The Story of the Foss River Ranch Part 8

"How much?" she said at last, breaking the heavy silence which had followed upon her uncle's admission. Then before he could answer she went on deliberately: "But there--I guess it don't cut any figure.

Lablache shall be paid, and I take it his bill of interest won't amount to more than we can pay if we're put to it. Poor old Bill!"

CHAPTER V

THE "STRAY" BEYOND THE MUSKEG

The Foss River Settlement nestles in one of those shallow hollows--scarcely a valley and which yet must be designated by such a term--in which the Canadian North-West abounds.

We are speaking now of the wilder and less-inhabited parts of the great country, where grain-growing is only incidental, and the prevailing industry is stock-raising. Where the land gradually rises towards the maze-like foothills before the mighty crags of the Rockies themselves be reached. A part where yet is to be heard of the romantic crimes of the cattle-raiders; a part to where civilization has already turned its face, but where civilizaton has yet to mature. In such a country is situate the Foss River Settlement.

The settlement itself is like dozens of others of its kind. There is the school-house, standing by itself, apart from other buildings, as if in proud distinction for its cla.s.sic vocation. There is the church, or rather chapel, where every denomination holds its services. A saloon, where four per cent. beer and prohibition whiskey of the worst description is openly sold over the bar; where you can buy poker "chips"

to any amount, and can sit down and play from daylight till dark, from dark to daylight. A blacksmith and wheelwright; a baker; a carpenter; a doctor who is also a druggist; a store where one can buy every article of dry goods at exorbitant prices--and on credit; and then, besides all this, well beyond the township limit there is a half-breed settlement, a place which even to this day is a necessary evil and a constant thorn in the side of that smart, efficient force--the North-West Mounted Police.

Lablache's store stands in the center of the settlement, facing on to the market-place--the latter a vague, undefined s.p.a.ce of waste ground on which vendors of produce are wont to draw up their wagons. The store is a ma.s.sive building of great extent. Its proportions rise superior to its surroundings, as if to indicate in a measure its owner's worldly status in the district It is built entirely of stone, and roofed with slate--the only building of such construction in the settlement.

A wonderful center of business is Lablache's store--the chief one for a radius of fifty miles. Nearly the whole building is given up to the stocking of goods, and only at the back of the building is to be found a small office which answers the multifarious purposes of office, parlor, dining-room, smoking-room--in short, every necessity of its owner, except bedroom, which occupies a mere recess part.i.tioned off by thin matchwood boarding.

Wealthy as Lablache was known to be he spent little or no money upon himself beyond just sufficient to purchase the bare necessities of life.

He had few requirements which could not be satisfied under the headings of tobacco and food--both of which he indulged himself freely. The saloon provided the latter, and as for the former, trade price was best suited to his inclinations, and so he drew upon his stock. He was a curious man, was Verner Lablache--a man who understood the golden value of silence. He never even spoke of his nationality. Foss River was content to call him curious--some people preferred other words to express their opinion.

Lablache had known John Allandale for years. Who, in Foss River, had he not known for years? Lablache would have liked to call old John his friend, but somehow "Poker" John had never responded to the money-lender's advances. Lablache showed no resentment. If he cared at all he was careful to keep his feelings hidden. One thing is certain, however, he allowed himself to think long and often of old John--and his household. Often, when in the deepest stress of his far-reaching work, he would heave his great bulk back in his chair and allow those fishy, lashless, sphinx-like eyes of his to gaze out of his window in the direction of the Foss River Ranch. His window faced in the direction of John's house, which was plainly visible on the slope which bounded the southern side of the settlement.

And so it came about a few days later, in one of these digressions of thought, that the money-lender, gazing out towards the ranch, beheld a horseman riding slowly up to the veranda of the Allandale's house. There was nothing uncommon in the incident, but the sight riveted his attention, and an evil light came into his usually expressionless eyes.

He recognized the horseman as the Hon. Bunning-Ford.

Lablache swung round on his revolving chair, and, in doing so, kicked over a paper-basket. The rapidity of his movement was hardly to be expected in one of his bulk. His thin eyebrows drew together in an ugly frown.

"What does he want?" he muttered, under his heavy breath.

He hazarded no answer to his own question. It was answered for him. He saw the figure of a woman step out on to the veranda.

The money-lender rose swiftly to his feet and took a pair of field-gla.s.ses from their case. Adjusting them he gazed long and earnestly at the house on the hill.

Jacky was talking to "Lord" Bill. She was habited in her dungaree skirt and buckskin bodice. Presently Bill dismounted and pa.s.sed into the house.

Lablache shut his gla.s.ses with a snap and turned away from the window.

For some time he stood gazing straight before him and a swift torrent of thought flowed through his active brain. Then, with the directness of one whose mind is made up, he went over to a small safe which stood in a corner of the room. From this he took an account book. The cover bore the legend "Private." He laid it upon the table, and, for some moments, bent over it as he scanned its pages.

He paused at an account headed John Allandale. The figures of this account were very large, totalling into six figures. The balance against the rancher was enormous. Lablache gave a satisfied grunt as he turned over to another account.

"Safe--safe enough. Safe as the Day of Doom," he said slowly. His mouth worked with a cruel smile.

He paused at the account of Bunning-Ford.

"Twenty thousand dollars--um," the look of satisfaction was changed. He looked less pleased, but none the less cruel. "Not enough--let me see.

His place is worth fifty thousand dollars. Stock another thirty thousand. I hold thirty-five thousand on first mortgage for the Calford Trust and Loan Co." He smiled significantly. "This bill of sale for twenty thousand is in my own name. Total, fifty-five thousand. Sell him up and there would still be a margin. No, not yet, my friend."

He closed the book and put it away. Then he walked to the window.

Bunning-Ford's horse was still standing outside the house.

"He must be dealt with soon," he muttered.

And in those words was concentrated a world of hate and cruel purpose.

Who shall say of what a man's disposition is composed? Who shall penetrate those complex feelings which go to make a man what his secret consciousness knows himself to be? Not even the man himself can tell the why and wherefore of his pa.s.sions and motives. It is a matter beyond the human ken. It is a matter which neither science nor learning can tell us of. Verner Lablache was possessed of all that prosperity could give him.

He was wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, and no pleasure which money could buy was beyond his reach. He knew, only too well, that when the moment came, and he wished it, he could set out for any of the great centers of fashion and society, and there purchase for himself a wife who would fulfill the requirements of the most fastidious. In his own arrogant mind he went further, and protested that he could choose whom he would and she would be his. But this method he set aside as too simple, and, instead, had decided to select for his wife a girl whom he had watched grow up to womanhood from the first day that she had opened her great, wondering eyes upon the world. And thus far he had been thwarted. All his wealth went for nothing. The whim of this girl he had chosen was more powerful in this matter than was gold--the gold he loved. But Lablache was not the man to sit down and admit of defeat; he meant to marry Joaquina Allandale w.i.l.l.y-nilly. Love was impossible to such a man as he. He had conceived an absorbing pa.s.sion for her, it is true, but love--as it is generally understood--no. He was not a young man--the victim of a pa.s.sion, fierce but transient. He was matured in all respects--in mind and body. His pa.s.sion was lasting, if impure, and he meant to take to himself the girl-wife. Nothing should stand in his way.

He turned back to his desk, but not to work.

In the meantime the object of his forcible attentions was holding an interesting _tete-a-tete_ with the man against whom he fostered an evil purpose.

Jacky was seated at a table in the pleasant sitting-room of her uncle's house. Spread out before her were several open stock books, from which she was endeavoring to estimate the probable number of "beeves" which the early spring would produce. This was a task which she always liked to do herself before the round-up was complete, so as the easier to sort the animals into their various pastures when they should come in. Her visitor was standing with his back to the stove, in typical Canadian fashion. He was, clad in a pair of well-worn chaps drawn over a pair of moleskin trousers, and wore a gray tweed coat and waistcoat over a soft cotton shirt, of the "collar attached" type. As he stood there the stoop of his shoulders was very p.r.o.nounced. His fair hair was carefully brushed, and although his face was slightly weather-stained, still, it was quite easy to imagine the distinguished figure he would be, clad in all the solemn pomp of broadcloth and the silk glaze of fashionable society in the neighborhood of Bond Street.

The girl was not looking at her books. She was looking up and smiling at a remark her companion had just made.

"And so your friend, Pat Nabob, is going up into the mountains after gold. Does he know anything about prospecting?"

"I think so--he's had some experience."

Jacky became serious. She rose and turned to the window, which commanded a perfect view of the distant peaks of the Rockies, towering high above the broad, level expanse of the great muskeg. With her back still turned to him she fired an abrupt question.

"Say, Bill, guess 'Pickles' has some other reason for this mad scheme.

What is it? You can't tell me he's going just for love of the adventure of the thing. Now, let's hear the truth."

Un.o.bserved by the girl, her companion shrugged his shoulders.

"If you want his reason you'd better ask him, Jacky. I can only surmise."

"So can I." Jacky turned sharply. "I'll tell you why he's going, Bill, and you can bet your last cent I'm right. Lablache is at the bottom of it. He's at the bottom of everything that causes people to leave Foss River. He's a blood-sucker."

Bunning-Ford nodded. He was rarely expansive. Moreover, he knew he could add nothing to what the girl had said. She expressed his sentiments fully. There was a pause. Jacky was keenly eyeing the tall thin figure at the stove.

"Why did you come to tell me of this?" she asked at last.

"Thought you'd like to know. You like 'Pickles.'"

"Yes--Bill, you are thinking of going with him."

Her companion laughed uneasily. This girl was very keen.

"I didn't say so."

"No, but still you are thinking of doing so. See here, Bill, tell me all about it."