The Story of the Foss River Ranch Part 13

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 acc.u.mulation 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 const.i.tuted 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 pa.s.s 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 antic.i.p.ated 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 pa.s.sionate 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 G.o.d'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 pa.s.sed, 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, pa.s.sionate 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 coa.r.s.e 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 d.y.k.e 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 G.o.d'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 circ.u.mstances "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."