, by the way, I never could understand your
wearing. Now, when John and I were first en--"

"Yes, yes, dear. I know what you're going to say," interrupted the girl,
smiling in spite of the dull aching at her heart. She knew how this
sweet old lady lived in the past, and she also knew how, to a
sympathetic ear, she loved to pour out the delights of memory from a
heart overflowing with a strong affection for the man of her choice.
Jacky had come here to talk of other matters, and she knew that when
"Aunt" Margaret liked she could be very shrewd and practical.

Something in the half-wistful smile of her companion brought the old
lady quickly back from the realms of recollection, and a pair of keen,
kindly eyes met the steady gray-black orbs of the girl.

"Ah, Jacky, my child, we of the frivolous sex are always being forced
into considering the mundane matters of everyday life here at Foss
River. What is it, dear? I can see by your face that you are worrying
over something."

The girl threw herself into an easy chair, drawn up to the glowing stove
with careful forethought by the old lady. Mrs. Abbot reseated herself in
the straight-backed chair she usually affected. She carefully put her
book on one side and took up some darning, assiduously inserting the
needle but without further attempt at work. It was something to fix her
attention on whilst talking. Old Mrs. Abbot always liked to be able to
occupy her hands when talking seriously. And Jacky's face told her that
this was a moment for serious conversation.

"Where's the Doc?" the girl asked without preamble. She knew, of course,
but she used the question by way of making a beginning.

The old lady imperceptibly straightened her back. She now anticipated
the reason of her companion's coming. She glanced over the top of a pair
of gold _pince-nez_, which she had just settled comfortably upon the
bridge of her pretty, broad nose.

"He's down at the saloon playing poker. Why, dear?"

Her question was so innocent, but Jacky was not for a moment deceived by
its tone. The girl smiled plaintively into the fire. There was no
necessity for her to disguise her feelings before "Aunt" Margaret, she
knew. But her loyal nature shrank from flaunting her uncle's weaknesses
before even this kindly soul. She kept her fencing attitude a little
longer, however.

"Who is he playing with?" Jacky raised a pair of inquiring gray eyes to
her companion's face.

"Your uncle and--Lablache."

The shrewd old eyes watched the girl's face keenly. But Jacky gave no
sign.

"Will you send for him, 'Aunt' Margaret?" said the girl, quietly.
"Without letting him know that I am here," she added, as an
afterthought.

"Certainly, dear," the old lady replied, rising with alacrity. "Just
wait a moment while I send word. Keewis hasn't gone to his teepee yet. I
set him to clean some knives just now. He can go. These Indians are
better messengers than they are domestics." Mrs. Abbot bustled out of
the room.

She returned a moment later, and, drawing her chair beside that of the
girl, seated herself and rested one soft white hand on those of her
companion, which were reposing clasped in the lap of her dungaree skirt.

"Now, tell me, dear--tell me all about it--I know, it is your uncle."

The sympathy of her tone could never have been conveyed in mere words.
This woman's heart expressed its kindliness in voice and eyes. There was
no resisting her, and Jacky made no effort to do so.

For one instant there flashed into the girl's face a look of utter
distress. She had come purposely to talk plainly to the woman whom she
had lovingly dubbed "Aunt Margaret," but she found it very hard when it
came to the point, She cast about in her mind for a beginning, then
abandoned the quest and blurted out lamely the very thing from which she
most shrank.

"Say, auntie, you've observed uncle lately--I mean how strange he is?
You've noticed how often, now, he is--is not himself?"

"Whisky," said the old lady, uncompromisingly. "Yes, dear, I have. It is
quite the usual thing to smell' old man Smith's vile liquor when John
Allandale is about. I'm glad you've spoken. I did not like to say
anything to you about it. John's on a bad trail."

"Yes, and a trail with a long, downhill gradient," replied Jacky, with a
rueful little smile. "Say, aunt," she went on, springing suddenly to her
feet and confronting the old lady's mildly-astonished gaze, "isn't there
anything we can do to stop him? What is it? This poker and whisky are
ruining him body and soul. Is the whisky the result of his losses? Or is
the madness for a gamble the result of the liquor?"

"Neither the one--nor the other, my dear. It is--Lablache."

The older woman bent over her darning, and the needle passed, rippling,
round a "potato" in the sock which was in her lap. Her eyes were
studiously fixed upon the work.

"Lablache--Lablache! It is always Lablache, whichever way I turn.
Gee--but the whole country reeks of him. I tell you right here, aunt,
that man's worse than scurvy in our ranching world. Everybody and
everything in Foss River seems to be in his grip."

"Excepting a certain young woman who refuses to be ensnared."

The words were spoken quite casually. But Jacky started. Their meaning
was driven straight home. She looked down upon the bent, gray head as if
trying to penetrate to the thought that was passing within. There was a
moment's impressive silence. The clock ticked loudly in the silence of
the room. A light wind was whistling rather shrilly outside, round the
angles of the house.

"Go on, auntie," said the girl, slowly. "You haven't said enough--yet. I
guess you're thinking mighty--deeply."

Mrs. Abbot looked up from her work. She was smiling, but behind that
smile there was a strange gravity in the expression of her eyes.

"There is nothing more to say at present." Then she added, in a tone
from which all seriousness had vanished, "Hasn't Lablache ever asked you
to marry him?"

A light was beginning to dawn upon the girl.

"Yes--why?"

"I thought so." It was now Mrs. Abbot's turn to rise and confront her
companion. And she did so with the calm manner of one who is assured
that what she is about to say cannot be refuted. Her kindly face had
lost nothing of its sweet expression, only there was something in it
which seemed to be asking a mute question, whilst her words conveyed the
statement of a case as she knew it. "You dear, foolish people. Can you
not see what is going on before your very eyes, or must a stupid old
woman like myself explain what is patent to the veriest fool in the
settlement? Lablache is the source of your uncle's trouble, and,
incidentally, you are the incentive. I have watched--I have little else
to do in Foss River--you all for years past, and there is little that I
could not tell you about any of you, as far as the world sees you.
Lablache has been a source of a world of thought to me. The business
side of him is patent to everybody. He is hard, flinty, tyrannical--even
unscrupulous. I am telling you nothing new, I know. But there is another
side to his character which some of you seem to ignore. He is capable of
strong passions--ay, very strong passions. He has conceived a passion
for you. I will call it by no other name in such an unholy brute as
Lablache. He wishes to marry _you--he means to marry you_."

The silver-haired old lady had worked herself up to an unusual
vehemence. She paused after accentuating her last words. Jacky, taking
advantage of the break, dropped in a question.

"But--how does this affect my uncle?"

"Aunt" Margaret sniffed disdainfully and resettled the glasses which, in
the agitation of the moment, had slipped from her nose.

"Of course it affects your uncle," she continued more quietly. "Now
listen and I will explain." Once more these two seated themselves and
"Aunt" Margaret again plunged into her story.

"Sometimes I catch myself speculating as to how it comes about that you
have inspired this passion in such a man as Lablache," she began,
glancing into the somberly beautiful face beside her. "I should have
expected that mass of flesh and money--he always reminds me of a
jelly-fish, my dear--ugh!--to have wished to take to himself one of your
gaudy butterflies from New York or London for a wife; not a simple child
of the prairie who is more than half a wild--wild savage." She smiled
lovingly into the girl's face. "You see these coarse money-grubbers
always prefer their pills well gilded, and, as a rule, their matrimonial
pills need a lot of gilding to bring them up to the standard of what
they think a wife should be. However, it was not long before it became
plain to me that he wished to marry you. He may be a master of finance;
he may disguise his feelings--if he has any--in business, so that the
shrewdest observer can discover no vulnerable point in his armor of
dissimulation. But when it comes to matters pertaining
to--to--love--quite the wrong word in his case, my dear--these men are
as babes; worse, they are fools. When Lablache makes up his mind to a
purpose he generally accomplishes his end--"

"In business," suggested Jacky, moodily.

"Just so--in business, my dear. In matters matrimonial it may be
different. But I doubt his failure in that," went on Mrs. Abbot, with a
decided snap of her expressive mouth. "He will try by fair means or
foul, and, if I know anything of him, he will never relinquish his
purpose. He asked you to marry him--and of course you refused, quite
natural and right. He will not risk another refusal from you--these
people consider themselves very sensitive, my dear--so he will attempt
to accomplish his end by other means--means much more congenial to him,
the--the beast. There now, I've said it, my dear. The doctor tells me
that he is quite the most skilful player at poker that he has ever come
across."

"I guess that's so," said the girl, with a dark, ironical smile.

"And that his luck is phenomenal," the old lady went on, without
appearing to notice the interruption. "Very well. Your uncle, the old
fool--excuse me, my dear--has done nothing but gamble all his life. The
doctor says that he believes John has never been known to win more than
about once in a month's play, no matter with whom he plays. You know--we
all know--that for years he has been in the habit of raising loans from
this monumental cuttle-fish to settle his losses. And you can trust that
individual to see that these loans are well secured. John Allandale is
reputed very rich, but the doctor assures me that were Lablache to
foreclose his mortgages a very, very big slice of your uncle's worldly
goods would be taken to meet his debts.

"Now comes the last stage of the affair," she went on, with a sage
little shake of the head. "How long ago is it since Lablache proposed to
you? But there, you need not tell me. It was a little less than a year
ago--wasn't it?"

Her companion nodded her head. She wondered how "Aunt" Margaret had
guessed it. She had never told a soul herself. The shrewd little old
lady was filling her with wonder. The careful manner in which she had
pieced facts together and argued them out with herself revealed to her
a cleverness and observation she would never, in spite of the kindly
soul's counsels, have given her credit for.

"Yes, I knew I was right," said Mrs. Abbot, complacently. "Just about
the time when Lablache began seriously to play poker--about the time
when his phenomenal luck set in, to the detriment of your uncle. Yes, I
am well posted," as the girl raised her eyebrows in surprise. "The
doctor tells me a great deal--especially about your uncle, dear. I
always like to know what is going on. And now to bring my long
explanation to an end. Don't you see how Lablache intends to marry you?
Your uncle's losses this winter have been so terribly heavy--and all to
Lablache. Lablache holds the whip hand of him. A request from Lablache
becomes a command--or the crash."

"But how about the Doc," asked Jacky, quickly. "He plays with
them--mostly?"

Mrs. Abbot shrugged her shoulders.

"The doctor can take care of himself. He's cautious, and
besides--Lablache has no wish to win his money."

"But surely he must lose? Say, auntie, dear, it's not possible to play
against Lablache's luck without losing--some."

"Well, dear, I can't say I know much of the game," with some perplexity,
"but the doctor assures me that Lablache never hits him hard. Often and
often when the 'pot' rests between them Lablache will throw down his
hand--which goes to show that he does not want to take his money."

"An' I reckon goes to show that he's bucking dead against Uncle John,
only. Yes, I see."

The little gray head again bent over the darning, which had lain almost
untouched in her lap during her long recital. Now she resolutely drew
the darning yarn through the soft wool of the sock and re-inserted the
needle. The girl beside her bent an eager face before her, and, resting
her chin upon her hands, propped her elbows on her knees.

"Yes, auntie, I know," Jacky went on thoughtfully. "Lablache means to
put this marriage with me right through. I see it all. But say,"
bringing one of her brown hands down forcibly upon that of her
companion, which was concealed in the foot of the woolen sock, and
gripping it with nervous strength, "I guess he's reckoned without his
bride. I'm not going to marry Lablache, auntie, dear, and you can bet
your bottom dollar I'm not going to let him ruin uncle. All I want to do
is to stop uncle drinking. That is what scares me most."

"My child, Lablache is the cause of that. The same as he is the cause of
all troubles in Foss River. Your uncle realizes the consequences of the
terrible losses he has incurred. He knows, only too well, that he is
utterly in the money-lender's power. He knows he must go on playing,
vainly endeavoring to recover himself, and with each fresh loss he
drinks deeper to smother his fears and conscience. It is the result of
the weakness of his nature--a weakness which I have always known would
sooner or later lead to his undoing. Jacky, girl, I fear you will one
day have to marry Lablache or your uncle's ruin will be certainly
accomplished."

Mrs. Abbot's face was very serious now. She pitied from the bottom of
her heart this motherless girl who had come to her, in spite of her
courage and almost mannish independence, for that sympathy and advice
which, at certain moments, the strongest woman cannot do without. She
knew that all she had said was right, and even if her story could do no
material good it would at least have the effect of putting the girl on
her guard. In spite of her shrewdness Mrs. Abbot could never quite
fathom her _protégée_. And even now, as she gazed into the girl's face,
she was wondering how--in what manner--the narration of her own
observations would influence the other's future actions. The thick blood
of the half-breed slowly rose into Jacky's face, until the dark skin was
suffused with a heavy, passionate flush. Slowly, too, the somber eyes
lit--glowed--until the dazzling fire of anger shone in their depths.
Then she spoke; not passionately, but with a hard, cruel delivery which
sent a shiver thrilling through her companion's body and left her
shuddering.

"'Aunt' Margaret, I swear by all that's holy that I'll never marry that
scum. Say, I'd rather follow a round-up camp and share a greaser's
blankets than wear all the diamonds Lablache could buy. An' as for
uncle; say, the day that sees him ruined'll see Lablache's filthy brains
spoiling God's pure air."

"Child, child," replied the old lady, in alarm, "don't take oaths, the
rashness--the folly of which you cannot comprehend. For goodness' sake
don't entertain such wicked thoughts. Lablache is a villain, but--"

She broke off and turned towards the door, which, at that moment, opened
to admit the genial doctor.

"Ah," she went on, with a sudden change of manner back to that of her
usual cheerful self, "I thought you men were going to make a night of
it. Jacky came to share my solitude."

"Good evening, Jacky," said the doctor. "Yes, we were going to make a
night of it, Margaret. Your summons broke up the party, and for John's
sake--" He checked himself, and glanced curiously at the recurrent form
of the girl, who was now lounging back in her chair gazing into the
stove. "What did you want me for?"

Jacky rose abruptly from her seat and picked up her hat.

"'Aunt' Margaret didn't really want you, Doc. It was I who asked her to
send for you. I want to see uncle."

"Ah!"

The doctor permitted himself the ejaculation.

"Good-night, you two dear people," the girl went on, with a forced
attempt at cheerfulness. "I guess uncle'll be home by now, so I'll be
off."

"Yes, he left the saloon with me," said Doctor Abbot, shaking hands and
walking towards the door. "You'll just about catch him."

The girl kissed the old lady and passed out. The doctor stood for a
moment on his doorstep gazing after her.

"Poor child--poor child!" he murmured. "Yes, she'll find him--I saw him
home myself," And he broke off with an expressive shrug.




CHAPTER XI

THE CAMPAIGN OPENS


The summit of a hill, however insignificant its altitude, is always an
inspiring vantage point from which to survey the surrounding world.
There is a briskness of atmosphere on a hilltop which is inspiriting to
the most jaded of faculties; there is a sparkling vitality in the breath
of the morning air which must ever make life a joy and the world seem an
inexpressible delight in which it is the acme of happiness to dwell.

The exigencies of prairie life demand the habit of early rising, and
more often does the tiny human atom, which claims for its home the vast
tracts of natural pasture, gaze upon the sloth of the orb of day than
does that glorious sphere smile down upon a sleeping world.

Far as the eye can reach stretch the mighty wastes of waving grass--the
undulating plains of ravishing verdure. What breadth of thought must
thus be inspired in one who gazes out across the boundless expanse at
the glories of a perfect sunrise? How insignificant becomes the petty
affairs of man when gazing upon the majesty of God's handiwork. How
utterly inconceivable becomes the association of evil with such
transcendently beautiful creation? Surely no evil was intended to lurk
in the shadow of so much simple splendor.

And yet does the ghastly specter of crime haunt the perfect plains, the
majestic valleys, the noiseless, inspiring pine woods, the glistening,
snow-capped hills. And so it must remain as long as the battle of life
continues undecided--so long as the struggle for existence endures.

The Hon. Bunning-Ford rose while yet the daylight was struggling to
overcome the shades of night. He stood upon the tiny veranda which
fronted his minute house, smoking his early morning cigarette. He was
waiting for his coffee--that stimulating beverage which few who have
lived in the wilds of the West can do without--and idly luxuriating in
the wondrous charm of scene which was spread out before him. "Lord" Bill
was not a man of great poetic mind, but he appreciated his adopted
country--"God's country," as he was wont to call it--as can only those
who have lived in it. The prairie had become part of his very existence,
and he loved to contemplate the varying lights and colors which moved
athwart the fresh spring-clad plains as the sun rose above the eastern
horizon.

The air was chill, but withal invigorating, as he watched the steely
blue of the daylit sky slowly give place to the rosy tint of sunrise.
Slowly at first--then faster--great waves of golden light seemed to leap
from the top of one green rising ground to another; the gray white of
the snowy western mountains passed from one dead shade to another,
until, at last, they gleamed like alabaster from afar with a diamond
brilliancy almost painful to the eye. Thus the sun rose like some mighty
caldron of fire mounting into the cloudless azure of a perfect sky,
showering unctuous rays of light and heat upon the chilled life that was
of its own creating.

Bill was still lost in thought, gazing out upon the perfect scene from
the vantage point of the hill upon which his "shack" stood, when round
the corner of the house came a half-breed, bearing a large tin pannikin
of steaming coffee. He took the pannikin from the man and propped
himself against a post which helped to support the roof of the veranda.

"Are the boys out yet?" he asked the waiting Breed, and nodding towards
the corrals, which reposed at the foot of the hill and were overlooked
by the house.

"I guess," the fellow replied laconically. Then, as an afterthought,
"They're getting breakfast, anyhow."

"Say, when they've finished their grub you can tell 'em to turn to and
lime out the sheds. I'm going in to the settlement to-day. If I'm not
back to-night let them go right on with the job to-morrow."

The man signified his understanding of the instructions with a grunt.
This cook of "Lord" Bill's was not a man of words. His vocation had
induced an irascibility of temper which took the form of silence. His
was an incipient misanthropy.

Bill returned the empty pannikin and strolled down towards the corrals
and sheds. The great barn lay well away from where the cattle
congregated. This ranch was very different from that of the Allandales
of Foss River. It was some miles away from the settlement. Its
surroundings were far more open. Timber backed the house, it is true,
but in front was the broad expanse of the open plains. It was an
excellent position, and, governed by a thrifty hand, would undoubtedly
have thrived and ultimately vied with the more elaborate establishment
over which Jacky held sway. As it was, however, Bill cared little for
prosperity and money-making, and though he did not neglect his property
he did not attempt to extend its present limits.

The milch cows were slowly mouching from the corrals as he neared the
sheds. A diminutive herder was urging them along with shrill, piping
shrieks--vicious but ineffective. Far more to the purpose were the
efforts to a well-trained, bob-tailed sheep dog who was awaking echoes
on the brisk morning air with the full-toned note of his bark.

"Lord" Bill found one or two hands quietly enjoying their
after-breakfast smoke, but the majority had not as yet left the kitchen.
Outside the barn two men were busily soft-soaping their saddles and
bridles, whilst a third, seated on an upturned box, was wiping out his
revolver with a coal-oil rag. Bill passed them by with a nod and
greeting, and went into the stable. The horses were feeding, but as yet
the stalls had not been cleaned out. He returned and gave some
instructions to one of the men. Then he walked slowly back to the house.
Usually he would have stayed down there to see the work of the day
carried out; now, however, he was preoccupied. On this particular
morning he took but little interest in the place; he knew only too well
how soon it must pass from his possession.

Half-way up the hill he paused and turned his sleepy eyes towards the
south. At a considerable distance a vehicle was approaching at a
spanking pace. It was a buckboard, one of those sturdy conveyances built
especially for light prairie transport. As yet it was not sufficiently
near for him to distinguish its occupant, but the speed and cut of the
horses seemed familiar to him. He continued on towards the house, and
seated himself leisurely on the veranda, and, rolling himself a

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