The Story of the Foss River Ranch Part 11

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 pa.s.sed 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 acc.u.mulation 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 pa.s.sed over the burnished silver of the dealer's memorandum pad. It was smartly done, and Lablache was a.s.sisted 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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 gla.s.ses."

"Right you are." Then "Lord" Bill pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.e.x 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.