The Story of the Foss River Ranch Part 44

For the rest of the day "Lord" Bill moved about the settlement in his customary idle fashion. He visited the saloon; he showed himself on the market-place. He discussed the doings of Retief with the butcher, the smith, Dr. Abbot. And, as the evening closed in and the sun's power lessened, he identified himself with others as idle as himself, and basked in the warmth of its feeble, dying rays.

When darkness closed in he went to his shack and prepared his evening meal with a simple directness which no thoughts of coming events could upset. Bill was always philosophical. He ate to live, and consequently was not particular about his food. He pa.s.sed the evening between thought and tobacco, and only an occasional flashing of his lazy eyes gave any sign of the trend of his mental effort.

At a few minutes past ten he went into his bedroom and carefully locked the door. Then he drew from beneath his bed a small chest; it was an ammunition chest of very powerful make. The small sliding lid was securely padlocked. This he opened and drew from within several articles of apparel and a small cardboard box.

Next he divested himself of his own tweed clothes and donned the things he had taken from the box. These consisted of a pair of moleskin trousers, a pair of chaps, a buckskin shirt and a battered Stetson hat.

From the cardboard box he took out a tin of greasy-looking stuff and a long black wig made of horse hair. Stepping to a gla.s.s he smeared his face with the grease, covering his own white flesh carefully right down to the chest and shoulders, also his hands. It was a brownish ocher and turned his skin to the copperish hue of the Indian. The wig was carefully adjusted and secured by sprigs to his own fair hair. This, with the hat well jammed down upon his head, completed the transformation, and out from the looking-gla.s.s peered the strong, eagle face of the redoubtable half-breed, Retief.

He then filled the chest with his own clothes and relocked it. Suddenly his quick ear caught the sound of some one approaching. He looked at his watch; it wanted two minutes to half-past ten. He waited.

Presently he heard the rattle of a stick down the featheredged boarding of the outer walls of the hut. He picked up his revolver belt and secured it about his waist, and then, putting out the light, unlocked the back door which opened out of his bedroom.

A horse was standing outside, and a man held the bridle reins looped upon his arm.

"That you, Baptiste?"

"Yup."

"Good, you are punctual."

"It's as well."

"Yes."

"I go to join the boys," the half-breed said slowly. "And you?"

"I--oh, I go to settle a last account with Lablache," replied Bill, with a mirthless laugh.

"Where?"

Bill looked sharply at the man. He understood the native distrust of the Breed. Then he nodded vaguely in the direction of the Foss River Ranch.

"Yonder. In old John's fifty-acre pasture. Lablache and John meet at the tool-shed there to-night. Why?"

"And you go not to the fire?" Baptiste's voice had a surprised ring in it.

"Not until later. I must be at the meeting soon after eleven."

The half-breed was silent for a minute. He seemed to be calculating. At length he spoke. His words conveyed resolve.

"It is good. Guess you may need a.s.sistance. I'll be there--and some of the boys. We ain't goin' ter interfere--if things goes smooth."

Bill shrugged.

"You need not come."

"No? Nuthin' more?"

"Nothing. Keep the boys steady. Don't burn the clerks in the store."

"No."

"S'long."

"S'long."

"Lord" Bill vaulted into the saddle, and Golden Eagle moved restively away.

It was as well that Foss River was a sleepy place. "Lord" Bill's precautions were not elaborate. But then he knew the ways of the settlement.

Dr. Abbot chanced to be standing in the doorway of the saloon. Bill's shack was little more than a hundred yards away. The doctor was about to step across to see if he were in, for the purpose of luring his friend into a game. Poker was not so plentiful with the doctor now since Bill had dropped out of Lablache's set.

He saw the dim outline of a horseman moving away from the back of "Lord"

Bill's hut. His curiosity was aroused. He hastened across to the shack.

He found it locked up, and in darkness. He turned away wondering. And as he turned away he found himself almost face to face with Baptiste. The doctor knew the man.

"Evening, Baptiste."

"Evening," the man growled.

The doctor was about to speak again but the man hurried away.

"d.a.m.ned funny," the medical man muttered. Then he moved off towards his own home. Somehow he had forgotten his wish for poker.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE LAST GAMBLE

The fifty-acre pasture was situated nearly a quarter of a mile away to the left of John Allandale's house. Then, too, the whole length of it must be crossed before the implement shed be reached. This would add another half a mile to the distance, for the field was long and narrow, skirting as it did the hay slough which provided the ranch with hay. The pasture was on the sloping side of the slough, and on the top of the ridge stretched a natural fence of pines nearly two miles in extent.

The shed was erected for the accommodation of mowers, horse-rakes, and the necessary appurtenances for haying. At one end, as Lablache had said, was a living-room. It was called so by courtesy. It was little better than the rest of the building, except that there was a crazy door to it--also a window; a rusty iron stove, small, and--when a fire burned in it--fierce, was crowded into a corner. Now, however, the stove was dismantled, and lengths of stove pipe were littered about the floor around it. A rough bed, supported on trestles, and innocent of bedding, filled one end of this abode; a table made of packing cases, and two chairs of the Windsor type, one fairly sound and the other minus a back, completed the total of rude furniture necessary for a "hired man's"

requirements.

A living-room, the money-lender had said, therefore we must accept his statement.

A reddish, yellow light from a dingy oil lamp glowed sullenly, and added to the cheerlessness of the apartment. At intervals black smoke belched from the chimney top of the lamp in response to the draughts which blew through the sieve-like boarding of the shed. One must feel sorry for the hired man whose lot is cast in such cheerless quarters.

It was past eleven. Lablache and John Allandale were seated at the table. The lurid light did not improve the expression of their faces.

"Poker" John was eager--keenly eager now that Jacky had urged him to the game. Moreover, he was sober--sober as the proverbial "judge." Also he was suspicious of his opponent. Jacky had warned him. He looked very old as he sat at that table. His senility appeared in every line of his face; in every movement of his shaking hands; in every glance of his bleared eyes.

Lablache, also, was changed slightly, but it was not in the direction of age; he showed signs of elation, triumph. He felt that he was about to accomplish the object which had long been his, and, at the same time, outwit the half-breed who had so lately come into his life, with such disastrous results to his, the money-lender's, peaceful enjoyment of his ill-gotten wealth.

Lablache turned his lashless eyes in the direction of the window. It was a square aperture of about two feet in extent.