THE BLIZZARD: ITS CONSEQUENCES
On the whole, Canada can boast of one of the most perfect health-giving
climates in the world, despite the two extremes of heat and cold of
which it is composed. But even so, the Canadian climate is cursed by an
evil which every now and again breaks loose from the bonds which fetter
it, and rages from east to west, carrying death and destruction in its
wake. I speak of the terrible--the raging Blizzard!
To appreciate the panic-like haste with which the Foss River Settlement
party left the ballroom, one must have lived a winter in the west of
Canada. The reader who sits snugly by his or her fireside, and who has
never experienced a Canadian winter, can have no conception of one of
those dread storms, the very name of which had drawn words of terror
from one who had lived the greater part of her life in the eastern
shadow of the Rockies. Hers was no timid, womanly fear for ordinary
inclemency of weather, but a deep-rooted dread of a life-and-death
struggle in a merciless storm, than which, in no part of the world, can
there be found a more fearful. Whence it comes--and why, surely no one
may say. A meteorological expert may endeavor to account for it, but his
argument is unconvincing and gains no credence from the dweller on the
prairies. And why? Because the storm does not come from above--neither
does it come from a specified direction. And only in the winter does
such a wind blow. The wind buffets from every direction at once. No snow
falls from above and yet a blinding gray wall of snow, swept up from the
white-clothed ground, encompasses the dazed traveller. His arm
outstretched in daylight and he cannot see the tips of his heavy fur
mitts. Bitter cold, a hundred times intensified by the merciless force
of the wind, and he is lost and freezing--slowly freezing to death.
As the sleigh dashed through the outskirts of Calford, on its way to the
south, there was not much doubt in the minds of any of its occupants as
to the prospects of the storm. The gusty, patchy wind, the sudden sweeps
of hissing, cutting snow, as it slithered up in a gray dust in the
moonlight, and lashed, with stinging force, into their faces, was a sure
herald of the coming "blizzard."
Bunning-Ford and Jacky occupied the front seat of the sleigh. The former
was driving the spanking team of blacks of which old "Poker" John was
justly proud. The sleigh was open, as in Canada all such sleighs are.
Mrs. Abbot and the doctor sat in a seat with their backs to Jacky and
her companion, and old John Allandale faced the wind in the back seat,
alone. Thirty-five miles the horses had to cover before the storm
thoroughly established itself, and "Lord" Bill was not a slow driver.
The figures of the travellers were hardly distinguishable so enwrapped
were they in beaver caps, buffalo coats and robes. Jacky, as she sat
silently beside her companion, might have been taken for an inanimate
bundle of furs, so lost was she within the ample folds of her buffalo.
But for the occasional turn of her head, as she measured with her eyes
the rising of the storm, she gave no sign of life.
"Lord" Bill seemed indifferent. His eyes were fixed upon the road ahead
and his hands, encased in fur mitts, were on the "lines" with a
tenacious grip. The horses needed no urging. They were high-mettled and
cold. The gushing quiver of their nostrils, as they drank in the crisp,
night air, had a comforting sound for the occupants of the sleigh.
Weather permitting, those beautiful "blacks" would do the distance in
under three hours.
The sleigh bells jangled musically in response to the high steps of the
horses as they sped over the hard, snow-covered trail. They were
climbing the long slope which was to take them out of the valley
wherein was Calford situate. Presently Jack's face appeared from amidst
the folds of the muffler which kept her storm collar fast round her neck
and ears.
"It's gaining on us, Billy."
"Yes, I know."
He understood her remark. He knew she referred to the storm. His lips
were curiously pursed. A knack he had when stirred out of himself.
"We shan't do it."
The girl spoke with conviction.
"No."
"Guess we'd better hit the trail for Norton's. Soldier Joe'll be glad to
welcome us."
"Lord" Bill did not answer. He merely chirruped at the horses. The
willing beasts increased their pace and the sleigh sped along with that
intoxicating smoothness only to be felt when travelling with double
"bobs" on a perfect trail.
The gray wind of the approaching blizzard was becoming fiercer. The moon
was already enveloped in a dense haze. The snow was driving like fine
sand in the faces of the travellers.
"I think we'll give it an hour, Bill. After that I guess it'll be too
thick," pursued the girl. "What d'you think, can we make Norton's in
that time--it's a good sixteen miles?"
"I'll put 'em at it," was her companion's curt response.
Neither spoke for a minute. Then "Lord" Bill bent his head suddenly
forward. The night was getting blacker and it was with difficulty that
he could keep his eyes from blinking under the lash of the whipping
snow.
"What is it?" asked Jacky, ever on the alert with the instinct of the
prairie.
"Some one just ahead of us. The track is badly broken in places. Sit
tight, I'm going to touch 'em up."
He flicked the whip over the horses' backs, and, a moment later, the
sleigh was flying along at a dangerous pace. The horses had broken into
a gallop.
"Lord" Bill seemed to liven up under the influence of speed. The wind
was howling now, and conversation was impossible, except in short, jerky
sentences. They were on the high level of the prairie and were getting
the full benefit of the open sweep of country.
"Cold?" Bill almost shouted.
"No," came the quiet response.
"Straight, down-hill trail. I'm going to let 'em have their heads."
Both of these people knew every inch of the road they were travelling.
There was no fear in their hearts.
"Put 'em along, then."
The horses raced along. The deadly gray wind had obscured all light. The
lights of the sleigh alone showed the tracks. It was a wild night and
every moment it seemed to become worse. Suddenly the man spoke again.
"I wish we hadn't got the others with us, Jacky."
"Why?"
"Because I could put 'em along faster, as it is--" His sentence remained
unfinished, the sleigh bumped and lifted on to one runner. It was within
an ace of overturning. There was no need to finish his sentence.
"Yes, I understand, Bill. Don't take too many chances. Ease 'em
up--some. They're not as young as we are--not the horses. The others."
"Lord" Bill laughed. Jacky was so cool. The word fear was not in her
vocabulary. This sort of a journey was nothing new to her. She had
experienced it all before. Possibly, however, her total lack of fear was
due to her knowledge of the man who, to use her own way of expressing
things, "was at the business end of the lines." "Lord" Bill was at once
the finest and the most fearless teamster for miles around. Under the
cloak of indolent indifference he concealed a spirit of fearlessness and
even recklessness which few accredited to him.
For some time the two remained silent. The minutes sped rapidly and half
an hour passed. All about was pitch black now. The wind was tearing and
shrieking from every direction at once. The sleigh seemed to be the
center of its attack. The blinding clouds of snow, as they swept up from
the ground, were becoming denser and denser and offered a fierce
resistance to the racing horses. Another few minutes and the two people
on the front seat knew that progress would be impossible. As it was,
"Lord" Bill was driving more by instinct than by what he could see. The
trail was obscured, as were all landmarks. He could no longer see the
horses' heads.
"We've passed the school-house," said Jacky, at last.
"Yes, I know."
A strange knowledge or instinct is that of the prairie man or woman.
Neither had seen the school-house or anything to indicate it. And yet
they knew they had passed it.
"Half a mile to Trout Creek. Two miles to Norton's. Can you do it,
Bill?"
Quietly as the words were spoken, there was a world of meaning in the
question. To lose their way now would be worse, infinitely, than to lose
oneself in one of the sandy deserts of Africa. Death was in that biting
wind and in the blinding snow. Once lost, and, in two or three hours,
all would be over.
"Yes," came the monosyllabic reply. "Lord" Bill's lips were pursed
tightly. Every now and then he dashed the snow and breath icicles from
his eyelashes. The horses were almost hidden from his view.
They were descending a steep gradient and they now knew that they were
upon Trout Creek. At the creek Bill pulled up. It was the first stop
since leaving Calford. Jacky and he jumped down. Each knew what the
other was about to do without speaking. Jacky, reins in hand, went round
the horses; "Lord" Bill was searching for the trail which turned off
from the main road up the creek to Norton's. Presently he came back.
"Animals all right?"
"Fit as fiddles," the girl replied.
"Right--jump up!"
There was no assisting this girl to her seat. No "by your leave" or
European politeness. Simply the word of one man who knows his business
to another. Both were on their "native heath."
Bill checked the horses' impetuosity and walked them slowly until he
came to the turning. Once on the right road, however, he let them have
their heads.
"It's all right, Jacky," as the horses bounded forward.
A few minutes later the sleigh drew up at Norton's, but so dark was it
and so dense the snow fog, that only those two keen watchers on the
front seat were able to discern the outline of the house.
"Poker" John and the doctor assisted the old lady to alight whilst Jacky
and "Lord" Bill unhitched the horses. In spite of the cold the sweat was
pouring from the animals' sides. In answer to a violent summons on the
storm door a light appeared in the window and "soldier" Joe Norton
opened the door.
For an instant he stood in the doorway peering doubtfully out into the
storm. A goodly picture he made as he stood lantern in hand, his rugged
old face gazing inquiringly at his visitors.
"Hurry up, Joe, let us in," exclaimed Allandale. "We are nearly frozen
to death."
"Why, bless my soul!--bless my soul! Come in! Come in!" the old man
exclaimed hastily as he recognized John Allandale's voice. "You out, and
on a night like this. Bless my soul! Come in! Down, Husky, down!" to a
bob-tail sheep-dog which bounded forward and barked savagely.
"Hold on, Joe," said "Poker" John. "Let the ladies go in, we must see to
the horses."
"It's all right, uncle," said Jacky, "we've unhitched 'em. Bill's taken
'em right away to the stables."
The whole party passed into Joe Norton's sitting-room, where the old
farmer at once set about kindling, with the aid of some coal-oil, a fire
in the great box-stove. While his host was busy John took the lantern
and went to "Lord" Bill's assistance in the stables.
The stove lighted, Joe Norton turned to his guests.
"Bless me, and to think of you, Mrs. Abbot, and Miss Jacky, too. I must
fetch the o'd 'ooman. Hi, Molly, Molly, bestir yourself, old girl. Come
on down, an' help the ladies. They've come for shelter out o' the
blizzard--good luck to it."
"Oh, no, don't disturb her, Joe," exclaimed Mrs. Abbot; "it's really too
bad, at this unearthly hour. Besides, we shall be quite comfortable here
by the stove."
"No doubt--no doubt," said the old man, cheerfully, "but that's not my
way--not my way. Any of you froze," he went on ungrammatically, "'cause
if so, out you go and thaw it out in the snow."
"I guess there's no one frozen," said Jacky, smiling into the old man's
face. "We're too old birds for that. Ah, here's Mrs. Norton."
Another warm greeting and the two ladies were hustled off to the only
spare bedroom the Nortons boasted. By this time "Lord" Bill and "Poker"
John had returned from the stables. While the ladies were removing their
furs, which were sodden with the melting snow, the farmer's wife was
preparing a rough but ample meal of warm provender in the kitchen. Such
is hospitality in the Far North-West.
When the supper was prepared the travellers sat down to the substantial
fare. None were hungry--be it remembered that it was three o'clock in
the morning--but each felt that some pretense in that direction must be
made, or the kindly couple would think their welcome was insufficient.
"An' what made you venture on the trail on such a night?" asked old
Norton, as he poured out a joram of hot whiskey for each of the men. "A
moral cert, you wouldn't strike Foss River in such a storm."
"We thought it would have held off longer," said Dr. Abbot. "It was no
use getting cooped up in town for two or three days. You know what these
blizzards are. You may have to do with us yourself during the next
forty-eight hours."
"It's too sharp to last, Doc," put in Jacky, as she helped herself to
some soup. Her face was glowing after her exposure to the elements. She
looked very beautiful and not one whit worse for the drive.
"Sharp enough--sharp enough," murmured old Norton, as if for something
to say.
"Sharp enough to bring some one else to your hospitable abode, Joe,"
interrupted "Lord" Bill, quietly; "I hear sleigh bells. The wind's
howling, but their tone is familiar."
They were all listening now. "Poker" John was the first to speak.
"It's--" and he paused.
Before he could complete his sentence Jacky filled up the missing words.
"Lablache--for a dollar."
There was a moment's silence in that rough homely little kitchen. The
expression of the faces of those around the board indexed a general
thought.
Lablache, if it were he, would not receive the cordial welcome which had
been meted out to the others. Norton broke the silence.
"Dang it! That's what I ses, dang it! You'll pardon me, ladies, but my
feelings get the better of me at times. I don't like him. Lablache--I
hates him," and he strode out of the room, his old face aflame with
annoyance, to discharge the hospitable duties of the prairie.
As the door closed behind him Dr. Abbot laughed constrainedly.
"Lablache doesn't seem popular--here."
No one answered his remark. Then "Poker" John looked over at the other
men.
"We must go and help to put his horses away."
There was no suggestion in his words, merely a statement of plain facts.
"Lord" Bill nodded and the three men rose and went to the door.
As they disappeared Jacky turned to Mrs. Norton and Aunt Margaret.
"If that's Lablache--I'm off to bed."
Her tone was one of uncompromising decision. Mrs. Abbot was less
assured.
"Do you think it polite--wise?"
"Come along, aunt. Never mind about politeness or wisdom. What do you
say, Mrs. Norton?"
"As you like, Miss Jacky. I must stay up, or--"
"Yes--the men can entertain him."
Just then Lablache's voice was heard outside. It was a peculiar,
guttural, gasping voice. Aunt Margaret looked doubtfully from Jacky to
Mrs. Norton. The latter nodded smilingly. Then following Jacky's lead
she passed up the staircase which led from the kitchen to the rooms
above. A moment later the door opened and Lablache and the other men
entered.
"They've gone to bed," said Mrs. Norton, in answer to "Poker" John's
look of inquiry.
"Tired, no doubt," put in Lablache, drily.
"And not without reason, I guess," retorted "Poker" John, sharply. He
had not failed to note the other's tone.
Lablache laughed quietly, but his keen, restless eyes shot an unpleasant
glance at the speaker from beneath their heavy lids.
He was a burly man. In bulk he was of much the same proportions as old
John Allandale. But while John was big with the weight of muscle and
frame, Lablache was flabby with fat. In face he was the antithesis of
the other. Whilst "Poker" John was the picture of florid tanning--While
his face, although perhaps a trifle weak in its lower formation, was
bold, honest, and redounding with kindly nature, Lablache's was
bilious-looking and heavy with obesity. Whatever character was there, it
was lost in the heavy folds of flesh with which it was wreathed. His
jowl was ponderous, and his little mouth was tightly compressed, while
his deep-sunken, bilious eyes peered from between heavy, lashless lids.
Such was Verner Lablache, the wealthiest man of the Foss River
Settlement. He owned a large store in the place, selling farming
machinery to the settlers and ranchers about. His business was always
done on credit, for which he charged exorbitant rates of interest,
accepting only first mortgages upon crops and stock as security. Besides
this he represented several of the Calford private banks, which many
people said were really owned by him, and there was no one more ready to
lend money--on the best of security and the highest rate of
interest--than he. Should the borrower fail to pay, he was always
suavely ready to renew the loan at increased interest--provided the
security was sound. And, in the end, every ounce of his pound of flesh,
plus not less than fifty per cent. interest, would come back to him.
After Verner Lablache had done with him, the unfortunate rancher who
borrowed generally disappeared from the neighborhood. Sometimes this
man's victims were never heard of again. Sometimes they were discovered
doing the "chores" round some obscure farmer's house. Anyway, ranch,
crops, stock--everything the man ever had--would have passed into the
hands of the money-lender, Lablache.
Hard-headed dealer--money-grubber--as Lablache was, he had a weakness.
To look at him--to know him--no one would have thought it, but he had.
And at least two of those present were aware of his secret. He was in
love with Jacky. That is to say, he coveted her--desired her. When
Lablache desired anything in that little world of his, he generally
secured it to himself, but, in this matter, he had hitherto been
thwarted. His desire had increased proportionately. He was annoyed to
think that Jacky had retired at his coming. He was in no way blind to
the reason of her sudden departure, but beyond his first remark he was
not the man to advertise his chagrin. He could afford to wait.
"You'll take a bite o' supper, Mr. Lablache?" said old Norton, in a tone
of inquiry.
"Supper?--no, thanks, Norton. But if you've a drop of something hot I
can do with that."
"We've gener'ly got somethin' o' that about," replied the old man.
"Whiskey or rum?"
"Whisky, man, whisky. I've got liver enough already without touching
rum." Then he turned to "Poker" John.
"It's a devilish night, John, devilish. I started before you. Thought I
could make the river in time. I was completely lost on the other side of
the creek. I fancy the storm worked up from that direction."
He lumped into a chair close beside the stove. The others had already
seated themselves.
"We didn't chance it. Bill drove us straight here," said "Poker" John.
"Guess Bill knew something--he generally does," as an afterthought.
"I know a blizzard when I see it," said Bunning-Ford, indifferently.
Lablache sipped his whisky. A silence fell on that gathering of
refugees. Mrs. Norton had cleared the supper things.
"Well, if you gents'll excuse me I'll go back to bed. Old Joe'll look
after you," she said abruptly. "Good-night to you all."
She disappeared up the staircase. The men remained silent for a moment
or two. They were getting drowsy. Suddenly Lablache set his glass down
and looked at his watch.
"Four o'clock, gentlemen. I suppose, Joe, there are no beds for us." The
old farmer shook his head. "What say, John--Doc--a little game until
breakfast?"
John Allandale's face lit up. His sobriquet was no idle One. He lived
for poker--he loved it. And Lablache knew it. Old John turned to the
others. His right cheek twitched as he waited the decision. "Doc" Abbot
smiled approval; "Lord" Bill shrugged indifferently. The old gambler
rose to his feet.
"That's all right, then. The kitchen table is good enough for us. Come
along, gentlemen."
"I'll slide off to bed, I guess," said Norton, thankful to escape a
night's vigil. "Good-night, gentlemen."
Then the remaining four sat down to play.
The far-reaching consequences of that game were undreamt of by the
players, except, perhaps, by Lablache. His story of the reason of his
return to Norton's farm was only partially true. He had returned in the
hopes of this meeting; he had anticipated this game.