LABLACHE FORCES THE FIGHT
A month--just one month and the early spring has developed with almost
tropical suddenness into a golden summer. The rapid passing of seasons,
the abrupt break, the lightning change from one into another, is one of
the many beauties of the climate of that fair land where there are no
half measures in Nature's mode of dealing out from her varied store of
moods. Spring chases Winter, hoary, bitter, cruel Winter, in the hours
of one night; and in turn Spring's delicate influence is overpowered
with equal celerity by the more matured and unctuous ripeness of Summer.
Foss River had now become a glorious picture of vivid coloring. The
clumps of pine woods no longer present their tattered purplish
appearance, the garb in which grim Winter is wont to robe them. They are
lighter, gayer, and bathed in the gleaming sunlight they are transformed
from their somber forbidding aspect to that of radiant, welcome shade.
The river is high, almost to flooding point. And the melting snow on the
distant mountain-tops has urged it into a sparkling torrent of icy cold
water rushing on at a pace which threatens to tear out its deterring
banks and shallow bed in its mad career.
The most magical change which the first month of summer has brought is
to be seen in the stock. Cattle, when first brought in from distant
parts at the outset of the round-up, usually are thin, mean-looking, and
half-starved. Two weeks of the delicious spring grass and the fat on
their ribs and loins rolls and shakes as they move, growing almost
visibly under the succulent influence of the delicate vegetation.
Few at Foss River appreciated the blessings of summer more fully than
did Jacky Allandale, and few worked harder than did she. Almost
single-handed she grappled with the stupendous task of the management of
the great ranch, and no "hand," however experienced, was more capable in
the most arduous tasks which that management involved. From the skillful
organization down to the roping and branding of a wild two-year-old
steer there was no one who understood the business of stock-raising
better than she. She loved it--it was the very essence of life to her.
Silas, her uncle's foreman, was in the habit of summing her up in his
brief but expressive way.
"Missie Jacky?" he would exclaim, in tones of surprise, to any one who
dared to express wonder at her masterly management. "Guess a cyclone
does its biz mighty thorough, but I take it ef that gal 'ud been born a
hurricane she'd 'ave dislodged mountains an' played baseball with the
glaciers."
But this year things were different with the mistress of the Foss River
Ranch. True she went about her work with that thorough appreciation
which she always displayed, but the young face had last something of its
happy girlish delight--that _débonnaire_ cheerfulness which usually
characterized it. A shadow seemed to be hanging over her--a shadow,
which, although it marred in no way her fresh young beauty, added a
deepened pensiveness to her great somber eyes, and seemed to broaden the
fringing black ring round the gray pupils. This year the girl had more
to grapple with than the mere management of the ranch.
Her uncle needed all her care. And, too, the consciousness that the
result of all her work was insufficient to pay the exorbitant interest
on mortgages which had been forced upon her uncle by the hated,
designing Lablache took something of the zest from her labors. Then,
besides this, there were thoughts of the compact sealed between her
lover and herself in Bad Man's Hollow, and the knowledge of the
intentions of the money-lender towards "Lord" Bill, all helped to render
her distrait. She knew all about the scene which had taken place at
Bill's ranch, and she knew that, for her lover at least, the crash had
come. During that first month of the open season the girl had been
sorely tried. There was no one but "Aunt" Margaret to whom she could go
for comfort or sympathy, and even she, with her wise councils and
far-seeing judgment, could not share in the secrets which weighed so
heavily upon the girl.
Jacky had not experienced, as might have been expected, very great
difficulty in keeping her uncle fast to the grind-stone of duty.
Whatever his faults and weaknesses, John Allandale was first of all a
rancher, and when once the winter breaks every rancher must work--ay,
work like no negro slave ever worked. It was only in the evenings, when
bodily fatigue had weakened the purpose of ranching habit, and when the
girl, wearied with her day's work, relaxed her vigilance, that the old
man craved for the object of his passion and its degrading
accompaniment. Then he would nibble at the whisky bottle, having "earned
his tonic," as he would say, until the potent spirit had warmed his
courage and he would hurry off to the saloon for "half an hour's
flutter," which generally terminated in the small hours of the morning.
Such was the state of affairs at the Foss River Ranch when Lablache put
into execution his threats against the Hon. Bunning-Ford. The settlement
had returned to its customary torpid serenity. The round-up was over,
and all the "hands" had returned to the various ranches to which they
belonged. The little place had entered upon its period of placid sleep,
which would last until the advent of the farmers to spend the proceeds
of their garnered harvest. But this would be much later in the year, and
in the meantime Foss River would sleep.
The night before the sale of "Lord" Bill's ranch, he and Jacky went for
a ride. They had thus ridden out on many evenings of late. Old John was
too absorbed in his own affairs to bother himself at these evening
journeyings, although, in his careless way, he noticed how frequent a
visitor at the ranch Bill had lately become. Still, he made no
objection. If his niece saw fit to encourage these visits he would not
interfere. In his eyes the girl could do no wrong. It was his one
redeeming feature, his love for the motherless girl, and although his
way of showing it was more than open to criticism, it was true he loved
her with a deep, strong affection.
Foss River was far too sleepy to bother about these comings and goings.
Lablache, alone, of the sleepy hamlet, eyed the evening journeys with
suspicion. But even he was unable to fathom their object, and was forced
to set them down, his whole being consumed with jealousy the while, to
lovers' wanderings. However, these nightly rides were taken with
purpose. After galloping across the prairie in various directions they
always, as darkness crept on, terminated at a certain spot--the clump of
willows and reeds at which the secret path across the great keg began.
The sun was well down below the distant mountain peaks when Jacky and
her lover reached the scrubby bush of willows and reeds upon the evening
before the day of the sale of Bill's ranch. As they drew up their
panting horses, and dismounted, the evening twilight was deepening over
the vast expanse of the mire.
The girl stood at the brink of the bottomless caldron of viscid muck and
gazed out across the deadly plain. Bill stood still beside her, watching
her face with eager, hungry eyes.
"Well?" he said at last, as his impatience forced itself to his lips.
"Yes, Bill," the girl answered slowly, as one balancing her decision
well before giving judgment, "the path has widened. The rain has kept
off long enough, and the sun has done his best for us. It is a good
omen. Follow me."
She linked her arm through the reins of her horse's bridle, and leading
the faithful animal, stepped fearlessly out on to the muskeg. As she
trod the rotten crust she took a zigzag direction from one side of the
secret path to the other. That which, in early spring, had scarcely been
six feet in width, would now have borne ten horsemen abreast. Presently
she turned back. "We need go no further, Bill; what is safe here
continues safe across the keg. It will widen in places, but in no place
will the path grow narrower."
"But tell me," said the man, anxious to assure himself that no detail
was forgotten, "what about the trail of our footprints?"
The girl laughed. Then indenting the ground with her shapely boot until
the moisture below oozed into the imprint, she looked up into the lazy
face before her.
"See--we wait for one minute, and you shall see the result."
They waited in silence in the growing darkness. The night insects and
mosquitoes buzzed around them. The man's attention was riveted upon the
impression made by the girl's foot. Slowly the water filled the print,
then slowly, under the moist influence, the ground, sponge-like, rose
again, the water disappeared, and all sign of the footmark was gone.
When again the ground had resumed its natural appearance the girl looked
up.
"Are you satisfied, Bill? No man or beast who passes over this path
leaves a trail which lasts longer than a minute. Even the rank grass,
however badly trodden down, rears itself again with amazing vitality. I
guess this place was created through the devil's agency and for the
purpose of devil's work."
Bill gave one sweeping glance around. Then he turned, and the two made
their way back to the edge of the sucking mire.
"Yes, it'll do, dear. Now let us hasten home."
They remounted their horses and were soon lost in the gathering darkness
as they made their way over the brow of the rising ground, in the
direction of the settlement.
The next day saw the possession of the Hon. Bunning-Ford's ranch pass
into other hands. Punctually at noon, the sale began. And by four
o'clock the process, which robbed the rancher of everything that he
possessed in the world, was completed.
Bill stationed himself on the veranda and smoked incessantly while the
sale proceeded. He was there to see how the things went, and, in fact,
seemed to take an outsider's interest only. He experienced no morbid
sentiment at the loss of his property--it is doubtful if he cared at
all. Anyhow, his leisurely attitude and his appearance of good-natured
indifference caused many surprised remarks amongst the motley collection
of bidders who were present. In spite of these appearances, however, he
did take a very keen interest. A representative of Lablache's was there
to purchase stock, and Bill knew it, and his interest was centered on
this would-be purchaser.
The stock was the last thing to come under the hammer. There were twenty
lots. Of these Lablache's representative purchased
fifteen--three-quarters of the stock of the entire ranch.
Bill waited only for this, then, as the sale closed, he leisurely rolled
and lit another cigarette and strolled to where a horse, which he had
borrowed from the Allandales stable, was tied, and rode slowly away.
As he rode away he turned his head in the direction of the house upon
the hill. He was leaving for good and all the place which had so long
claimed him as master. He saw the small gathering of people still
hanging about the veranda, upon which the auctioneer still stood with
his clerk, busy over the sales. He noticed others passing hither and
thither, as they prepared to depart with their purchases. But none of
these things which he looked upon affected him in any mawkish,
sentimental manner. It was all over. That little hill, with its wooded
background and vast frontage of prairie, from which he had loved to
watch the sun get up after its nightly sojourn, would know him no more.
His indifference was unassumed. His was not the nature to regret past
follies.
He smiled softly as he turned his attention to the future which lay
before him, and his smile was not in keeping with the expression of a
broken man.
In these last days of waning prosperity Bunning-Ford had noticeably
changed. With loss of property he had lost much of that curious veneer
of indolence, utter disregard of consequences, which had always been
his. Not, that he had suddenly developed a violent activity or
boisterous enthusiasm. Simply his interest in things and persons seemed
to have received a fillip. There seemed to be an air of latent activity
about him; a setness of purpose which must have been patent to any one
sufficiently interested to observe the young rancher closely. But Foss
River was too sleepy--indifferent--to worry itself about anybody, except
those in its ranks who were riding the high horse of success. Those who
fell out by the wayside were far too numerous to have more than a
passing thought devoted to them. So this subtle change in the man was
allowed to pass without comment by any except, perhaps, the
money-lender, Lablache, and the shrewd, kindly wife of the
doctor--people not much given to gossip.
It was only since the discovery of Lablache's perfidy that "Lord" Bill
had understood what living meant. His discovery in Smith's saloon had
roused in him a very human manhood. Since that time he had been seized
with a mental activity, a craving for action he had never, in all his
lazy life, before experienced. This sudden change had been aggravated by
Lablache's subsequent conduct, and the flame had been fanned by the
right that Jacky had given him to protect her. The sensation was one of
absorbing excitement, and the loss of property sat lightly upon him in
consequence. Money he had not--property he had not. But he had now what
he had never possessed before--he had an object.
A lasting, implacable vengeance was his, from the contemplation of which
he drew a satisfaction which no possession of property could have given
him. Nature had, with incorrigible perversity, cut him out for a life of
ease, whilst endowing him with a character capable of very great things.
Now, in her waywardness she had aroused that character and overthrown
the hindering superficialty in which she had clothed it. And further to
mark her freakish mood, these same capabilities which might easily,
under other circumstances, have led him into the fore-front of life's
battle, she directed, with inexorable cruelty, into an adverse course.
He had been cheated, robbed, and his soul thirsted for revenge. Lablache
had robbed the uncle of the girl he loved, and, worse than all, the
wretch had tried to oust him from the affections of the girl herself.
Yes, he thirsted for revenge as might any traveler in a desert crave for
water. His eyes, no longer sleepy, gleamed as he thought. His long,
square jaws seemed welded into one as he thought of his wrongs. His was
the vengeance which, if necessary, would last his lifetime. At least,
whilst Lablache lived no quarter would he give or accept.
Something of this he was thinking as he took his farewell of the ranch
on the hill, and struck out in the direction of the half-breed camp
situated in a hollow some distance outside the settlement of Foss
River.