The Story of the Foss River Ranch Part 18

"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 a.s.sures 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 _protegee_. 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, pa.s.sionate flush. Slowly, too, the somber eyes lit--glowed--until the dazzling fire of anger shone in their depths.

Then she spoke; not pa.s.sionately, 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 sc.u.m. 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 G.o.d'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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n.

"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 pa.s.sed 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 alt.i.tude, 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 gra.s.s--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 G.o.d's handiwork. How utterly inconceivable becomes the a.s.sociation 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--"G.o.d'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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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 st.u.r.dy 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 another cigarette, calmly watched the on-coming conveyance.

It was the habit of this man never to be prodigal in the display of energy. He usually sat when there was no need for standing; he always considered speech to be golden, but silence, to his way of thinking, was priceless. And like most men of such opinion he cultivated thought and observation.