AMONG THE HALF-BREEDS
Lablache was not a man of variable moods. He was too strong; his purpose
in life was too strong for any vacillation of temper. His one aim--his
whole soul--was wrapt in a craving for money-making and the inevitable
power which the accumulation of great wealth must give him. In all his
dealings he was perfectly--at least outwardly--calm, and he never
allowed access to anger to thwart his ends. An inexorable purpose
governed his actions to an extent which, while his feelings might
undergo paroxysms of acute changes, never permitted him to make a false
move or to show his hand prematurely. But this latest reverse had upset
him more than he had ever been upset in his life, and all the great
latent force of his character had suddenly, as it were, been
precipitated into a torrent of ungovernable fury. He had been wounded
deeply in the most vulnerable spot in his composition. Thirty-five
thousands of his precious dollars ruthlessly torn from his capacious and
retentive money-bags. Truly it was a cruel blow, and one well calculated
to disturb the even tenor of his complacency.
Thought was very busy within that massive head as he lumped heavily
along from John Allandale's house in the direction of his own store.
Some slight satisfaction was his at the reflection of the prompt
assistance he had obtained from the police. It was the satisfaction of a
man who lived by the assistance of the law, of a man who, in his own
inordinate arrogance, considered that the law was made for such as he,
to the detriment of those who attempt to thwart the rich man's purpose.
He knew Horrocks to be capable, and although he did not place too much
reliance on that astute prairie-man's judgment--he always believed in
his own judgment first--still, he knew that he could not have obtained
better assistance, and was therefore as content as circumstances would
permit. That he was sanguine of recovering his property was doubtful.
Lablache never permitted himself the luxury of optimism. He set himself
a task and worked steadily on to the required end. So he had decided
now. He did not permit himself to dwell on the desired result, or to
anticipate. He would simply leave no stone unturned to bring about the
recovery of his stolen property.
He moved ponderously along over the smooth dusty road, and at last
reached the market-place. The settlement was drowsily quiet. Life of a
sort was apparent but it was chiefly "animal." The usual number of dogs
were moving about, or peacefully basking in the sun; a few saddle horses
were standing with dejected air, hitched to various tying-posts. A
buckboard and team was standing outside his own door. The sound of the
smith's hammer falling upon the anvil sounded plaintively upon the
calmness of the sleepy village. In spite of the sensational raid of the
night before, Foss River displayed no unusual activity.
At length the great man reached his office, and threw himself, with
great danger to his furniture, into his capacious wicker chair. He was
in no mood for business. Instead he gazed long and thoughtfully out of
his office window. What somber, vengeful thoughts were teeming through
his brain would be hard to tell, his mask-like face betrayed nothing.
His sphinx-like expression was a blank.
In this way half an hour and more passed. Then his attention became
fixed upon a tall figure sauntering slowly towards the settlement from
the direction of Allandale's ranch. In a moment Lablache had stirred
himself, and a pair of field-glasses were leveled at the unconscious
pedestrian. A moment later an exclamation of annoyance broke from the
money-lender.
"Curse the man! Am I never to be rid of this damned Englishman?" He
stood now gazing malevolently at the tall figure of the Hon.
Bunning-Ford, who was leisurely making his way towards the village. For
the time being the channel of Lablache's thoughts had changed its
direction. He had hoped, in foreclosing his mortgages on the
Englishman's property, to have rid Foss River of the latter's, to him,
hateful presence. But since misfortune had come upon "Lord" Bill, the
Allandales and he had become closer friends than ever. This effort had
been one of the money-lender's few failures, and failure galled him with
a bitterness the recollection of which no success could eliminate. The
result was a greater hatred for the object of his vengeance, and a
lasting determination to rid Foss River of the Englishman forever. And
so he remained standing and watching until, at length, the entrance of
one of his clerks, to announce that the saloon dinner-time was at hand,
brought him out of his cruel reverie, and he set off in quest of the
needs of his inner man, a duty which nothing, of whatever importance,
was allowed to interfere with.
In the meantime, Horrocks, or, as he was better known amongst his
comrades, "the Ferret," was hot upon the trail of the lost cattle.
Horrocks bristled with energy at every point, and his men, working with
him, had reason to be aware of the fact. It was an old saying amongst
them that when "the Ferret" was let loose there was no chance of bits
rusting. In other words, his mileage report to his chiefs would be a
long one.
As the sergeant anticipated, it was child's play to track the stolen
herd. The tracks left by the fast-driven cattle was apparent to the
veriest greenhorn, and Horrocks and his men were anything but
greenhorns.
Long before evening closed in they had followed the footprints right
down to the edge of the great muskeg, and already Horrocks anticipated a
smart capture. But his task seemed easier than it really was. On the
brink of the keg the tracks became confused. With some difficulty the
sleuth instincts of these accomplished trackers led them to follow the
marks for a mile and a half along the edge of the mire, then, it seemed,
the herd had been turned and driven with great speed back on their
tracks. But worse confusion became apparent; and "the Ferret" soon
realized that the herd had been driven up and down along the border of
the great keg with a view to evading further pursuit. So frequently had
this been done that it was impossible to further trace the stock, and
the sun was already sinking when Horrocks dismounted, and with him his
men were at last forced to acknowledge defeat.
He had come to a standstill with a stretch of a mile and a half of
cattle tracks before him. There was no sign further than this of where
the beasts had been driven. The keg itself gave no clew. It was as green
and trackless as ever, and again on the land side there was not a single
foot-print beyond the confused marks along the quagmire's dangerous
border.
The work of covering retreat had been carried out by a master hand, and
Horrocks was not slow to acknowledge the cleverness of the raider. With
all one good prairie man's appreciation for another he detected a foeman
worthy of his steel, and he warmed to the problem set out before him.
The troopers waited for their superior's instructions. As "the Ferret"
did not speak one of the men commented aloud.
"Smart work, sergeant," he said quietly. "I'm not surprised that this
fellow rode roughshod over the district for so long and escaped all who
were sent to nab him. He's clever, is P. Retief, Esq."
Horrocks was looking out across the great keg. Strangely enough they had
halted within twenty yards of the willow bush, at which point the secret
path across the mire began. The man with the gold chevrons upon his arm
ignored the remark of his companion, but answered with words which
occurred in his own train of thought.
"It's plain enough, I guess. Yonder is the direction taken by the
cattle," he said, nodding his head towards the distant peaks of the
mountains beyond. "But who's got the nerve to follow 'em? Say," he went
on sharply, "somewhere along this bank, I mean in the mile and a half of
hoof marks, there's a path turns out, or, at least, firm ground by which
it is possible to cross this devil's keg. It must be so. Cattle can't be
spirited away. Unless, of course--but no, a man don't duff cattle to
drown 'em in a swamp. They've crossed this pernicious mire, boys. We may
nab our friend, Retief, but we'll never clap eyes on those beasts."
"It's the same old business over again, sergeant," said one of the
troopers. "I was on this job before, and I reckon we landed hereabouts
every time we lit on Retief's trail. But we never got no further. Yonder
keg is a mighty hard nut to crack. I guess the half-breed's got the
bulge on us. If path across the mire there is he knows it and we don't,
and, as you say, who's goin' to follow him?" Having delivered himself of
these sage remarks he stepped to the brink of the mire and put his foot
heavily upon its surface. His top-boot sank quickly through the yielding
crust, and the black subsoil rose with oily, sucking action, 'and his
foot was immediately buried out of sight. He drew it out sharply, a
shudder of horror quickening his action. Strong man and hardy as he was,
the muskeg inspired him with a superstitious terror. "Guess there ain't
no following them beasties through that, sergeant. Leastways, not for
me."
Horrocks had watched his subordinate's action thoughtfully. He knew,
without showing, that no man or beast could attempt to cross the mire
with any hope of success without the knowledge of some secret path. That
such a path, or paths, existed he believed, for many were the stories of
how criminals in past days escaped prairie law by such means. However,
he had no knowledge of any such paths himself, and he had no intention
of sacrificing his life uselessly in an attempt to discover the keg's
most jealously guarded secret.
He turned back to his horse and prepared to vault into the saddle.
"It's no use, boys. We are done for to-day. You can ride back to the
settlement. I have another little matter on hand. If any of you see
Lablache just tell him I shall join him in about two hours' time."
Horrocks rode off and his four troopers headed towards the Foss River.
Despite the fact that his horse had been under the saddle for nearly
eight hours Horrocks rode at a great pace. He was one of those men who
are always to be found on the prairie--thorough horsemen. Men who, in
times of leisure, care more for their horses than they do for
themselves; men who regard their horses as they would a comrade, but
who, when it becomes a necessity to work or travel, demand every effort
the animal can make by way of return for the care which has been
lavished upon it. Such men generally find themselves well repaid. A
horse is something more than a creature with four legs, one at each
corner, head out of one end, tail out of the other. There is an old
saying in the West to the effect that a thorough horseman is worthy of
man's esteem. The opinion amongst prairie men is that a man who loves
his horse can never be wholly bad. And possibly we can accept this
decision upon the subject without question, for their experience in men,
especially in "bad men," is wide and varied.
Horrocks avoided the settlement, leaving it well to the west, and turned
his willing beast in the direction of the half-breed camp. There was an
ex-Government scout living in this camp whom he knew; a man who was
willing to sell to his late employers any information he chanced to
possess. It was the officer's intention to see this man and purchase all
he had to sell, if it happened to be worth buying. Hence his visit to
the camp.
The evening shadows were fast lengthening when he espied in the distance
the squalid shacks and dilapidated teepees of the Breeds. There was a
large colony of those wanderers of the West gathered together in the
Foss River camp. We have said that these places are hot-beds of crime, a
curse to the country; but that description scarcely conveys the wretched
poverty and filthiness of these motley gatherings. From a slight rising
ground Horrocks looked down on what might have, at first sight, been
taken for a small village. A scattering of small tumbled-down shacks,
about fifty in number, set out on the fresh green of the prairie,
created the first blot of uncleanly, uncouth habitation upon the view.
Add to these a proportionate number of ragged tents and teepees, a crowd
of unwashed, and, for the most part, undressed children, a hundred
fierce and half-starved dogs of the "husky" type. Imagine a stench of
dung fire cooking, and the gathering of millions of mosquitoes about a
few choyeuses and fat cattle grazing near by, and the picture as it
first presents itself is complete.
The approach to such a place makes one almost wish the undulating
prairie was not quite so fair a picture, for the contrast with man's
filthy squalor is so great that the feeling of nauseation which results
is almost overpowering. Horrocks, however, was used to such scenes. His
duty often took him into worse Breed camps than this. He treated such
places to a perfectly callous indifference, and regarded them merely as
necessary evils.
At the first shack he drew up and instantly became the center of
attention from a pack of yelping dogs and a number of half-fearful,
wide-eyed ragamuffins, grimy children nearly naked and ranging in age
from two years up to twelve. Young as the latter were they were an
evil-looking collection. The noisy greeting of the camp dogs had aroused
the elders from their indolent repose within the shacks, and Horrocks
quickly became aware of a furtive spying within the darkened doorways
and paneless windows.
The reception was nothing unusual to the officer. The Breeds he knew
always fought shy of the police. As a rule, such a visit as the present
portended an arrest, and they were never quite sure who the victim was
to be and the possible consequences. Crime was so common amongst these
people that in nearly every family it was possible to find one or more
law-breakers and, more often than not, the delinquent was liable to
capital punishment.
Ignoring his cool reception, Horrocks hitched his horse to a tree and
stepped up to the shack, regardless of the vicious snapping of the dogs.
The children fled precipitately at his approach. At the door of the
house he halted.
"Hallo there, within!" he called.
There was a moment's pause, and he heard a whispered debate going on in
the shadowy interior.
"Hey!" he called again. "Get a hustle on, some of you. Get out," he
snapped sharply, as a great husky, with bristling hair, came snuffing at
his legs. He aimed a kick at the dog, which, in response, sullenly
retreated to a safe distance.
The angry tone of his second summons had its effect, and a figure moved
cautiously within and finally approached the door.
"Eh! what is it?" asked a deep, guttural voice, and a bulky form framed
itself in the opening.
The police-officer eyed the man keenly. The twilight had so far deepened
that there was barely sufficient light to distinguish the man's
features, but Horrocks's survey satisfied him as to the fellow's
identity. He was a repulsive specimen of the Breed; the dark, lowering
face had something utterly cruel in its expression. The cast was brutal
in the extreme; sensual, criminal. The shifty black eyes looked anywhere
but into the policeman's face.
"That you, Gustave?" said Horrocks, pleasantly enough. He wished to
inspire confidence. "I'm looking for Gautier. I've got a nice little job
for him. Do you know where he is?"
"Ugh!" grunted Gustave, heavily, but with a decided air of relief. He
entertained a wholesome dread of Sergeant Horrocks. Now he became more
communicative. Horrocks had not come to arrest anybody. "I see," he went
on, gazing out across the prairie, "this is not a warrant business, eh?
Guess Gautier is back there," with a jerk of a thumb in a vague
direction behind him. "He's in his shack. Gautier's just hooked up with
another squaw."
"Another?" Horrocks whistled softly. "Why, that's the sixth to my
knowledge. He's very much a marrying man. How much did he pay the neche
this time?"
"Two steers and a sheep," said the man, with an oily grin.
"Ah! I wonder how he acquired 'em. Well, I'll go and find him. Gautier
is smart, but he'll land himself in the penitentiary if he goes on
marrying squaws at that price. Say, which is his shack did you say?"
"Back thar. You'll see it. He's just limed the outside of it. Guess
white's the color his new squaw fancies most. S'long."
The man was glad to be rid of his visitor. In spite of the sergeant's
assurance, Gustave never felt comfortable in the officer's presence.
Horrocks moved off in search of the white hut, while the Breed, with
furtive eyes, watched his progress.
There was no difficulty in locating the shack in that colony of grime.
Even in the darkness the gleaming white of the ex-spy's abode stood out
prominently. The dogs and children now tacitly acknowledged the right of
the police-officer's presence in their camp, and allowed him to move
about apparently unnoticed. He wound his way amongst the huts and tents,
ever watchful and alert, always aiming for Gautier's hut. He knew that
in this place at night his life was not worth much. A quick aim, and a
shot from behind, and no one would ever know who had dropped him. But
the Canadian police are accustomed to take desperate chances in their
work, and think less of it than do our police patrols in the slums of
London.
He found Gautier sitting at his hut door waiting for him. Another might
have been surprised at the Breed's cognizance of the police-officer's
intentions, but Horrocks knew the habits of these people, and was fully
alive to the fact that while he had been talking to Gustave a messenger
was dispatched to warn Gautier that he was sought.
"Well, sergeant, what's your best news?" Gautier asked civilly. He was a
bright, intelligent-looking, dusky man, of perhaps forty years. His face
was less brutal than that of the other Breed, but it was none the less
cunning. He was short and massively built.
"That's just what I've come to ask you, Gautier. I think you can tell me
all I want to know--if you've a notion to. Say," with a keen look round,
"can we talk here?"
There was not a soul visible but an occasional playing child. It was
curious how quiet the camp became. Horrocks was not deceived, however.
He knew that a hundred pairs of eyes were watching him from the reeking
recesses of the huts.
"No talk here." Gautier was serious, and his words conveyed a lot. "It's
bad medicine your coming to-night. But there," with a return to his
cunning look, "I don't know that I've got anything to tell."
Horrocks laughed softly.
"Yes--yes, I know. You needn't be afraid." Then lowering his voice:
"I've got a roll of bills in my pocket."
"Ah, then don't stay here talking. There's lots to tell, but they'd kill
me if they suspected. Where can I see you--quiet-like? They won't lose
sight of me if they can help it, but I reckon I'm good for the best of
'em."
The man's attempt to look sincere was almost ludicrous. His cunning eyes
twinkled with cupidity. Horrocks kept his voice down.
"Right. I shall be at Lablache's store in an hour's time. You must see
me to-night." Then aloud, for the benefit of listening ears, "You be
careful what you are doing. This promiscuous buying of wives, with
cattle which you may have difficulty in accounting for your possession
of, will lead you into trouble. Mind, I've warned you. Just look to it."
His last sentences were called out as he moved away, and Gautier quite
understood.
Horrocks did not return the way he had come, but took a circuitous
route through the camp. He was a man who never lost a chance in his
work, and now, while he was in the midst of that criminal haunt, he
thought it as well to take a look round. He hardly knew what he expected
to find out--if anything. But he required information of Retief, and he
was fully alive to the fact that all that individual's movements would
be known here. He trusted to luck to help him to discover something.
The smartest of men have to work against overwhelming odds in the
detection of crime. Many and devious are the ways of men whose hand is
against the law. Surely is the best detective a mere babe in the hands
of a clever criminal. In this instance the very thing that Horrocks was
in search of was about to be forced upon him. For underlying that
information was a deep-laid scheme.
Never can reliance be placed in a true half-breed. The heathen Chinee is
the ideal of truth and honesty when his wiles are compared with the dark
ways of the Breed. Horrocks, with all his experience, was no match for
the dusky-visaged outcast of the plains. Gautier had been deputied to
convey certain information to Lablache by the patriarchs of the camp.
And with his native cunning he had decided, on the appearance of
Sergeant Horrocks, to extort a price for that which it was his duty to
tell. Besides this, as matters had turned out, Horrocks was to receive
gratis that for which he would shortly pay Gautier.
He had made an almost complete circuit of the camp. Accustomed as he was
to such places, the stench of it almost made him sick. He came to a
stand close beside one of the outlying teepees. He was just preparing to
fill his pipe and indulge in a sort of disinfecting smoke when he became
aware of voices talking loudly close by. The sound proceeded from the
teepees. From force of habit he listened. The tones were gruff, and
almost Indian-like in the brevity of expression. The language was the
bastard jargon of the French half-breed. For a moment he was doubtful.
Then his attention became riveted.
"Yes," said one voice, "he is a good man, is Peter. When he has plenty
he spends it. He does not rob the poor Breed. Only the gross white man.
Peter is clever. Very."
Then another voice, deep-toned and full, took up the eulogy.
"Peter knows how to spend his money. He spends it among his friends. It
is good. How much whisky will he buy, think you?"
Another voice chipped in at this point, and Horrocks strained his ears
to catch the words, for the voice was the voice of a female and her
utterance was indistinct.
"He said he would pay for everything--all we could eat and drink--and
that the pusky should be held the night after to-morrow. He will come
himself and dance the Red River jig. Peter is a great dancer and will
dance all others down."
Then the first speaker laughed.
"Peter must have a long stocking if he would pay for all. A barrel of
rye would not go far, and as for food, he must bring several of the
steers which he took from old Lablache if he would feed us. But Peter is
always as good as his word. He said he would pay. And he will pay. When
does he come to prepare?"
"He does not come. He has left the money with Baptiste, who will see to
everything. Peter will not give 'the Ferret' a chance."
"But how? The dance will be a danger to him," said the woman's voice.
"What if 'the Ferret' hears?"
"He will not hear, and, besides, Peter will be prepared if the damned
police come. Have no fear for Peter. He is bold."
The voices ceased and Horrocks waited a little longer. But presently,
when the voices again became audible, the subject of conversation had
changed, and he realized that he was not likely to hear more that would
help him. So, with great caution, he stole quickly away to where his
horse was tied. He mounted hastily and rode off, glad to be away from
that reeking camp, and greatly elated with the success of the visit.
He had learned a lot. And he was to hear more yet from Gautier. He felt
that the renowned "hustler" was already in his clutches. His spurs went
sharply into his broncho's flanks and he raced over the prairie towards
the settlement. Possibly he should have known better than to trust to
the overhearing of that conversation. His knowledge of the Breeds should
have warned him to put little faith in what he had heard. But he was
eager. His reputation was largely at stake over this affair, and that
must be the excuse for the rashness of his faith. However, the penalty
of his folly was to be his, therefore blame can well be spared.