The Story of the Foss River Ranch Part 47

There was a faint rustling of gra.s.s near by. Jacky's keen ears had detected the stealing sound at once. To others it might have pa.s.sed for the effect of the night breeze.

They listened for a few seconds longer, then Bill turned to the girl.

"Come--the horses are safe. The boys will not show themselves. I fancy they are here to watch only--me."

They continued on towards the shed. They were both wrapt in silent thought. Neither was prepared for what was to come. They were still nearly a quarter of a mile from the building. Its outline was dimly discernible in the darkness. And, too, now the light from the oil lamp could be seen dimly shining through the red bandanna which was stretched over the window.

Now the sound of "Poker" John's voice raised in anger reached them. They stood still with one accord. It was astonishing how the voice traveled all that distance. He must be shouting. A sudden fear gripped their hearts. Bill was the first to move. With a whispered "Wait here," he ran forward. For an instant Jacky waited, then, on a sudden impulse, she followed her lover.

The girl had just started. Suddenly the sharp report of firearms split the air. She came up with Bill, who had paused at the sound.

"Hustle, Bill. It's murder," the girl panted.

"Yes," and he ran forward with set face and gleaming eyes.

Murder--and who was the victim? Bill wondered, and his heart misgave him. There was no longer any sound of voices. The rancher had been silenced. He thought of the girl behind him. Then his whole mind suddenly centered itself upon Lablache. If he had killed the rancher no mercy should be shown to him.

Bill was rapidly nearing the building, and it was wrapped in an ominous silence.

For a second he again came to a stand. He wanted to make sure. He could hear Jacky's speeding footfalls from behind. And he could hear the stealthy movements of those others. These were the only sounds that reached him. He-went on again. He came to the building. The window was directly in front of him. He tried to look into the room but the handkerchief effectually hid the interior. Suddenly the light went out.

He knew what this meant. Turning away from the window he crept towards the door. Jacky had come up. He motioned her into the shadow. Then he waited.

The door opened and a great figure came out. It was Lablache. Even in the darkness Bill recognized him. His heavy, asthmatical breathing must have betrayed the money-lender if there had been no other means of identification.

Lablache stepped out on to the prairie utterly unconscious of the figures crouching in the darkness. He stepped heavily forward. Four steps--that was all. A silent spring--an iron grip round the money-lender's throat, from behind. A short, sharp struggle--a great gasping for breath. Then Lablache reeled backwards and fell to the ground with Bill hanging to his throat like some tiger. In the fall the money-lender's pistol went off. There was a sharp report, and the bullet tore up the ground. But no harm was done. Bill held on. Then came the swish of a skirt. Jacky was at her lover's side. She dragged the money-lender's pistol from his pocket. Then Bill let go his hold and stood panting over the prostrate man. The whole thing was done in silence. No word was spoken.

Lablache sucked in a deep whistling breath. His eyes rolled and he struggled into a sitting posture. He was gazing into the muzzle of Bill's pistol.

"Get up!" The stern voice was unlike Bill's, but there was nothing of the tw.a.n.g of Retief about it.

The money-lender stared, but did not move--neither did he speak. Jacky had darted into the hut. She had gone to light the lamp and learn the truth.

"Get up!" The chilling command forced the money-lender to rise. He saw before him the tall, thin figure of his a.s.sailant.

"Retief!" he gasped, and then stood speechless.

Now the re-lighted lamp glowed through the doorway. Bill pointed towards the door.

"Go inside!" The relentless pistol was at Lablache's head.

"No--no! Not inside." The words whistled on a gasping breath.

"Go inside!"

Cowed and fearful, Lablache obeyed the mandate.

Bill followed the money-lender into the miserable room. His keen eyes took in the scene in one swift glance. He saw Jacky kneeling beside the prostrate form of her uncle. She was not weeping. Her beautiful face was stonily calm. She was just looking down at that still form, that drawn gray face, the staring eyes and dropped jaw. Bill saw and understood.

Lablache might expect no mercy.

The murderer himself was now looking in the direction of--but not at--the body of his victim. He was gazing with eyes which expressed horrified amazement at the sight of the crouching figure of Jacky Allandale. He was trying to fathom the meaning of her a.s.sociation with Retief.

Bill closed the door. Now he came forward towards the table, always keeping Lablache in front of him.

"Is he dead?" Bill's voice was solemn.

Jacky looked up. There was a look as of stone in her somber eyes.

"He is dead--dead."

"Ah! For the moment we will leave the dead. Come, let us deal with the living. It is time for a final reckoning."

There was a deadly chill in the tone of Bill's voice--a chill which was infinitely more dreadful to Lablache's ears than could any pa.s.sionate outburst have been.

The door opened gently. No one noticed it, so absorbed were they in the ghastly matter before them. Wider the door swung and several dusky faces appeared in the opening.

The money-lender stood motionless. His gaze ignored the dead. He watched the living. He wondered what "Lord" Bill's preamble portended. He shook himself like one rousing from some dreadful nightmare. He summoned his courage and tried to face the consequences of his act with an outward calm. Struggle as he might a deadly fear was ever present.

It was not the actual fear of death--it was the moral dread of something intangible. He feared at that moment not that which was to come. It was the presence of the dusky-visaged raider and--the girl. He feared mostly the icy look on Jacky's face. However, his mind was quite clear. He was watching for a loophole of escape. And he lost no detail of the scene before him.

A matter which puzzled him greatly was the familiar voice of the raider.

Retief, as he knew him, spoke with a p.r.o.nounced accent, but now he only heard the ordinary tones of an Englishman.

Bill had purposely abandoned his exaggerated Western drawl. Now he removed the scarf from his neck and proceeded to wipe the yellow grease from his face and neck. Lablache, with dismay in his heart, saw the white skin which had been concealed beneath the paint. The truth flashed upon him instantly. And before Bill had had time to remove his wig his name had pa.s.sed the money-lender's lips.

"Bunning-Ford?" he gasped. And in that expression was a world of moral fear.

"Yes, Bunning-Ford, come to settle his last reckoning with you."

Bill eyed the murderer steadily and Lablache felt his last grip on his courage relax. A terrible fear crept upon him as his courage ebbed.

Slowly Bill turned his eyes in the direction of the still kneeling Jacky. The girl's eyes met his, and, in response to some mute understanding which pa.s.sed between them, she rose to her feet.

Bill did not speak. He merely looked at his pistol. Jacky spoke as if answering some remark of his.

"Yes, this is my affair."

Then she turned upon the money-lender. There was no wrath in her face, no anger in her tones; only that horrid, stony purpose which Lablache dreaded. He wished she would hurl invective at him. He felt that it would have been better so.

"The death which you have dealt to that poor old man is too good for you--murderer," she said, her deep, somber eyes seeming to pa.s.s through and through the mountain of flesh she was addressing. "I take small comfort in the thought that he had no time to suffer bodily pain. You will suffer--later." Bill gazed at her wonderingly. "Liar!--cheat!--you pollute the earth. You thought to cozen that poor, harmless old man out of his property--out of me. You thought to ruin him as you have ruined others. Your efforts will avail you nothing. From the moment Bill discovered the use of your memorandum pad"--Lablache started--"your fate was sealed. We swore to confiscate your property. For every dollar you took from us you should pay ten. But now the matter is different. There is a justice on the prairie--a rough, honest, uncorruptible justice. And that justice demands your life. You shall scourge Foss River no longer.

You have murdered. You shall die!--"

Jacky was about to go further with her inexorable denunciation when the door of the shed was flung wide, and eight Breeds, headed by Gautier and Baptiste, came in. They came in almost noiselessly, their moccasined feet giving out scarcely any sound upon the floor of the room.

"Lord" Bill turned, startled at the sudden apparition. Jacky hesitated.

Here was a contingency which none had reckoned upon. One glance at those dark, cruel faces warned all three that these prairie outcasts had been silent witnesses of everything that had taken place. It was a supreme moment, and the deadly pallor which had a.s.sumed a leadenish hue on Lablache's face told of one who appreciated the horror of that silent coming.

Baptiste stepped over to where Jacky stood. He looked at her, and then his gaze pa.s.sed to the dead man upon the floor. His beady, black eyes turned fiercely upon the cowering money-lender.

"Ow!" he grunted. And his tone was the fierce expression of an Indian roused to homicidal purpose.