LABLACHE'S MIDNIGHT VISITOR
Lablache was alone in his office. He was more alone than he had ever
been in his life; or, at least, he felt more alone--which amounted to
much the same thing. Possibly, had he been questioned on the subject, he
would have pooh-poohed the idea, but, nevertheless, in his secret heart
he felt that, in spite of his vast wealth, he was a lonely man. He knew
that he had not a single friend in Foss River; and in Calford, another
center of his great wealth, things were no better. His methods of
business, whilst they brought him many familiar acquaintances--a large
circle of people who were willing to trade, repelled all approach to
friendship. Besides, his personality was against him. His flinty
disposition and unscrupulous love of power were all detrimental to human
affection.
As a rule, metaphorically speaking, he snapped his fingers at these
things. Moreover, he was glad that such was the case; he could the more
freely indulge his passion for grab. Hated, he could work out his
peculiar schemes without qualms of conscience; loved, it would have been
otherwise. Yes, Lablache preferred this social ostracism.
But the great money-lender had his moments of weakness--moments when he
rebelled against his solitary lot. He knew that his isolated position
had been brought about by himself--fostered by himself, and he knew he
preferred that it should be so. But, nevertheless, at times he felt very
lonely, and in these moments of weakness he wondered if he obtained full
consolation in his great wealth for his marooned position. Generally the
result of these reflections brought him satisfaction. How? is a
question. Possibly he forced himself, by that headstrong power with
which he bent others who came into contact with him to his will, to such
a conclusion. Lablache was certainly a triumph of relentless purpose
over flesh and feelings.
Lablache was nearly fifty, and had lived alone since he was in his
teens. Now he pined as all who live a solitary life must some day pine,
for a companion to share his loneliness. He craved not for the society
of his own sex. With the instinct in us all he wanted a mate to share
with him his golden nest. But this mass of iron nerve and obesity was
not as other men. He did not weakly crave, and then, with his wealth,
set out to secure a wife who could raise him in the social scale, or add
to the bags which he had watched grow in bulk from flattened folds of
sacking, to the distended proportions of miniature balloons. No, he
desired a girl, the only relation of a man whom he had helped to ruin--a
girl who could bring him no social distinction, and who could not add
one penny piece to his already enormous wealth. Moreover, strangely
enough, he had conceived for her a passion which was absolutely unholy
in its intensity. It is needless, then, to add, when, speaking of such a
man, that, willing or not, he intended that Jacky Allandale should be
his.
Thoughts of this wild, quarter-breed girl filled his brain as he sat
solitary in his little office on the night of the pusky. He sat in his
favorite chair, in his favorite position. He was lounging back with his
slippered feet resting on the burnished steel foot-rests of the stove.
There was no fire in the stove, of course, but from force of habit he
gazed thoughtfully at the mica sides which surrounded the firebox.
Probably in this position he had thought out some of his most dastardly
financial schemes and therefore most suitable it seemed now as he
calculated his chances of capturing the wild prairie girl for his mate.
He had given up all thoughts of ever obtaining her willing consent, and,
although his vanity had been hurt by her rejection of his advances,
still he was not the man to be easily thwarted. His fertile brain had
evolved a means by which to achieve his end, and, to his scheme-loving
nature, the process was anything but distasteful. He had always, from
the first moment he had decided to make Jacky Allandale his wife, been
prepared for such a contingency as her refusal, and had never missed an
opportunity of ensnaring her uncle in his financial toils. He had
understood the old man's weakness, and, with satanic cunning, had set
himself to the task of wholesale robbery, with crushing results to his
victim. This had given him the necessary power to further prosecute his
suit. As yet he had not displayed his hand. He felt that the time was
barely ripe. Before putting the screw on the Allandales it had been his
object to rid the place, and his path, of his only stumbling block. In
this he had not quite succeeded as we have seen. He quite understood
that the Hon. Bunning-Ford must be removed from Foss River first. Whilst
he was on hand Jacky would be difficult to coerce. Instinctively he knew
that "Lord" Bill was her lover, and, with him at hand to advise her,
Jacky would hold out to the last. However, he believed that in the end
he must conquer. Bunning-Ford's resources were very limited he knew, and
soon his hated rival must leave the settlement and seek pastures new.
Lablache was but a clever scheming mortal. He did not credit others with
brains of equal caliber, much less cleverer and more resourceful than
his own. It had been better for him had his own success in life been
less assured, for then he would have been more doubtful of his own
ability to do as he wished, and he would have given his adversaries
credit for a cleverness which he now considered as only his.
After some time spent in surveying and considering his plans his
thoughts reverted to other matters. This was the night of the half-breed
pusky. His great face contorted into a sarcastic smile as he thought of
Sergeant Horrocks. He remembered with vivid acuteness every incident of
his interview with the officer two nights ago. He bore the man no
malice now for the contradiction of himself, for the reason that he was
sure his own beliefs on the subject of Retief would be amply realized.
His lashless eyes quivered as his thoughts invoked an inward mirth. No
one realized more fully than did this man the duplicity and cunning of
the Breed. He anticipated a great triumph over Horrocks the next time he
saw him.
As the time passed on he became more himself. His loneliness did not
strike him so keenly. He felt that after all there was great
satisfaction to be drawn from a watcher's observance of men. Isolated as
he was he was enabled to look on men and things more critically than he
otherwise would be.
He reached over to his tobacco jar, which stood upon his desk, and
leisurely proceeded to fill his pipe. It was rarely he indulged himself
in an idle evening, but to-night he somehow felt that idleness would be
good. He was beginning to feel the weight of his years.
He lit his heavy briar and proceeded to envelop himself in a cloud of
smoke. He gasped out a great sigh of satisfaction, and his leathery
eyelids half closed. Presently a gentle tap came at the glass door,
which partitioned off the office from the store. Lablache called out a
guttural "Come in," at the same time glancing at the loud ticking
"alarm" on the desk. He knew who his visitor was.
One of the clerks opened the door.
"It is past ten, sir, shall I close up?" he asked.
"Yes, close up. Whose evening off is it?"
"Rodgers, sir. He is still out. He'll be in before midnight, sir."
"Ah, down at the saloon, I expect," said Lablache, drily. "Well, bolt
the front door. Just leave it on the spring latch. I shall be up until
he comes in. What are you two boys going to do?"
"Going to bed, sir."
"All right; good-night."
"Good-night, sir."
The door closed quietly after the clerk, and Lablache heard his two
assistants close up the store and then go upstairs to their rooms. The
money-lender was served well. His employees in the store had been with
him for years. They were worked very hard and their pay was not great,
but their money was sure, and their employment was all the year round.
So many billets upon the prairie depended upon the seasons--opulence one
month and idleness the next. On the ranches it was often worse. There is
but little labor needed in the winter. And those who have the good
fortune to be employed all the year round generally experience a
reduction in wages at the end of the fall round-up, and find themselves
doing the "chores" when winter comes on.
After the departure of the clerk Lablache re-settled himself and went on
smoking placidly. The minutes ticked slowly away. An occasional groan
from the long-suffering basket chair, and the wreathing clouds of smoke
were the only appreciable indication of life in that little room.
By-and-by the great man reached a memorandum tablet from his desk and
dotted down a few hurried figures. Then he breathed a great sigh, and
his face wore a look of satisfaction. There could be no doubt as to the
tenor of his thoughts. Money, money. It was as life to him.
The distant rattle of the spring lock of the store front door being
snapped-to disturbed the quiet of the office. Lablache heard the sound.
Then followed the bolting of the door. The money-lender turned again to
his figures. It was the return of Rodgers, he thought, which had
disturbed him. He soon became buried in further calculations. While
figuring he unconsciously listened for the sound of the clerk's
footsteps on the stairs as he made his way up to his room. The sound did
not come. The room was clouded with tobacco smoke, and still Lablache
belched out fresh clouds to augment the reek of the atmosphere. Suddenly
the glass door opened. The money-lender heard the handle move.
"Eh, what is it, Rodgers?" he said, in a displeased tone. As he spoke
he peered through the smoke.
"What d'you want?" he exclaimed angrily. Then he rubbed his eyes and
craned forward only to fall back again with a muttered curse. He had
stared into the muzzle of a heavy six-shooter.
He moved his hand as though to throw his memorandum pad on the desk, but
instantly a stern voice ordered him to desist and the threatening
revolver came closer.
"Jest stay right thar, pard." The words were spoken in an exaggerated
Western drawl. "My barker's mighty light in the trigger. I guess it
don't take a hundred-weight to loose it. And I don't cotton to mucking
up this floor with yer vitals."
Lablache remained still. He saw before him the tall thin figure of a
half-breed. He had black lank hair which hung loosely down almost on to
his shoulders. His face was the color of mud, and he was possessed of a
pair of keen gray eyes and a thin-hooked nose. His face wore a lofty
look of command, and was stamped by an expression of the unmost
resolution. He spoke easily and showed not the smallest haste.
"Guess we ain't met before, boss--not familiar-like, leastways. My
name's Retief--Peter Retief, an' I take it yours is Lablache. Now I've
jest come right along to do biz with you--how does that fit your
bowels?"
The compelling ring of metal faced the astonished money-lender. For the
moment he remained speechless.
"Wal?" drawled the other, with elaborate significance.
Lablache struggled for words. His astonishment--dismay made the effort a
difficult one.
"You've got the drop on me you--you damned scoundrel," he at last burst
out, his face for the moment purpling with rage. "I'm forced to listen
to you now," he went on more gutturally, as the paroxysm having found
vent began to pass, "but watch yourself that you make no bad reckoning,
or you'll regret this business until the rope's round your neck. You'll
get nothing out of me--but what you take. Now then, be sharp. What are
you going to do?"
The half-breed grinned.
"You're mighty raw oh the hide jest now, I guess. But see hyar, my
reckonin's are nigh as slick as yours. An' jest slant yer tongue some.
'Damned scoundrel' sliden' from yer flannel face is like a coyote
roundin' on a timber wolf, an' a coyote ain't as low down as a skunk. I
opine I want a deal from you," Retief went on, with a hollow laugh, "and
wot I want I mostly git, in these parts."
Lablache was no coward. And even now he had not the smallest fear for
his life. But the thought of being bluffed by the very man he was
willing to pay so much for the capture of riled him almost beyond
endurance. The Breed noted the effect of his words and pushed his pistol
almost to within arm's reach of the money-lender's face.
The half-breed's face suddenly became stem.
"That's a dandy ranch of yours down south. Me an' my pards 'ave taken a
notion to it. Say, you're comin' right along with us. Savee? Guess we'll
show you the slickest round up this side o' the border. Now jest sit
right thar while I let my mates in."
Retief took no chances. Lablache, under pistol compulsion, was forced to
remain motionless in his chair. The swarthy Breed backed cautiously to
the door until his hand rested upon the spring catch. This, with deft
fingers, he turned and then forced back, and the next moment he was
joined by two companions as dark as himself and likewise dressed in the
picturesque garb of the prairie "hustler." The money-lender, in spite of
his predicament, was keenly alert, and lost no detail of the new-comers'
appearance. He took a careful mental photograph of each of the men,
trusting that he might find the same useful in the future. He wondered
what the next move would be. He eyed the Breed's pistol furtively, and
thought of his own weapon lying on his desk at the corner farthest from
him. He knew there was no possible chance of reaching it. The slightest
unbidden move on his part would mean instant death. He understood, only
too well, how lightly human, life was held by these people. Implicit
obedience alone could save him. In those few thrilling moments he had
still time to realize the clever way in which both he and Horrocks had
been duped. He had never for a moment believed in Gautier's story, but
had still less dreamed of such a daring outrage as was now being
perpetrated. He had not long to wait for developments. Directly the two
men were inside, and the door was again closed, Retief pointed to the
money-lender.
"Hustle, boys--the rope. Lash his feet."
One of the men produced an old lariat In a trice the great man's feet
were fast.
"His hands?" said one of the men.
"Guess not. He's goin' to write, some."
Lablache instantly thought of his cheque-book. But Retief had no fancy
for what he considered was useless paper.
The hustler stepped over to the desk. His keen eyes spotted the
money-lender's pistol lying upon the far corner of it. He had also noted
his prisoner casting furtive glances in the direction of it. To prevent
any mischance he picked the gleaming weapon up and slipped it into his
hip pocket. After that he drew a sheet of foolscap from the stationery
case and laid it on the blotting pad. Then he turned to his comrades.
"Jest help old money-bags over," he said quietly. He was thoroughly
alert, and as calmly indifferent to the danger of discovery as if he
were engaged on the most righteous work.
When Lablache had been hoisted and pushed into position at the desk the
raider took up a pen and held it out towards him.
"Write," he said laconically.
Lablache hesitated. He looked from the pen to the man's leveled pistol.
Then he reluctantly took the pen. The half-breed promptly dictated, and
the other wrote. The compulsion was exasperating, and the great man
scrawled with all the pettishness of a child.
The message read--
"Retief is here. I am a prisoner. Follow up with all speed."
"Now sign," said the Breed, when the message was written.
Lablache signed and flung down the pen.
"What's that for?" he demanded huskily.
"For?" His captor shrugged. "I guess them gophers of police are snugly
trussed by now. Mebbe, though, one o' them might 'a' got clear away.
When they find you're gone, they'll light on that paper. I jest want 'em
to come right along after us. Savee? It'll 'most surprise 'em when they
come along." Then he turned to his men. "Now, boys, lash his hands, and
cut his feet adrift. Then, into the buckboard with him. Guess his
carcase is too bulky for any 'plug' to carry. Get a hustle on, lads.
We've hung around here long enough."
The men stepped forward to obey their chief, but, at that moment,
Lablache gave another display of that wonderful agility of his of which,
at times, he was capable. His rage got the better of him, and even under
the muzzle of his captor's pistol he was determined to resist. We have
said that the money-lender was no coward; at that moment he was
desperate.
The nearest Breed received a terrific buffet in the neck, then, in spite
of his bound feet, Lablache seized his heavy swivel chair, and, raising
it with all his strength he hurled it at the other. Still Relief's
pistol was silent. The money-lender noticed the fact, and he became even
more assured. He turned heavily and aimed a blow at the "hustler." But,
even as he struck, he felt the weight of Retief's hand, and struggling
to steady himself--his bound feet impeding him--he overbalanced and fell
heavily to the ground. In an instant the Breeds were upon him. His own
handkerchief was used to gag him, and his hands were secured. Then,
without a moment's delay, he was hoisted from the floor--his great
weight bearing his captors down--and carried bodily out of the office
and thrown into his own buckboard, which was waiting at the door. Retief
sprang into the driving seat whilst one of the Breeds held the prisoner
down, some other dark figures leapt into the saddles of several waiting
horses, and the party dashed off at a breakneck speed.
The gleaming stars gave out more than sufficient light for the desperate
teamster. He swung the well-fed, high-mettled horses of the money-lender
round, and headed right through the heart of the settlement. The
audacity of this man was superlative. He lashed the animals into a
gallop which made the saddle horses extend themselves to keep up. On, on
into the night they raced, and almost in a flash the settlement was
passed. The sleepy inhabitants of Foss River heard the mad racing of the
horses but paid no heed. The daring of the raider was his safeguard.
Lablache knew their destination. They were traveling southward, and he
felt that their object was his own ranch.