The Story of the Foss River Ranch Part 15

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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sertion. 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 ga.s.sing 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 antic.i.p.ated began to a.s.sume 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 s.p.a.ce 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 d.a.m.ned 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 a.s.sets. 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.