The Story of the Foss River Ranch Part 5

There was a moment's silence. "Poker" John had proposed the biggest game they had yet played. He would have suggested no limit, but this he knew would be all in favor of Lablache, whose resources were vast.

John glanced over from the money-lender to the doctor. The doctor and Bunning-Ford were the most to be considered. Their resources were very limited. The old man knew that the doctor was one of those careful players who was not likely to allow himself to suffer by the height of the stakes. There was no bluffing the doctor. "Lord" Bill was able to take care of himself.

"That's good enough for me," said Bunning-Ford. "Let it go at that."

Outwardly Lablache was indifferent; inwardly he experienced a sense of supreme satisfaction at the height of the stakes.

The four men relapsed into silence as they cut for the deal. It was an education in the game to observe each man as he, metaphorically speaking, donned his mask of impa.s.sive reserve. As the game progressed any one of those four men might have been a graven image as far as the expression of countenance went. No word was spoken beyond "Raise you so and so"--"See you that." So keen, so ardent was the game that the stake might have been one of life and death. No money pa.s.sed. Just slips of paper; and yet any one of those fragments represented a small fortune.

The first few hands resulted in but desultory betting. Sums of money changed hands but there was very little in it. Lablache was the princ.i.p.al loser. Three "pots" in succession were taken by John Allandale, but their aggregate did not amount to half the limit. A little luck fell to Bunning-Ford. He once raised Lablache to the limit.

The money-lender "saw" him and lost. Bill promptly scooped in three thousand dollars. The doctor was cautious. He had lost and won nothing.

Then a change came over the game. To use a card-player's expression, the cards were beginning to "run."

"Lord" Bill dealt. Lablache was upon his right and next to him the doctor.

The money-lender picked up his cards, and partially opening them glanced keenly at the index numerals. His stolid face remained unchanged. The doctor glanced at his and "came in." "Poker" John "came in." The dealer remained out. The doctor drew two cards; "Poker" John, one; Lablache drew one. The veteran rancher held four nines. "Lord" Bill gathered up the "deadwood," and, propping his face upon his hands, watched the betting.

It was the doctor's bet; he cautiously dropped out. He had an inkling of the way things were going. "Poker" John opened the ball with five hundred dollars. He had a good thing and he did not want to frighten his opponent by a plunge. He would leave it to Lablache to start raising.

The money-lender raised him one thousand. Old John sniffed with the appreciation of an old war-horse at the scent of battle. The nervous, twitching cheek remained unmoved. The old gambler in him rose uppermost.

He leisurely saw the thousand, and raised another five hundred. Lablache allowed his fishy eyes to flash in the direction of his opponent. A moment after he raised another thousand. The gamble was becoming interesting. The two onlookers were consumed with the l.u.s.t of play. They forgot that in the result they would not be partic.i.p.ants. Old John's face lost something of its impa.s.sivity as he in turn raised to the limit. Lablache eased his great body in his chair. His little mouth was very tightly clenched. His breathing, at times stertorous, was like the breathing of an asthmatical pig. He saw, and again raised to the limit.

There was now over twelve thousand dollars in the pool.

It was old John's turn. The doctor and "Lord" Bill waited anxiously. The old rancher was reputed very wealthy. They felt a.s.sured that he would not back down after having gone so far. In their hearts they both wished to see him relieve Lablache of a lot of money.

They need have had no fears. Whatever his faults "Poker" John was a "dead game sport." He dashed a slip of paper into the pool. The keen eyes watching read "four thousand dollars" scrawled upon it. He had again raised to the limit. It was now Lablache's turn to accept or refuse the challenge. The onlookers were not so sure of the money-lender. Would he accept or not?

A curious thought was in the mind of that monument of flesh. He knew for certain that he held the winning cards. How he knew it would be impossible to say. And yet he hesitated. Perhaps he knew the limits of John Allandale's resources, perhaps he felt, for the present, there was sufficient in the pool; perhaps, even, he had ulterior motives. Whatever the cause, as he pa.s.sed a slip of paper into the pool merely seeing his opponent, his face gave no outward sign of what was pa.s.sing in the brain behind it.

Old John laid down his hand.

"Four nines," he said quietly.

"Not good enough," retorted Lablache; "four kings." And he spread his cards out upon the table before him and swept up the pile of papers which represented his win.

A sigh, as of relief to pent-up feelings, escaped the two men who had watched the gamble. Old John said not a word and his face betrayed no thought or regret that might have been in his mind at the loss of such a large amount of money. He merely glanced over at the money-lender.

"Your deal, Lablache," he said quietly.

Lablache took the cards and a fresh deal went round. Now the game became one-sided. With that one large pull the money-lender's luck seemed to have set in. Seemingly he could do no wrong. If he drew to "three of a kind," he invariably filled; if to a "pair," he generally secured a third; once, indeed, he drew to jack, queen, king of a suit and completed a "royal flush." His luck was phenomenal. The other men's luck seemed "dead out." Bunning-Ford and the doctor could get no hands at all, and thus they were saved heavy losses. Occasionally, even, the doctor raked in a few "antes." But John Allandale could do nothing right. He was always drawing tolerable cards--just good enough to lose with. Until, by the time daylight came, he had lost so heavily that his two friends were eagerly seeking an excuse to break up the game.

At last "Lord" Bill effected this purpose, but at considerable loss to himself. He had a fairly good hand, but not, as he knew, sufficiently good to win with. Lablache and he were left in. The money-lender had in one plunge raised the bet to the "limit." Bill knew that he ought to drop out, but, instead of so doing, he saw his opponent. He lost the "pot."

"Thank you, gentlemen," he said, quietly rising from the table, "my losses are sufficient for one night. I have finished. It is daylight and the storm is 'letting up' somewhat."

He turned as he spoke, and, glancing at the staircase, saw Jacky standing at the top of it. How long she had been standing there he did not know. He felt certain, although she gave no sign, that she had heard what he had just said.

"Poker" John saw her too.

"Why, Jacky, what means this early rising?" said the old man kindly.

"Too tired last night to sleep?"

"No, uncle. Guess I slept all right. The wind's dropping fast. I take it it'll be blowing great guns again before long. This is our chance to make the ranch." She had been an observer of the finish of the game. She had heard Bill's remarks on his loss, and yet not by a single word did she betray her knowledge. Inwardly she railed at herself for having gone to bed. She wondered how it had fared with her uncle.

Bunning-Ford left the room. Somehow he felt that he must get away from the steady gaze of those gray eyes. He knew how Jacky dreaded, for her uncle's sake, the game they had just been playing. He wondered, as he went to test the weather, what she would have thought had she known the stakes, or the extent of her uncle's losses. He hoped she was not aware of these facts.

"You look tired, Uncle John," said the girl, solicitously, as she came down the stairs. She purposely ignored Lablache. "Have you had no sleep?"

"Poker" John laughed a little uneasily.

"Sleep, child? We old birds of the prairie can do with very little of that. It's only pretty faces that want sleep, and I'm thinking you ought still to be in your bed."

"Miss Jacky is ever on the alert to take advantage of the elements," put in Lablache, heavily. "She seems to understand these things better than any of us."

The girl was forced to notice the money-lender. She did so reluctantly, however.

"So you, too, sought shelter from the storm beneath old man Norton's hospitable roof. You are dead right, Mr. Lablache; we who live on the prairie need to be ever on the alert. One never knows what each hour may bring forth."

The girl was still in her ball-dress. Lablache's fishy eyes noticed her charming appearance. The strong, beautiful face sent a thrill of delight over him as he watched it--the delicate rounded shoulders made him suck in his heavy breath like one who antic.i.p.ates a delicate dish. Jacky turned from him in plainly-expressed disgust.

Her uncle was watching her with a gaze half uneasy and wholly tender.

She was the delight of his old age, the center of all his affections, this motherless child of his dead brother. His cheek twitched painfully as he thought of the huge amount of his losings to Lablache. He shivered perceptibly as he rose from his seat and went over to the cooking stove.

"I believe you people have let the stove out," the girl exclaimed, as she noted her uncle's movement. She had no intention of mentioning the game they had been playing. She feared to hear the facts. Instinct told her that her uncle had lost again. "Yes, I declare you have," as she knelt before the grate and raked away at the ashes.

Suddenly she turned to the money-lender.

"Here, you, fetch me some wood and coal-oil. Men can never be trusted."

Jacky was no respecter of persons. When she ordered there were few men on the prairie who would refuse to obey. Lablache heaved his great bulk from before the table and got on to his feet. His bilious eyes were struggling to smile. The effect was horrible. Then he moved across the room to where a stack of kindling stood.

"Hurry up. I guess if we depended much on you we'd freeze."

And Lablache, the hardest, most unscrupulous man for miles around, endeavored to obey with the alacrity of any sheep-dog.

In spite of himself John Allandale could not refrain from smiling at the grotesque picture the monumental Lablache made as he lumbered towards the stack of kindling.

When "Lord" Bill returned Lablache was bending over the stove beside the girl.

"I've thrown the harness on the horses--watered and fed 'em," he said, taking in the situation at a glance. "Say, Doc," turning to Abbot, "better rouse your good lady."

"She'll be down in a tick," said Jacky, over her shoulder. "Here, doctor, you might get a kettle of water--and Bill, see if you can find some bacon or stuff. And you, uncle, came and sit by the stove--you're cold."

Strange is the power and fascination of woman. A look--a glance--a simple word and we men hasten to minister to her requirements. Half an hour ago and all these men were playing for fortunes--dealing in thousands of dollars on the turn of a card, the pa.s.sion for besting his neighbor uppermost in each man's mind. Now they were humbly doing one girl's bidding with a zest unsurpa.s.sed by the devotion to their recent gamble.

She treated them indiscriminately. Old or young, there was no difference. Bunning-Ford she liked--Dr. Abbot she liked--Lablache she hated and despised, still she allotted them their tasks with perfect impartiality. Only her old uncle she treated differently. That dear, degenerate old man she loved with an affection which knew no bounds. He was her all in the world. Whatever his sins--whatever his faults, she loved him.