The Story of the Foss River Ranch / Cullum, Ridgwell, [pseud.], 1867-1943

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Title: The Story of the Foss River Ranch

Author: Ridgwell Cullum

Release Date: December 27, 2004 [EBook #14482]

Language: English

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The Story of the Foss River Ranch

A Tale of the Northwest

By RIDGWELL CULLUM

Author of

"The Law Breakers," "The Way of the Strong,"
"The Watchers of the Plains." Etc.

A.L. BURT COMPANY Publishers  New York

Published by Arrangement with THE PAGE COMPANY

Published August, 1903




TO MY WIFE




CONTENTS

CHAP.                                 PAGE

I THE POLO CLUB BALL      1

II THE BLIZZARD: ITS CONSEQUENCES      12

III A BIG GAME OF POKER      24

IV AT THE FOSS RIVER RANCH      32

V THE "STRAY" BEYOND THE MUSKEG      45

VI "WAYS THAT ARE DARK"      56

VII ACROSS THE GREAT MUSKEG      64

VIII TOLD IN BAD MAN'S HOLLOW      76

IX LABLACHE'S "COUP"      88

X "AUNT" MARGARET REFLECTS      96

XI THE CAMPAIGN OPENS      110

XII LABLACHE FORCES THE FIGHT      120

XIII THE FIRST CHECK      128

XIV THE HUE AND CRY      138

XV AMONG THE HALF-BREEDS      150

XVI GAUTIER CAUSES DISSENSION      163

XVII THE NIGHT OF THE PUSKY      176

XVIII THE PUSKY      188

XIX LABLACHE'S MIDNIGHT VISITOR      200

XX A NIGHT OF TERROR      210

XXI HORROCKS LEARNS THE SECRET OF THE MUSKEG      219

  XXII THE DAY AFTER      230

 XXIII THE PAW OF THE CAT      243

  XXIV "POKER" JOHN ACCEPTS      253

   XXV UNCLE AND NIECE      261

  XXVI IN WHICH MATTERS REACH A CLIMAX      270

 XXVII THE LAST GAMBLE      279

XXVIII SETTLING THE RECKONING      287

  XXIX THE MAW OF THE MUSKEG      297




CHAPTER I

THE POLO CLUB BALL


It was a brilliant gathering--brilliant in every sense of the word. The
hall was a great effort of the decorator's art; the people were
faultlessly dressed; the faces were strong, handsome--fair or dark
complexioned as the case might be; those present represented the wealth
and fashion of the Western Canadian ranching world. Intellectually, too,
there was no more fault to find here than is usual in a ballroom in the
West End of London.

It was the annual ball of the Polo Club, and that was a social function
of the first water--in the eyes of the Calford world.

"My dear Mrs. Abbot, it is a matter which is quite out of my province,"
said John Allandale, in answer to a remark from his companion. He was
leaning over the cushioned back of the Chesterfield upon which an old
lady was seated, and gazing smilingly over at a group of young people
standing at the opposite end of the room. "Jacky is one of those young
ladies whose strength of character carries her beyond the control of
mere man. Yes, I know what you would say," as Mrs. Abbot glanced up into
his face with a look of mildly-expressed wonder; "it is true I am her
uncle and guardian, but, nevertheless, I should no more dream of
interfering with her--what shall we say?--love affairs, than suggest
her incapacity to 'boss' a 'round up' worked by a crowd of Mexican
greasers."

"Then all I can say is that your niece is a very unfortunate girl,"
replied the old lady, acidly. "How old is she?"

"Twenty-two."

John Allandale, or "Poker" John as he was more familiarly called by all
who knew him, was still looking over at the group, but an expression had
suddenly crept into his eyes which might, in a less robust-looking man,
have been taken for disquiet--even fear. His companion's words had
brought home to him a partial realization of a responsibility which was
his.

"Twenty-two," she repeated, "and not a relative living except a
good-hearted but thoroughly irresponsible uncle. That child is to be
pitied, John."

The old man sighed. He took no umbrage at his companion's
brusquely-expressed estimation of himself. He was still watching the
group at the other end of the room. His face was clouded, and a keen
observer might have detected a curious twitching of his bronzed right
cheek, just beneath the eye. His eyes followed the movement of a
beautiful girl surrounded by a cluster of men, immaculately dressed,
bronzed--and, for the most part, wholesome-looking. She was dark, almost
Eastern in her type of features. Her hair was black with the blackness
of the raven's wing, and coiled in an ample knot low upon her neck. Her
features, although Eastern, had scarcely the regularity one expects in
such a type, whilst her eyes quashed without mercy any idea of such
extraction for her nationality. They were gray, deeply ringed at the
pupil with black. They were keen eyes--fathomless in their suggestion of
strength--eyes which might easily mask a world of good or evil.

The music began, and the girl passed from amidst her group of admirers
upon the arm of a tall, fair man, and was soon lost in the midst of the
throng of dancers.

"Who is that she is dancing with now?" asked Mrs. Abbot, presently. "I
didn't see her go off; I was watching Mr. Lablache standing alone and
disconsolate over there against the door. He looks as if some one had
done him some terrible injury. See how he is glaring at the dancers."

"Jacky is dancing with 'Lord' Bill. Yes, you are right, Lablache does
not look very amiable. I think this would be a good opportunity to
suggest a little gamble in the smoking-room."

"Nothing of the sort," snapped Mrs. Abbot, with the assurance of an old
friend. "I haven't half finished talking to you yet. It is a most
extraordinary thing that all you people of the prairie love to call each
other by nicknames. Why should the Hon. William Bunning-Ford be dubbed
'Lord' Bill, and why should that sweet niece of yours, who is the
possessor of such a charming name as Joaquina, be hailed by every man
within one hundred miles of Calford as 'Jacky'? I think it is both
absurd and--vulgar."

"Possibly you are right, my dear lady. But you can never alter the ways
of the prairie. You might just as well try to stem the stream of our
Foss River in early spring as try to make the prairie man call people by
their legitimate names. For instance, do you ever hear me spoken of by
any other name than 'Poker' John?"

Mrs. Abbot looked up sharply. A malicious twinkle was in her eyes.

"There is reason in your sobriquet, John. A man who spends his substance
and time in playing that fascinating but degrading game called 'Draw
Poker' deserves no better title."

John Allandale made a "clucking" sound with his tongue. It was his way
of expressing irritation. Then he stood erect, and glanced round the
room in search of some one. He was a tall, well-built man and carried
his fifty odd years fairly well, in spite of his gray hair and the bald
patch at the crown of his head. Thirty years of a rancher's life had in
no way lessened the easy carriage and distinguished bearing acquired
during his upbringing. John Allandale's face and figure were redolent of
the free life of the prairie. And although, possibly, his fifty-five
years might have lain more easily upon him he was a man of commanding
appearance and one not to be passed unnoticed.

Mrs. Abbot was the wife of the doctor of the Foss River Settlement and
had known John Allandale from the first day he had taken up his abode on
the land which afterwards became known as the Foss River Ranch until
now, when he was acknowledged to be a power in the stock-raising world.
She was a woman of sound, practical, common sense; he was a man of
action rather than a thinker; she was a woman whose moral guide was an
invincible sense of duty; he was a man whose sense of responsibility and
duty was entirely governed by an unreliable inclination. Moreover, he
was obstinate without being possessed of great strength of will. They
were characters utterly opposed to one another, and yet they were the
greatest of friends.

The music had ceased again and once more the walls were lined with
heated dancers, breathing hard and fanning themselves. Suddenly John
Allandale saw a face he was looking for. Murmuring an excuse to Mrs.
Abbot, he strode across the room, just as his niece, leaning upon the
arm of the Hon. Bunning-Ford, approached where he had been standing.

Mrs. Abbot glanced admiringly up into Jacky's face.

"A successful evening, Joaquina?" she interrogated kindly.

"Lovely, Aunt Margaret, thanks." She always called the doctor's wife
"Aunt."

Mrs. Abbot nodded.

"I believe you have danced every dance. You must be tired, child. Come
and sit down."

Jacky was intensely fond of this old lady and looked upon her almost as
a mother. Her affection was reciprocated. The girl seated herself and
"Lord" Bill stood over her, fan in hand.

"Say, auntie," exclaimed Jacky, "I've made up my mind to dance every
dance on the program. And I guess I sha'n't Waste time on feeding."

The girl's beautiful face was aglow with excitement. Mrs. Abbot's face
indicated horrified amazement.

"My dear child, don't--don't talk like that. It is really dreadful."

"Lord" Bill smiled.

"I'm so sorry, auntie, I forgot," the girl replied, with an irresistible
smile. "I never can get away from the prairie. Do you know, this evening
old Lablache made me mad, and my hand went round to my hip to get a grip
on my six-shooter, and I was quite disappointed to feel nothing but
smooth silk to my touch. I'm not fit for town life, I guess. I'm a
prairie girl; you can bet your life on it, and nothing will civilize me.
Billy, do stop wagging that fan."

"Lord" Bill smiled a slow, twinkling smile and desisted. He was a tall,
slight man, with a faint stoop at the shoulders. He looked worthy of his
title.

"It is no use trying to treat Jacky to a becoming appreciation of social
requirements," he said, addressing himself with a sort of weary
deliberation to Mrs. Abbot. "I suggested an ice just now. She said she
got plenty on the ranch at this time of year," and he shrugged his
shoulders and laughed pleasantly.

"Well, of course. What does one want ices for?" asked the girl,
disdainfully. "I came here to dance. But, auntie, dear, where has uncle
gone? He dashed off as if he were afraid of us when we came up."

"I think he has set his mind on a game of poker, dear, and--"

"And that means he has gone in search of that detestable man, Lablache,"
Jacky put in sharply.

Her beautiful face flushed with anger as she spoke. But withal there was
a look of anxiety in her eyes.

"If he must play cards I wish he would play with some one else," she
pursued.

"Lord" Bill glanced round the room. He saw that Lablache had
disappeared.

"Well, you see, Lablache has taken a lot of money out of all of us.
Naturally we wish to get it back," he said quietly, as if in defense of
her uncle's doings.

"Yes, I know. And--do you?" The girl's tone was cutting.

"Lord" Bill shrugged. Then,--

"As yet I have not had that pleasure."

"And if I know anything of Lablache you never will," put in Mrs. Abbot,
curtly. "He is not given to parting easily. The qualification most
necessary amongst gentlemen in the days of our grandfathers was keen
gambling. You and John, had you lived in those days, might have aspired
to thrones."

"Yes--or taken to the road. You remember, even then, it was necessary to
be a 'gentleman' of the road."

"Lord" Bill laughed in his lazy fashion. His keen gray eyes were half
veiled with eyelids which, seemed too weary to lift themselves. He was a
handsome man, but his general air of weariness belied the somewhat eagle
cast of countenance which was his. Mrs. Abbot, watching him, thought
that the deplorable lassitude which he always exhibited masked a very
different nature. Jacky possibly had her own estimation of the man.
Whatever it was, her friendship for him was not to be doubted, and, on
his part, he never attempted to disguise his admiration of her.

A woman is often a much keener observer of men than she is given credit
for. A man is frequently disposed to judge another man by his mental
talents and his peculiarities of temper--or blatant self-advertisement.
A woman's first thought is for that vague, but comprehensive trait
"manliness. She drives straight home for the peg upon which to hang her
judgment. That is why in feminine regard the bookworm goes to the wall
to make room for the athlete. Possibly Jacky and Mrs. Abbot had probed
beneath "Lord" Bill's superficial weariness and discovered there a
nature worthy of their regard. They were both, in their several ways,
fond of this scion of a noble house.

"It is all very well for you good people to sit there and lecture--or,
at least, say 'things,'" "Lord" Bill went on. "A man must have
excitement. Life becomes a burden to the man who lives the humdrum
existence of ranch life. For the first few years it is all very well. He
can find a certain excitement in learning the business. The 'round-ups'
and branding and re-branding of cattle, these things are
fascinating--for a time. Breaking the wild and woolly broncho is
thrilling and he needs no other tonic; but when one has gone through all
this and he finds that no Broncho--or, for that matter, any other
horse--ever foaled cannot be ridden, it loses its charm and becomes
boring. On the prairie there are only two things left for him to
do--drink or gamble. The first is impossible. It is low, degrading.
Besides it only appeals to certain senses, and does not give one that
'hair-curling' thrill which makes life tolerable. Consequently the wily
pasteboard is brought forth--and we live again."

"Stuff," remarked Mrs. Abbot, uncompromisingly.

"Bill, you make me laugh," exclaimed Jacky, smiling up into his face.
"Your arguments are so characteristic of you. I believe it is nothing
but sheer indolence that makes you sit down night after night and hand
over your dollars to that--that Lablache. How much have you lost to him
this week?"

"Lord" Bill glanced quizzically down at the girl.

"I have purchased seven evenings' excitement at a fairly reasonable
price."

"Which means?"

The girl leant forward and in her eyes was a look of anxiety. She meant
to have the truth.

"I have enjoyed myself."

"But the price?"

"Ah--here comes your partner for the next dance," "Lord" Bill went on,
still smiling. "The band has struck up."

At that moment a broad-shouldered man, with a complexion speaking loudly
of the prairie, came up to claim the girl.

"Hallo, Pickles," said Bill, quietly turning upon the newcomer and
ignoring Jacky's question. "Thought you said you weren't coming in
to-night?"

"Neither was I," the man addressed as "Pickles" retorted, "but Miss
Jacky promised me two dances," he went on, in strong Irish brogue; "that
settled it. How d'ye do, Mrs. Abbot? Come along, Miss Jacky, we're
losing half our dance."

The girl took the proffered arm and was about to move off. She turned
and spoke to "Lord" Bill over her shoulder.

"How much?"

Bill shrugged his shoulders in a deprecating fashion. The same gentle
smile hovered round his sleepy eyes.

"Three thousand dollars."

Jacky glided off into the already dancing throng.

For a moment the Hon. Bunning-Ford and Mrs. Abbot watched the girl as
she glided in and out amongst the dancers, then, with a sigh, the old
lady turned to her companion. Her kindly wrinkled old face wore a sad
expression and a half tender look was in her eyes as they rested upon
the man's face. When she spoke, however, her tone was purely
conversational.

"Are you not going to dance?"

"No," abstractedly. "I think I've had enough."

"Then come and sit by me and help to cheer an old woman up."

"Lord" Bill smiled as he seated himself upon the lounge.

"I don't think there is much necessity for my cheering influence, Aunt
Margaret. Amongst your many other charming qualities cheerfulness is not
the least. Doesn't Jacky look lovely to-night?"

"To-night?--always."

"Yes, of course--but Jacky always seems to surpass herself under
excitement. One would scarcely expect it, knowing her as we do. But she
is as wildly delighted with dancing as any miss fresh from school."

"And why not? It is little pleasure that comes into her life. An
orphan--barely twenty-two--with the entire responsibility of her uncle's
ranch upon her shoulders. Living in a very hornet's nest of blacklegs
and--and--"

"Gamblers," put in the man, quietly.

"Yes," Aunt Margaret went on defiantly, "gamblers. With the certain
knowledge that the home she struggles for, through no fault of her own,
is passing into the hands of a man she hates and despises--"

"And who by the way is in love with her." "Lord" Bill's mouth was
curiously pursed.

"What pleasure can she have?" exclaimed Mrs. Abbot, vehemently.
"Sometimes, much as I am attached to John, I feel as if I should like
to--to bang him!"

"Poor old John!" Bill's bantering tone nettled the old lady, but she
said no more. Her anger against those she loved could not last long.

"'Poker' John loves his niece," the man went on, as his companion
remained silent. "There is nothing in the world he would not do for her,
if it lay within his power."

"Then let him leave poker alone. His gambling is breaking her heart."

The angry light was again in the old lady's eyes. Her companion did not
answer for a moment. His lips had assumed that curious pursing. When he
spoke it was with, great decision.

"Impossible, my dear lady--utterly impossible. Can the Foss River help
freezing in winter? Can Jacky help talking prairie slang? Can Lablache
help grubbing for money? Can you help caring for all of our worthless
selves who belong to the Foss River Settlement? Nothing can alter these
things. John would play poker on the lid of his own coffin, while the
undertakers were winding his shroud about him--if they'd lend him a pack
of cards."

"I believe you encourage him in it," said the old lady, mollified, but
still sticking to her guns. "There is little to choose between you."

The man shrugged his indolent shoulders. This dear old lady's loyalty to
Jacky, and, for that matter, to all her friends, pleased while it amused
him.

"Maybe." Then abruptly, "Let's talk of something else."

At that moment an elderly man was seen edging his way through the
dancers. He came directly over to Mrs. Abbot.

"It's getting late, Margaret," he said, pausing before her. "I am told
it is rather gusty outside. The weather prophets think we may have a
blizzard on us before morning."

"I shouldn't be at all surprised," put in the Hon. Bunning-Ford. "The
sun-dogs have been showing for the last two days. I'll see what Jacky
says, and then hunt out old John."

"Yes, for goodness' sake don't let us get caught in a blizzard,"
exclaimed Mrs. Abbot, fearfully. "If there is one thing I'm afraid of it
is one of those terrible storms. We have thirty-five miles to go."

The new-comer, Dr. Abbot, smiled at his wife's terrified look, but, as
he turned to urge Bill to hurry, there was a slightly anxious look on
his face.

"Hurry up, old man. I'll go and see about our sleigh." Then in an
undertone, "You can exaggerate a little to persuade them, for the storm
_is_ coming on and we must get away at once."

A moment or two later "Lord" Bill and Jacky were making their way to the
smoking-room. On the stairs they met "Poker" John. He was returning to
the ballroom.

"We were just coming to look for you, uncle," exclaimed Jacky. "They
tell us it is blowing outside."

"Just what I was coming to tell you, my dear. We must be going. Where
are the doctor and Aunt Margaret?"

"Getting ready," said Bill, quietly. "Have a good game?"

The old man smiled. His bronzed face indicated extreme satisfaction.

"Not half bad, boy--not half bad. Relieved Lablache of five hundred
dollars in the last jackpot. Held four deuces. He opened with full on
aces."

"Poker" John seemed to have forgotten the past heavy losses, and spoke
gleefully of the paltry five hundred he had just scooped in.

The girl looked relieved, and even the undemonstrative "Lord" Bill
allowed a scarcely audible sigh to escape him. Jacky returned at once to
the exigencies of the moment.

"Then, uncle, dear, let us hurry up. I guess none of us want to be
caught in a blizzard. Say, Bill, take me to the cloak-room, right
away."




CHAPTER II

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.




CHAPTER III

A BIG GAME OF POKER


"What about cards?" said Lablache, as the four men sat down to the
table.

"Doc will oblige, no doubt," Bunning-Ford replied quietly. "He generally
carries the 'pernicious pasteboards' about with him."

"The man who travels in the West without them," said Dr. Abbot,
producing a couple of new packs from his pocket, "either does not know
his country or is a victim of superstition."

No one seemed inclined to refuse the doctor's statement, or enter into a
discussion upon the matter. Instead, each drew out a small memorandum
block and pencil--a sure indication of a "big game."

"Limit?" asked the doctor.

Lablache shrugged his shoulders, affectionately shuffling the cards the
while. He kept his eyes averted.

"What do the others say?"

There was a challenge in Lablache's tone. Bunning-Ford flushed slightly
at the cheek-bones. That peculiar pursing was at his lips.

"Anything goes with me. The higher the game the greater the excitement,"
he said, shooting a keen glance at the pasty face of the money-lender.

Old John was irritated. His ruddy face gleamed in the light of the lamp.
The nervous twitching of the cheek indicated his frame of mind. Lablache
smiled to himself behind the wood expression of his face.

"Twenty dollars call for fifty. Limit the bet to three thousand
dollars. Is that big enough for you, Lablache? Let us have a regulation
'ante.' No 'straddling.'"

There was a moment's silence. "Poker" John had proposed the biggest game
they had yet played. He would have suggested no limit, but this he knew
would be all in favor of Lablache, whose resources were vast.

John glanced over from the money-lender to the doctor. The doctor and
Bunning-Ford were the most to be considered. Their resources were very
limited. The old man knew that the doctor was one of those careful
players who was not likely to allow himself to suffer by the height of
the stakes. There was no bluffing the doctor. "Lord" Bill was able to
take care of himself.

"That's good enough for me," said Bunning-Ford. "Let it go at that."

Outwardly Lablache was indifferent; inwardly he experienced a sense of
supreme satisfaction at the height of the stakes.

The four men relapsed into silence as they cut for the deal. It was an
education in the game to observe each man as he, metaphorically
speaking, donned his mask of impassive reserve. As the game progressed
any one of those four men might have been a graven image as far as the
expression of countenance went. No word was spoken beyond "Raise you so
and so"--"See you that." So keen, so ardent was the game that the stake
might have been one of life and death. No money passed. Just slips of
paper; and yet any one of those fragments represented a small fortune.

The first few hands resulted in but desultory betting. Sums of money
changed hands but there was very little in it. Lablache was the
principal loser. Three "pots" in succession were taken by John
Allandale, but their aggregate did not amount to half the limit. A
little luck fell to Bunning-Ford. He once raised Lablache to the limit.
The money-lender "saw" him and lost. Bill promptly scooped in three
thousand dollars. The doctor was cautious. He had lost and won nothing.
Then a change came over the game. To use a card-player's expression, the
cards were beginning to "run."

"Lord" Bill dealt. Lablache was upon his right and next to him the
doctor.

The money-lender picked up his cards, and partially opening them glanced
keenly at the index numerals. His stolid face remained unchanged. The
doctor glanced at his and "came in." "Poker" John "came in." The dealer
remained out. The doctor drew two cards; "Poker" John, one; Lablache
drew one. The veteran rancher held four nines. "Lord" Bill gathered up
the "deadwood," and, propping his face upon his hands, watched the
betting.

It was the doctor's bet; he cautiously dropped out. He had an inkling of
the way things were going. "Poker" John opened the ball with five
hundred dollars. He had a good thing and he did not want to frighten his
opponent by a plunge. He would leave it to Lablache to start raising.
The money-lender raised him one thousand. Old John sniffed with the
appreciation of an old war-horse at the scent of battle. The nervous,
twitching cheek remained unmoved. The old gambler in him rose uppermost.

He leisurely saw the thousand, and raised another five hundred. Lablache
allowed his fishy eyes to flash in the direction of his opponent. A
moment after he raised another thousand. The gamble was becoming
interesting. The two onlookers were consumed with the lust of play. They
forgot that in the result they would not be participants. Old John's
face lost something of its impassivity as he in turn raised to the
limit. Lablache eased his great body in his chair. His little mouth was
very tightly clenched. His breathing, at times stertorous, was like the
breathing of an asthmatical pig. He saw, and again raised to the limit.
There was now over twelve thousand dollars in the pool.

It was old John's turn. The doctor and "Lord" Bill waited anxiously. The
old rancher was reputed very wealthy. They felt assured that he would
not back down after having gone so far. In their hearts they both wished
to see him relieve Lablache of a lot of money.

They need have had no fears. Whatever his faults "Poker" John was a
"dead game sport." He dashed a slip of paper into the pool. The keen
eyes watching read "four thousand dollars" scrawled upon it. He had
again raised to the limit. It was now Lablache's turn to accept or
refuse the challenge. The onlookers were not so sure of the
money-lender. Would he accept or not?

A curious thought was in the mind of that monument of flesh. He knew for
certain that he held the winning cards. How he knew it would be
impossible to say. And yet he hesitated. Perhaps he knew the limits of
John Allandale's resources, perhaps he felt, for the present, there was
sufficient in the pool; perhaps, even, he had ulterior motives. Whatever
the cause, as he passed a slip of paper into the pool merely seeing his
opponent, his face gave no outward sign of what was passing in the brain
behind it.

Old John laid down his hand.

"Four nines," he said quietly.

"Not good enough," retorted Lablache; "four kings." And he spread his
cards out upon the table before him and swept up the pile of papers
which represented his win.

A sigh, as of relief to pent-up feelings, escaped the two men who had
watched the gamble. Old John said not a word and his face betrayed no
thought or regret that might have been in his mind at the loss of such a
large amount of money. He merely glanced over at the money-lender.

"Your deal, Lablache," he said quietly.

Lablache took the cards and a fresh deal went round. Now the game became
one-sided. With that one large pull the money-lender's luck seemed to
have set in. Seemingly he could do no wrong. If he drew to "three of a
kind," he invariably filled; if to a "pair," he generally secured a
third; once, indeed, he drew to jack, queen, king of a suit and
completed a "royal flush." His luck was phenomenal. The other men's
luck seemed "dead out." Bunning-Ford and the doctor could get no hands
at all, and thus they were saved heavy losses. Occasionally, even, the
doctor raked in a few "antes." But John Allandale could do nothing
right. He was always drawing tolerable cards--just good enough to lose
with. Until, by the time daylight came, he had lost so heavily that his
two friends were eagerly seeking an excuse to break up the game.

At last "Lord" Bill effected this purpose, but at considerable loss to
himself. He had a fairly good hand, but not, as he knew, sufficiently
good to win with. Lablache and he were left in. The money-lender had in
one plunge raised the bet to the "limit." Bill knew that he ought to
drop out, but, instead of so doing, he saw his opponent. He lost the
"pot."

"Thank you, gentlemen," he said, quietly rising from the table, "my
losses are sufficient for one night. I have finished. It is daylight and
the storm is 'letting up' somewhat."

He turned as he spoke, and, glancing at the staircase, saw Jacky
standing at the top of it. How long she had been standing there he did
not know. He felt certain, although she gave no sign, that she had heard
what he had just said.

"Poker" John saw her too.

"Why, Jacky, what means this early rising?" said the old man kindly.
"Too tired last night to sleep?"

"No, uncle. Guess I slept all right. The wind's dropping fast. I take it
it'll be blowing great guns again before long. This is our chance to
make the ranch." She had been an observer of the finish of the game. She
had heard Bill's remarks on his loss, and yet not by a single word did
she betray her knowledge. Inwardly she railed at herself for having gone
to bed. She wondered how it had fared with her uncle.

Bunning-Ford left the room. Somehow he felt that he must get away from
the steady gaze of those gray eyes. He knew how Jacky dreaded, for her
uncle's sake, the game they had just been playing. He wondered, as he
went to test the weather, what she would have thought had she known the
stakes, or the extent of her uncle's losses. He hoped she was not aware
of these facts.

"You look tired, Uncle John," said the girl, solicitously, as she came
down the stairs. She purposely ignored Lablache. "Have you had no
sleep?"

"Poker" John laughed a little uneasily.

"Sleep, child? We old birds of the prairie can do with very little of
that. It's only pretty faces that want sleep, and I'm thinking you ought
still to be in your bed."

"Miss Jacky is ever on the alert to take advantage of the elements," put
in Lablache, heavily. "She seems to understand these things better than
any of us."

The girl was forced to notice the money-lender. She did so reluctantly,
however.

"So you, too, sought shelter from the storm beneath old man Norton's
hospitable roof. You are dead right, Mr. Lablache; we who live on the
prairie need to be ever on the alert. One never knows what each hour may
bring forth."

The girl was still in her ball-dress. Lablache's fishy eyes noticed her
charming appearance. The strong, beautiful face sent a thrill of delight
over him as he watched it--the delicate rounded shoulders made him suck
in his heavy breath like one who anticipates a delicate dish. Jacky
turned from him in plainly-expressed disgust.

Her uncle was watching her with a gaze half uneasy and wholly tender.
She was the delight of his old age, the center of all his affections,
this motherless child of his dead brother. His cheek twitched painfully
as he thought of the huge amount of his losings to Lablache. He shivered
perceptibly as he rose from his seat and went over to the cooking stove.

"I believe you people have let the stove out," the girl exclaimed, as
she noted her uncle's movement. She had no intention of mentioning the
game they had been playing. She feared to hear the facts. Instinct told
her that her uncle had lost again. "Yes, I declare you have," as she
knelt before the grate and raked away at the ashes.

Suddenly she turned to the money-lender.

"Here, you, fetch me some wood and coal-oil. Men can never be trusted."

Jacky was no respecter of persons. When she ordered there were few men
on the prairie who would refuse to obey. Lablache heaved his great bulk
from before the table and got on to his feet. His bilious eyes were
struggling to smile. The effect was horrible. Then he moved across the
room to where a stack of kindling stood.

"Hurry up. I guess if we depended much on you we'd freeze."

And Lablache, the hardest, most unscrupulous man for miles around,
endeavored to obey with the alacrity of any sheep-dog.

In spite of himself John Allandale could not refrain from smiling at the
grotesque picture the monumental Lablache made as he lumbered towards
the stack of kindling.

When "Lord" Bill returned Lablache was bending over the stove beside the
girl.

"I've thrown the harness on the horses--watered and fed 'em," he said,
taking in the situation at a glance. "Say, Doc," turning to Abbot,
"better rouse your good lady."

"She'll be down in a tick," said Jacky, over her shoulder. "Here,
doctor, you might get a kettle of water--and Bill, see if you can find
some bacon or stuff. And you, uncle, came and sit by the stove--you're
cold."

Strange is the power and fascination of woman. A look--a glance--a
simple word and we men hasten to minister to her requirements. Half an
hour ago and all these men were playing for fortunes--dealing in
thousands of dollars on the turn of a card, the passion for besting his
neighbor uppermost in each man's mind. Now they were humbly doing one
girl's bidding with a zest unsurpassed by the devotion to their recent
gamble.

She treated them indiscriminately. Old or young, there was no
difference. Bunning-Ford she liked--Dr. Abbot she liked--Lablache she
hated and despised, still she allotted them their tasks with perfect
impartiality. Only her old uncle she treated differently. That dear,
degenerate old man she loved with an affection which knew no bounds. He
was her all in the world. Whatever his sins--whatever his faults, she
loved him.




CHAPTER IV

AT THE FOSS RIVER RANCH


Spring is already upon the prairie. The fur coat has already been
exchanged for the pea-jacket. No longer is the fur cap crushed down upon
the head and drawn over the ears until little more than the oval of the
face is exposed to the elements; it is still worn occasionally, but now
it rests upon the head with the jaunty cant of an ordinary headgear.

The rough coated broncho no longer stands "tucked up" with the cold,
with its hind-quarters towards the wind. Now he stands grazing on the
patches of grass which the melting snow has placed at his disposal. The
cattle, too, hurry to and fro as each day extends their field of fodder.
When spring sets in in the great North-West it is with no show of
reluctance that grim winter yields its claims and makes way for its
gracious and all-conquering foe. Spring is upon everything with all the
characteristic suddenness of the Canadian climate. A week--a little
seven days--and where all before had been cheerless wastes of snow and
ice, we have the promise of summer with us. The snow disappears as with
the sweep of a "chinook" in winter. The brown, saturated grass is tinged
with the bright emerald hue of new-born pasture. The bared trees don
that yellowish tinge which tells of breaking leaves. Rivers begin to
flow. Their icy coatings, melting in the growing warmth of the sun,
quickly returning once more to their natural element.

With the advent of spring comes a rush of duties to those whose interest
are centered in the breeding of cattle. The Foss River Settlement is
already teeming with life. For the settlement is the center of the great
spring "round-up." Here are assembling the "cow-punchers" from all the
outlying ranches, gathering under the command of a captain (generally a
man elected for his vast experience on the prairie) and making their
preparations to scour the prairie east and west, north and south, to the
very limits of the far-reaching plains which spread their rolling
pastures at the eastern base of the Rockies. Every head of cattle which
is found will be brought into the Foss River Settlement and thence will
be distributed to its lawful owners. This is but the beginning of the
work, for the task of branding calves and re-branding cattle whose
brands have become obscured during the long winter months is a process
of no small magnitude for those who number their stocks by tens of
thousands.

At John Allandale's ranch all is orderly bustle. There is no confusion.
Under Jacky's administration the work goes on with a simple directness
which would astonish the uninitiated. There are the corrals to repair
and to be put in order. Sheds and out-buildings to be whitewashed.
Branding apparatus to be set in working order, fencing to be repaired,
preparations for seeding to commence; a thousand and one things to be
seen to; and all of which must be finished before the first "bands" of
cattle are rounded up into the settlement.

It is nearly a month since we saw this daughter of the prairie garbed in
the latest mode, attending the Polo Ball at Calford, and widely
different is her appearance now from what it was at the time of our
introduction to her.

She is returning from an inspection of the wire fencing of the home
pastures. She is riding her favorite horse, Nigger, up the gentle slope
which leads to her uncle's house. There is nothing of the woman of
fashion about her now--and, perhaps, it is a matter not to be regretted.

She sits her horse with the easy grace of a childhood's experience. Her
habit, if such it can be called, is a "dungaree" skirt of a hardly
recognizable blue, so washed out is it, surmounted by a beautifully
beaded buckskin shirt. Loosely encircling her waist, and resting upon
her hips, is a cartridge belt, upon which is slung the holster of a
heavy revolver, a weapon without which she never moves abroad. Her head
is crowned by a Stetson hat, secured in true prairie fashion by a strap
which passes under her hair at the back, while her beautiful hair itself
falls in heavy ringlets over her shoulders, and waves untrammelled in
the fresh spring breeze as her somewhat unruly charger gallops up the
hill towards the ranch.

The great black horse was heading for the stable. Jacky leant over to
one side and swung him sharply towards the house. At the veranda she
pulled him up short. High mettled, headstrong as the animal was, he knew
his mistress. Tricks which he would often attempt to practice upon other
people were useless here--doubtless she had taught him that such was the
case.

The girl sprang, unaided, to the ground and hitched her picket rope to a
tying-post. For a moment she stood on the great veranda which ran down
the whole length of the house front. It was a one-storied,
bungalow-shaped house, built with a high pitch to the roof and entirely
constructed of the finest red pine-wood. Six French windows opened on to
the veranda. The outlook was westerly, and, contrary to the usual
custom, the ranch buildings were not overlooked by it. The corrals and
stables were in the background.

She was about to turn in at one of the windows when she suddenly
observed Nigger's ears cocked, and his head turned away towards the
shimmering peaks of the distant mountains. The movement fixed her
attention instantly. It was the instinct of one who lives in a country
where the eyes and ears of a horse are often keener and more
far-reaching than those of its human masters. The horse was gazing with
statuesque fixedness across a waste of partially-melted snow. A stretch
of ten miles lay flat and smooth as a billiard-table at the foot of the
rise upon which the house was built. And far out across this the beast
was gazing.

Jacky shaded her eyes with her hand and followed the direction of the
horse's gaze. For a moment or two she saw nothing but the dazzling glare
of the snow in the bright spring sunlight. Then her eyes became
accustomed to the brilliancy, and far in the distance, she beheld an
animal peacefully moving along from patch to patch of bare grass,
evidently in search of fodder.

"A horse," she muttered, under her breath. "Whose?"

She could find no answer to her monosyllabic inquiry. She realized at
once that to whomsoever it belonged its owner would never recover it,
for it was grazing on the far side of the great "Muskeg," that mighty
bottomless mire which extends for forty miles north and south and whose
narrowest breadth is a span of ten miles. She was looking across it now,
and innocent enough that level plain of terror appeared at that moment.
And yet it was the curse of the ranching district, for, annually,
hundreds of cattle met an untimely death in its cruel, absorbing bosom.

She turned away for the purpose of fetching a pair of field-glasses. She
was anxious to identify the horse. She passed along the veranda
towards the furthest window. It was the window of her uncle's office.
Just as she was nearing it she heard the sound of voices coming from
within. She paused, and an ominous pucker drew her brows together. Her
beautiful dark face clouded. She had no wish to play the part of an
eavesdropper, but she had recognized the voices of her uncle and
Lablache. She had also heard the mention of her own name. What woman,
or, for that matter, man, can refrain from listening when they hear two
people talking about them. The window was open; Jacky paused--and
listened.

Lablache's thick voice lolled heavily upon the brisk air.

"She is a good girl. But don't you think you are considering her future
from a rather selfish point of view, John?"

"Selfish?" The old man laughed in his hearty manner "Maybe you're right,
though. I never thought of that. You see I'm getting old now. I can't
get around like I used to. Bless me, she's two-an'-twenty.
Three-and-twenty years since my brother Dick--God rest his
soul!--married that half-breed girl, Josie. Yes, I guess you're right,
she's bound to marry soon."

Jacky smiled a curious dark smile. Something told her why Lablache and
her uncle were discussing her future.

"Why, of course she is," said Lablache, "and when that happy event is
accomplished I hope it will not be with any improvident--harum-scarum
man like--like--"

"The Hon. Bunning-Ford I suppose you would say, eh?"

There was a somewhat sharp tone in the old man's voice which Jacky was
not slow to detect.

"Well," went on Lablache, with one of those deep whistling breaths which
made him so like an ancient pug, "since you mention him, for want of a
better specimen of improvidence, his name will do."

"So I thought--so I thought," laughed the old man. But his words rang
strangely. "Most people think," he went on, "that when I die Jacky will
be rich. But she won't."

"No," replied Lablache, emphatically.

There was a world of meaning in his tone.

"However, I guess we can let her hunt around for herself when she wants
a husband. Jacky's a girl with a head. A sight better head than I've got
on my old shoulders. When she chooses a husband, and comes and tells me
of it, she shall have my blessing and anything else I have to give. I'm
not going to interfere with that girl's matrimonial affairs, sir, not
for any one. That child, bless her heart, is like my own child to me. If
she wants the moon, and there's nothing else to stop her having it but
my consent, why, I guess that moon's as good as fenced in with
triple-barbed wire an' registered in her name in the Government Land
Office."

"And in the meantime you are going to make that same child work for her
daily bread like any 'hired man,' and keep company with any scoun--"

"Hi, stop there, Lablache! Stop there," thundered "Poker" John, and
Jacky heard a thud as of a fist falling upon the table. "You've taken
the unwarrantable liberty of poking your nose into my affairs, and,
because of our old acquaintance, I have allowed it. But now let me tell
you this is no d----d business of yours. There's no make with Jacky.
What she does, she does of her own accord."

At that moment the girl in question walked abruptly in from the veranda.
She had heard enough.

"Ah, uncle," she said, smiling tenderly up into the old man's face,
"talking of me, I guess. You shouted my name just as I was coming along.
Say, I want the field-glasses. Where are they?"

Then she turned on Lablache as if she had only just become aware of his
presence.

"What, Mr. Lablache, you here? And so early, too. Guess this isn't like
you. How is your store--that temple of wealth and high interest--to get
on without you? How are the 'improvident'--'harum-scarums' to live if
you are not present to minister to their wants--upon the best of
security?" Without waiting for a reply the girl picked up the glasses
she was in search of and darted out, leaving Lablache glaring his
bilious-eyed rage after her.

"Poker" John stood for a moment a picture of blank surprise; then he
burst into a loud guffaw at the discomfited money-lender. Jacky heard
the laugh and smiled. Then she passed out of earshot and concentrated
her attention upon the distant speck of animal life.

The girl stood for some moments surveying the creature as it moved
leisurely along, its nose well down amongst the roots of the tawny
grass, seeking out the tender green shoots of the new-born pasture. Then
she closed her glasses and her thoughts wandered to other matters.

The gorgeous landscape was, for a moment, utterly lost upon her. The
snowy peaks of the Rockies, stretching far as the eye could see away to
the north and south, like some giant fortification set up to defend the
rolling pastures of the prairies from the ceaseless attack of the stormy
Pacific Ocean, were far from her thoughts. Her eyes, it is true, were
resting on the level flat of the muskeg, beyond the grove of slender
pines which lined the approach to the house, but she was not thinking of
that. No, recollection was struggling back through two years of a busy
life, to a time when, for a brief space, she had watched over the
welfare of another than her uncle, when the dark native blood which
flowed plentifully in her veins had asserted itself, and a nature which
was hers had refused to remain buried beneath a superficial European
training. She was thinking of a man who had formed a secret part of her
life for a few short years, when she had allowed her heart to dictate a
course for her actions which no other motive but that of love could have
brought about. She was thinking of Peter Retief, a pretty scoundrel, a
renowned "bad man," a man of wild and reckless daring. He had been the
terror of the countryside. A cattle-thief who feared neither man nor
devil; a man who for twelve months and more had carried, his life in his
hands, the sworn enemy of law and order, but who, in his worst moments,
had never been known to injure a poor man or a woman. The wild blood of
the half-breed that was in her had been stirred, as only a woman's blood
can be, by his reckless dealings, his courage, effrontery, and withal
his wondrous kindliness of disposition. She was thinking of this man
now, this man whom she knew to be numbered amongst the countless victims
of that dreadful mire. And what had conjured this thought? A horse--a
horse peacefully grazing far out across the mire in the direction of the
distant hills which she knew had once been this desperado's home.

Her train of recollection suddenly became broken, and a sigh escaped her
as the sound of her uncle's voice fell upon her ears. She did not move,
however, for she knew that Lablache was with him, and this man she hated
with the fiery hatred only to be found in the half-breeds of any native
race.

"I'm sorry, John, we can't agree on the point," Lablache was saying in
his wheezy voice, as the two men stood at the other end of the veranda,
"but I'm quite determined Upon the matter myself. The land intersects
mine and cuts me clean off from the railway siding, and I am forced to
take my cattle a circle of nearly fifteen miles to ship them. If he
would only be reasonable and allow a passage I would say nothing. I will
force him to sell."

"If you can," put in the rancher. "I reckon you've got chilled steel to
deal with when you endeavor to 'force' old Joe Norton to sell the finest
wheat land in the country."

At this point in the conversation three men came round from the back of
the house. They were "cow" hands belonging to the ranch. They approached
Jacky with the easy assurance of men who were as much companions as
servants of their mistress. All three, however, touched their
wide-brimmed hats in unmistakable respect. They were clad in buckskin
shirts and leather "chaps," and each had his revolver upon his hip. The
girl lost the rest of the conversation between her uncle and Lablache,
for her attention was turned to the men.

"Well?" she asked shortly, as the men stood before her.

One of the men, a tall, lank specimen of the dark-skinned prairie
half-breed, acted as spokesman.

He ejected a squirt of tobacco juice from his great, dirty mouth before
he spoke. Then with a curious backward jerk of the head he blurted out a
stream of Western jargon.

"Say, missie," he exclaimed in a high-pitched nasal voice, "it ain't no
use in talkin', ye kent put no tenderfoot t' boss the round-up. There's
them all-fired Donoghue lot jest sent right in t' say, 'cause, I s'pose,
they reckon as they're the high muck-i-muck o' this location, that that
tarnation Sim Lory, thar head man, is to cap' the round-up. Why, he
ain't cast a blamed foot on the prairie sence he's been hyar. An' I'll
swear he don't know the horn o' his saddle from a monkey stick. Et ain't
right, missie, an' us fellers t' work under him an' all."

His address came to an abrupt end, and he gave emphasis to his words by
a prolonged expectoration. Jacky, her eyes sparkling with anger, was
quick to reply.

"Look you here, Silas, just go right off and throw your saddle on your
pony--"

"Guess it's right thar, missie," the man interrupted.

"Then sling off as fast as your plug can lay foot to the ground, and
give John Allandale's compliments to Jim Donoghue and say, if they don't
send a capable man, since they've been appointed to find the 'captain,'
he'll complain to the Association and insist on the penalty being
enforced. What, do they take us for a lot of 'gophers'? Sim Lory,
indeed; why, he's not fit to prise weeds with a two tine hay fork."

The men went off hurriedly. Their mistress's swift methods of dealing
with matters pleased them. Silas was more than pleased to be able to get
a "slant" (to use his own expression) at his old enemy, Sim Lory. As the
men departed "Poker" John came and stood beside his niece.

"What's that about Sim Lory, Jacky?"

"They've sent him to run this 'round-up.'"

"And?"

"Oh, I just told them it wouldn't do," indifferently.

Old John smiled.

"In those words?"

"Well, no, uncle," the girl said with a responsive smile. "But they
needed a 'jinning' up. I sent the message in your name."

The old man shook his head, but his indulgent smile remained.

"You'll be getting me into serious trouble with that impetuosity of
yours, Jacky," he said absently. "But there--I daresay you know best."

His words were characteristic of him. He left the entire control of the
ranch to this girl of two-and-twenty, relying implicitly upon her
judgment in all things. It was a strange thing to do, for he was still a
vigorous man. To look at him was to make oneself wonder at the reason.
But the girl accepted the responsibility without question. There was a
subtle sympathy between uncle and niece. Sometimes Jacky would gaze up
into his handsome old face and something in the twitching cheek, the
curiously-shaped mouth, hidden beneath the gray mustache, would cause
her to turn away with a sigh, and, with stimulated resolution, hurl
herself into the arduous labors of managing the ranch. What she read in
that dear, honest face she loved so well she kept locked in her own
secret heart, and never, by word or act, did she allow herself to betray
it. She was absolute mistress of the Foss River Ranch and she knew it.
Old "Poker" John, like the morphine "fiend," merely continued to keep up
his reputation and the more fully deserve his sobriquet. His mind, his
character, his whole being was being slowly but surely absorbed in the
lust of gambling.

The girl laid her hand upon the old man's arm.

"Uncle--what was Lablache talking to you about? I mean when I came for
the field-glasses."

"Poker" John was gazing abstractedly into the dense growth of pines
which fringed the house. He pulled himself together, but his eyes had in
them a far-away look.

"Many things," he replied evasively.

"Yes, I know, dear, but," bending her face while she removed one of her
buckskin gauntlets from her hand, "I mean about me. You two
were-discussing me, I know."

She turned her keen gray eyes upon her relative as she finished
speaking. The old man turned away. He felt that those eyes were reading
his very soul. They made him uncomfortable.

"Oh, he said I ought not to let you associate with certain people."

"Why?" The sharp question came with the directness of a pistol-shot.

"Well, he seemed to think that you might think of marrying."

"Ah, and--"

"He seemed to fancy that you, being impetuous, might make a mistake and
fall--"

"In love with the wrong man. Yes, I understand; and from his point of
view, if ever I do marry it will undoubtedly be the wrong man."

And the girl finished up with a mirthless laugh.

They stood for some moments in silence. They were both thinking. The
noise from the corrals behind the house reached them. The steady drip,
drip of the water from the melting snow upon the roof of the house
sounded loudly as it fell on the sodden ground beneath.

"Uncle, did it ever strike you that that greasy money-lender wants to
marry me himself?"

The question startled John Allandale more than anything else could have
done. He turned sharply round and faced his niece.

"Marry you, Jacky?" he repeated. "I never thought of it."

"It isn't to be supposed that you would have done so."

There was the faintest tinge of bitterness in the girl's answer.

"And do you really think that he wants to marry you?"

"I don't know quite. Perhaps I am wrong, uncle, and my imagination has
run away with me. Yes, I sometimes think he wants to marry me."

They both relapsed into silence. Then her uncle spoke again.

"Jacky, what you have just said has made something plain to me which I
could not understand before. He came and gave me--unsolicited, mind--"a
little eagerly, "a detailed account of Bunning-Ford's circumstances,
and--"

"Endeavored to bully you into sending him about his business. Poor old
Bill! And what was his account of him?"

The girl's eyes were glowing with quickly-roused passion, but she kept
them turned from her uncle's face.

"He told me that the boy had heavy mortgages on his land and stock. He
told me that if he were to realize to-morrow there would be little or
nothing for himself. Everything would go to some firm in Calford. In
short, that he has gambled his ranch away."

"And he told this to you, uncle, dear." Then the girl paused and looked
far out across the great muskeg. In her abrupt fashion she turned again
to the old man. "Uncle," she went on, "tell me truly, do you owe
anything to Lablache? Has he any hold upon you?"

There was a world of anxiety in her voice as she spoke. John Allandale
tried to follow her thought before he answered. He seemed to grasp
something of her meaning, for in a moment his eyes took on an expression
of pain. Then his words came slowly, as from one who is not sure of what
he is saying.

"I owe him some--money--yes--but--"

"Poker?"

The question was jerked viciously from the girl's lips.

"Yes."

Jacky turned slowly away until her eyes rested upon the distant, grazing
horse. A strange restlessness seemed to be upon her. She was fidgeting
with the gauntlet which she had just removed. Then slowly her right hand
passed round to her hip, where it rested upon the butt of her revolver.
There was a tight drawnness about her lips and her keen gray eyes looked
as though gazing into space.

"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 classic 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 space of waste ground on
which vendors of produce are wont to draw up their wagons. The store is
a massive 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 partitioned 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-glasses 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 passed into the
house.

Lablache shut his glasses 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 passions 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 willy-nilly. Love was impossible to
such a man as he. He had conceived an absorbing passion for her, it is
true, but love--as it is generally understood--no. He was not a young
man--the victim of a passion, fierce but transient. He was matured in
all respects--in mind and body. His passion 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 pronounced. 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."

Unobserved 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."

Bill coughed. Then he turned, and stooping, shook the ashes from the
stove and opened the damper.

"Beastly cold in here," he remarked inconsequently.

"Yes--but, out with it."

Bill stood up and turned his indolent eyes upon his interrogator.

"I wasn't thinking of going--to the mountains."

"Where then?"

"To the Yukon."

"Ah!"

In spite of herself the girl could not help the exclamation.

"Why?" she went on a moment later.

"Well, if you must have it, I shan't be able to last out this
summer--unless a stroke of luck falls to my share."

"Financially?"

"Financially."

"Lablache?"

"Lablache--and the Calford Trust Co."

"The same thing," with conviction.

"Exactly--the same thing."

"And you stand?"

"If I meet the interest on my mortgages it will take away every head of
fat cattle I can scrape together, and then I cannot pay Lablache other
debts which fall due in two weeks' time." He quietly drew out his
tobacco-pouch and rolled a cigarette. He seemed quite indifferent to his
difficulties. "If I realize on the ranch now there'll be something left
for me. If I go on, by the end of the summer there won't be."

"I suppose you mean that you will be deeper in debt."

He smiled in his own peculiarly lazy fashion as he held a lighted match
to his cigarette.

"Just so. I shall owe Lablache more," he said, between spasmodic draws
at his tobacco.

"Lablache has wonderful luck at cards."

"Yes," shortly.

Jacky returned to the table and sat down. She turned the pages of a
stock book idly. She was thinking and the expression of her dark,
determined little face indicated the unpleasant nature of her thoughts.
Presently she looked up and encountered the steady gaze of her
companion. They were great friends--these two. In that glance each read
in the other's mind something of a mutual thought. Jacky, with womanly
readiness, put part of it into words.

"No one ever seems to win against him, Bill. Guess he makes a steady
income out of poker."

The man nodded and gulped down a deep inhalation from his cigarette.

"Wonderful luck," the girl went on.

"Some people call it 'luck,'" put in Bill, quietly, but with a curious
purse of the lips.

"What do you call it?" sharply.

Bunning-Ford refused to commit himself. He contented himself with
blowing the ash from his cigarette and crossing over to the window,
where he stood looking out. He had come there that afternoon with a
half-formed intention of telling this girl something which every girl
must hope to hear sooner or later in her life. He had come there with
the intention of ending, one way or the other, a
friendship--_camaraderie_--whatever you please to call it, by telling
this hardy girl of the prairie the old, old story over again. He loved
this woman with an intensity that very few would have credited him with.
Who could associate lazy, good-natured, careless "Lord" Bill with
serious love? Certainly not his friends. And yet such was the case, and
for that reason had he come. The affairs of Pat Nabob were but a
subterfuge. And now he found it impossible to pronounce the words he had
so carefully thought out. Jacky was not the woman to approach easily
with sentiment, she was so "deucedly practical." So Bill said to
himself. It was useless to speculate upon her feelings. This girl never
allowed anything approaching sentiment to appear upon the surface. She
knew better than to do so. She had the grave responsibility of her
uncle's ranch upon her shoulders, therefore all men must be kept at
arm's length. She was in every sense a woman, passionate, loyal, loving.
But in addition nature had endowed her with a spirit which rose superior
to feminine attributes and feelings. The blood in her veins--her life on
the prairie--her tender care and solicitude for her uncle, of whose
failings and weaknesses she was painfully aware, had caused her to put
from her all thoughts of love and marriage. Her life must be devoted to
him, and while he lived she was determined that no thought of self
should interfere with her self-imposed duty.

At last "Lord" Bill broke the silence which had fallen upon the room
after the girl's unanswered question. His remark seemed irrevelant and
inconsequent.

"There's a horse on the other side of the muskeg. Who's is it?"

Jacky was at his side in an instant. So suddenly had she bounded from
the table, that her companion turned, with that lazy glance of his, and
looked keenly at her. He failed to understand her excitement. She had
snatched up a pair of field-glasses and had already leveled them at the
distant object.

She looked long and earnestly across the miry waste. Then she turned to
her companion with a strange look in her beautiful gray eyes.

"Bill, I've seen that horse before. Four days ago. I've looked for it
ever since, but couldn't see it. I'm going to round it up."

"Eh? How?"

Bill was looking out across the muskeg again.

"Guess I'm going right across there this evening," the girl said
quietly.

"Across the muskeg?" Her companion was roused out of himself. His
usually lazy gray eyes were gleaming brightly. "Impossible!"

"Not at all, Bill," she replied, with an easy smile. "I know the path."

"But I thought there was only one man who ever knew that mythical path,
and--he is dead."

"Quite right, Bill--only one _man_."

"Then the old stories--"

There was a peculiar expression on the man's face. The girl interrupted
him with a gay laugh.

"Bother the 'old stories.' I'm going across there this evening after
tea--coming?"

Bunning-Ford looked across at the clock--the hands pointed to half-past
one. He was silent for a minute. Then he said,--

"I'll be with you at four if--if you'll tell me all about--"

"Peter Retief--yes, I'll tell you as we go, Bill. What are you going to
do until then?"

"I'm going down to the saloon to meet 'Pickles,' your pet aversion,
Pedro Mancha, and we're going to find a fourth."

"Ah, poker?"

"Yes, poker."

"I'm sorry, Bill. But be here at four sharp and I'll tell you all about
it. See here, boy, 'mum's' the word."

The craving of the Hon. Bunning-Ford's life was excitement. His
temperament bordered on the lethargic. He felt that unless he could
obtain excitement life was utterly unbearable. He had sought it all over
the world before he had adopted the life of a rancher. Here in the West
of Canada he had found something of what he sought. There was the big
game shooting in the mountains, and the pursuit of the "grizzly" is the
most wildly enthralling chase in the world. There was the taming and
"breaking" of the wild and furious "broncho"--the most exemplary
"bucking" horse in the world. There was the "round-up" and handling of
cattle which never failed to give unlimited excitement. And then, at all
times, was the inevitable poker, that king of all excitements among card
games. The West of Canada had pleased "Lord" Bill as did no other
country, and so he had invested the remains of his younger son's portion
in stock.

He had asked for excitement and Canada had responded generously. Bill
had found more than excitement, he had found love; and had found a
wealth of real friendship rarely equaled in the busy cities of
civilization.

In the midst of all these things which, seeking, he had found, came this
suggestion from a girl. The muskeg--the cruel, relentless muskeg, that
mire, dreaded and shunned by white men and natives alike. It could be
crossed by a secret, path. The thought pleased him. And none knew of
this path except a man who was dead and this girl he loved. There was a
strange excitement in the thought of such a journey.

"Lord" Bill, ignoring his stirrup, vaulted into his saddle, and, as he
swung his horse round and headed towards the settlement, he wondered
what the day would bring forth.

"Confound the cards," he muttered, as he rode away.

And it was the first time in his life that he had reluctantly
contemplated a gamble.

Had he only known it, a turning-point in his life was rapidly
approaching--a turning-point which would lead to events which, if told
as about to occur in the nineteenth century, would surely bring down
derision upon the head of the teller. And yet would the derided one have
right on his side.




CHAPTER VI

"WAYS THAT ARE DARK"


It was less than a quarter of a mile from the Allandales' house to the
saloon--a den of reeking atmosphere and fouler spirits.

The saloon at Foss River was no better and no worse than hundreds of
others in the North-West at the time of which we write. It was a fairly
large wooden building standing at the opposite end of the open space
which answered the purpose of a market-place, and facing Lablache's
store. Inside, it was gloomy, and the air invariably reeked of stale
tobacco and drink. The bar was large, and at one end stood a piano kept
for the purpose of "sing-songs"--nightly occurrences when the execrable
whisky had done its work. Passing through the bar one finds a large
dining-room on one side of a passage, and, on the other, a number of
smaller rooms devoted to the use of those who wished to play poker.

It was towards this place that the Hon. Bunning-Ford was riding in the
leisurely manner of one to whom time is no object.

His thoughts were far from matters pertaining to his destination, and he
would gladly have welcomed anything which could have interfered with his
projected game. For the moment poker had lost its charm.

This man was at no time given to vacillation. All his methods were, as a
rule, very direct. Underneath his easy nonchalance he was of a very
decided nature. His thin face at times could suddenly become very keen.
His true character was hidden by the cultivated lazy expression of his
eyes. Bunning-Ford was one of those men who are at their best in
emergency. At all other times life was a thing which it was impossible
for him to take seriously. He valued money as little as he valued
anything in the world. Poker he looked upon as a means to an end. He had
no religious principles, but firmly believed in doing as he would be
done by. Honesty and truth he loved, because to him they were clean. It
mattered nothing to him what his surroundings might be, for, though
living in them, he was not of them. He would as soon sit down to play
cards with three known murderers as play in the best club in London, and
he would treat them honestly and expect the same in return--but a loaded
revolver would be slung upon his hip and the holster would be open and
handy.

As he neared the saloon he recognized the figures of two men walking in
the direction of the saloon. They were the doctor and John Allandale. He
rode towards them.

"Hallo, Bill, whither bound?" said the old rancher, as the younger man
came up. "Going to join us in the parlor of Smith's fragrant hostelry?
The spider is already there weaving the web in which he hopes to ensnare
us."

Bunning-Ford shook his head.

"Who's the spider--Lablache?"

"Yes, we're going to play. It's the first time for some days. Guess
we've all been too busy with the round-up. Won't you really join us?"

"Can't. I've promised Mancha and 'Pickles' revenge for a game we played
the other night, when I happened to relieve them of a few dollars."

"Sensible man--Lablache is too consistent," put in the doctor, quietly.

"Nonsense," said "Poker" John, optimistically. "You're always carping
about the man's luck. We must break it soon."

"Yes, we've suggested that before."

Bill spoke with meaning and finished up with a purse of the lips.

They were near the saloon.

"How long are you going to play?" he went on quietly.

"Right through the evening," replied "Poker" John, with keen
satisfaction. "And you?"

"Only until four o'clock. I am going to take tea up at your place."

The old man offered no comment and Bill dismounted and tied the horse to
a post, and the three men entered the stuffy bar. The room was half full
of people. They were mostly cow-boys or men connected with the various
ranches about the neighborhood. Words of greeting hailed the new-comers
on all sides, but old John, who led the way, took little or no notice of
those whom he recognized. The lust of gambling was upon him, and, as a
dipsomaniac craves for drink, so he was longing to feel the smooth
surface of pasteboard between his fingers. While Bunning-Ford stopped to
exchange a word with some of those he met, the other two men went
straight up to the bar. Smith himself, a grizzled old man, with a
tobacco-stained gray moustache and beard, and the possessor of a pair of
narrow, wicked-looking eyes, was serving out whisky to a couple of
worse-looking half-breeds. It was noticeable that every man present wore
at his waist either a revolver or a long sheath knife. Even the
proprietor was fully armed. The half-breeds wore knives.

"Poker" John was apparently a man of distinction here. Possibly the
knowledge that he played a big game elicited for him a sort of
indifferent respect. Anyway, the half-breeds moved to allow him to
approach the bar.

"Lablache here?" asked the rancher, eagerly.

"He is," replied Mr. Smith, in a drawling voice, as he pushed the two
whiskies across to the waiting half-breeds. "Been here half an hour.
Jest pass right through, mister. Maybe you'll find him located in number
two."

There was no doubt that John B. Smith hailed from America. Although the
Canadian is not devoid of the American accent there is not much doubt of
nationality when one hears the real thing.

"Good; come on, Doc. No, thanks, Smith," as the man behind the bar
reached towards a bottle with a white seal. "We'll have something later
on. Number two on the right, I think you said."

The two men passed on into the back part of the premises.

"Guess dollars'll be flyin' 'fore the night's out," said Smith,
addressing any who cared to listen, and indicating "Poker" John with a
jerk of the head in the direction of the door through which the two men
had just passed. "Make the banks hum when they raise the 'bid.' Guess
ther' ain't many o' ther' likes roun' these parts. Rye or Scotch?" to
"Lord" Bill and three other men who came up at that moment. Mancha and
"Pickles" were with him, and a fourth player--the deposed captain of the
"round-up," Sim Lory.

"Scotch, you old heathen, of course," replied Bill, with a tolerant
laugh. "You don't expect us to drink fire-water. If you kept decent Rye
it would be different. We're going to have a flutter. Any room?"

"Number two, I guess. Chock-a-block in the others. Tolerable run on
poker these times. All the round-up hands been gettin' advances, I take
it. Say when."

The four men said "when" in due course, and each watered his own whisky.
The proprietor went on, with a quick twinkle of his beady eyes,--

"Ther's Mr. Allandale an' Lablache and company in number two. Nobody
else, I guess. I've a notion you'll find plenty of room. Chips, no? All
right; goin' to play a tidy game? Good!"

The four men, having swallowed their drink, followed in the footsteps of
the others.

There was something very brisk and business-like about this
gambling-hell. Early settlers doubtless remember in the days of
"prohibition," when four per cent. beer was supposed to be the only
beverage of the country, and before rigid legislation, backed by the
armed force of the North-West Mounted Police, swept these frightful
pollutions from the fair face of the prairie, how they thrived on the
encouragement of gambling and the sale of contraband spirits. The West
is a cleaner country now, thanks to the untiring efforts of the police.

In number two "Poker" John and his companions were already getting to
work when Bill and his friends entered. Beyond a casual remark they
seemed to take little notice of each other. One and all were eager to
begin the play.

A deep silence quickly fell upon the room. It was the silence of
suppressed excitement. A silence only broken by monosyllabic and almost
whispered betting and "raising" as the games proceeded. An hour passed
thus. At the table where Lablache and John Allandale were playing the
usual luck prevailed. The money-lender seemed unable to do wrong, and at
the other table Bunning-Ford was faring correspondingly badly. Pedro
Mancha, the Mexican, a man of obscure past and who lived no one quite
knew how, but who always appeared to find the necessary to gamble with,
was the favored one of dame Fortune. Already he had heaped before him a
pile of "bills" and I.O.U.'s most of which bore "Lord" Bill's signature.
Looking on at either table, no one from outward signs could have said
which way the luck was going. Only the scribblings of the pencils upon
the memo pads and the gradual accumulation of the precious slips of
paper before Lablache at one table and the wild-eyed, dark-skinned
Mexican at the other, told the story of the ruin which was surely being
accomplished.

At length, with a loser's privilege, Bunning-Ford, after glancing at his
watch, rose from the table. His lean face was in no way disturbed. He
seemed quite indifferent to his losses.

"I'll quit you, Pedro," he said, smiling lazily down at the Mexican.
"You're a bit too hot for me to-day."

The dark-skinned man smiled a vague, non-committing smile and displayed
a double row of immaculate teeth.

"Good. You shall have your revenge. Doubtless you would like some of
these papers back," he said, as he swept them leisurely into his
pocket-book, and then sugar-bagging a cigarette paper he poured a few
grains of granulated tobacco into it.

"Yes, I daresay I shall relieve you of some later on," replied Bill,
quietly. Then he turned to the other table and stood watching the play.

He glanced anxiously at the bare table in front of the old rancher. Even
Dr. Abbot was well stocked with slips of paper. Then his gaze fell upon
the money-lender, behind whose huge back he was standing.

He moved slightly to one side. It is an unwritten law amongst poker
players, in a public place in the west of the American continent, that
no onlooker should stand immediately behind any player. He moved to
Lablache's right. The money-lender was dealing. "Lord" Bill lit a
cigarette.

The cards were dealt round. Then the draw. Then Lablache laid the pack
down. Bunning-Ford had noted these things mechanically. Then something
caught his attention. It was his very indifference which caused his
sudden attention. Had he been following the game with his usual keenness
he would only have been thinking of the betting.

Lablache was writing upon his memo, pad, which was a gorgeous effort in
silver mounting. One of those oblong blocks with a broad band of
burnished silver at the binding of the perforated leaves. He knew that
this was the pad the money-lender always used; anyway, it was similar in
all respects to his usual memorandum pads.

How it was his attention had become fixed upon that pad he could not
have told, but now an inspiration came to him. His face remained
unchanged in its expression, but those lazy eyes of his gleamed wickedly
as he leisurely puffed at his cigarette.

The bet went round. Lablache raised and raised again. Eventually the
rancher "saw" him. The other took the pool. No word was spoken, but
"Lord" Bill gritted his teeth and viciously pitched his cigarette to
the other end of the room.

During the next two deals he allowed his attention to wander. Lablache
dropped out one hand, and, in the next, he merely "filled" his "ante"
and allowed the doctor to take in the pool. John Allandale's face was
serious. The nervous twitching of the cheek was still, but the drawn
lines around his mouth were in no way hidden by his gray mustache, nor
did the eager light which burned luridly in his eyes for one moment
deceive the onlooker as to the anxiety of mind which his features
masked.

Now it was Lablache's deal. "Lord" Bill concentrated his attention upon
the dealer. The money-lender was left-handed. He held the pack in his
right, and, in dealing, he was slow and slightly clumsy. The object of
Bunning-Ford's attention quickly became apparent. Each card as it left
the pack was passed over the burnished silver of the dealer's memorandum
pad. It was smartly done, and Lablache was assisted by the fact that the
piece of metal was inclined towards him. There was no necessity to look
down deliberately to see the reflection of each card as it passed on its
way to its recipient, a glance--just the glance necessary when dealing
cards--and the money-lender, by a slight effort of memory, knew every
hand that was out. Lablache was cheating.

To say that "Lord" Bill was astonished would be wrong. He was not. He
had long suspected it. The steady run of luck which Lablache had
persisted in was too phenomenal. It was enough to set the densest
thinking. Now everything was plain. Standing where he was, Bill had
almost been able to read the index numerals himself. He gave no sign of
his discovery. Apparently the matter was of no consequence to him, for
he merely lit a fresh cigarette and walked towards the door. He turned
as he was about to pass out.

"What time shall I tell Jacky to expect you home, John?" he said
quietly, addressing the old rancher.

Lablache looked up with a swift, malevolent glance, but he said nothing.
Old John turned a drawn face to the speaker.

"Supper, I guess," he said in a thick voice, husky from long silence.
"And tell Smith to send me in a bottle of 'white seal' and some
glasses."

"Right you are." Then "Lord" Bill passed out. "Poker without whisky is
bad," he muttered as he made his way back to the bar, "but poker and
whisky together can only be the beginning of the end. We'll see. Poor
old John!"




CHAPTER VII

ACROSS THE GREAT MUSKEG


It was on the stroke of four o'clock when Bunning-Ford left the saloon.
He had said that he would be at the ranch at four, and usually he liked
to be punctual. He was late now, however, and made no effort to make up
time. Instead, he allowed his horse to walk leisurely in the direction
of the Allandales' house. He wanted time to think before he again met
Jacky.

He was confronted by a problem which taxed all his wit. It was perhaps a
fortunate thing that his was not a hasty temperament. He well knew the
usual method of dealing with men who cheated at cards in those Western
wilds. Each man carried his own law in his holster. He had realized
instantly that Lablache was not a case for the usual treatment. Pistol
law would have defeated its own ends. Such means would not recover the
terrible losses of "Poker" John, neither would he recover thereby his
own lost property. No, he congratulated himself upon the restraint he
had exercised when he had checked his natural impulse to expose the
money-lender. Now, however, the case looked more complicated, and, for
the moment, he could see no possible means of solving the difficulty.
Lablache must be made to disgorge--but how? John Allandale must be
stopped playing and further contributing to Lablache's ill-gotten gains.
Again--but how?

Bill was roused out of his usual apathetic indifference. The moment had
arrived when he must set aside the old indolent carelessness. He was
stirred to the core. A duty had been suddenly forced upon him. A duty to
himself and also a duty to those he loved. Lablache had consistently
robbed him, and also the uncle of the girl he loved. Now, how to
restore that property and prevent the villain's further depredations?

Again and again he asked himself the question as he allowed his horse to
mouche, with slovenly step, over the sodden prairie; but no answer
presented itself. His thin, eagle face was puckered with perplexity. The
sleepy eyes gleamed vengefully from between his half-closed eyelids as
he gazed across the sunlit prairie. His aquiline nose, always bearing a
resemblance to an eagle's beak, was rendered even more like that
aristocratic proboscis by reason of the down-drawn tip, consequent upon
the odd pursing of his tightly-compressed lips. For the moment "Lord"
Bill was at a loss. And, oddly enough, he began to wonder if, after all,
silence had been his best course.

He was still struggling in the direst perplexity when he drew up at the
veranda of the ranch. Dismounting, he hitched his picket rope to the
tying-post and entered the sitting-room by the open French window. Tea
was set upon the table and Jacky was seated before the stove.

"Late, Bill, late! Guess that 'plug' of yours is a rapid beast, judging
by the pace you came up the hill."

For the moment Bunning-Ford's face had resumed its wonted air of lazy
good-nature.

"Glad you took the trouble to watch for me, Jacky," he retorted quickly,
with an attempt at his usual lightness of manner. "I appreciate the
honor."

"Nothing of the sort. I was looking for uncle. The mail brought a letter
from Calford. Dawson, the cattle buyer of the Western Railway Company,
wants to see him. The Home Government are buying largely. He is
commissioned to purchase 30,000 head of prime beeves. Come along, tea's
ready."

Bill seated himself at the table and Jacky poured out the tea. She was
dressed for the saddle.

"Where is Dawson now?" asked Bill.

"Calford. Guess he'll wait right there for uncle."

Suddenly a look of relief passed across the man's face.

"This is Wednesday. At six o'clock the mail-cart goes back to town. Send
some one down to the _saloon_ at once, and John will be able to go in
to-night."

As Bill spoke his eyes encountered a direct and steady glance from the
girl. There was much meaning in that mute exchange. For answer Jacky
rose and rang a bell sharply.

"Send a hand down to the settlement to find my uncle. Ask him to come up
at once. There is an important letter awaiting him," she said, to the
old servant who answered the summons.

"Bill, what's up?" she went on, when the retainer had departed.

"Lots. Look here, Jacky, we mustn't be long over tea. We must both be
out of the house when your uncle returns. He may not want to go into
town to-night. Anyway, I don't want to give him the chance of asking any
questions until we have had a long talk. He's losing to Lablache again."

"Ah! I don't want anything to eat. Whenever you are ready, Bill, I am."

Bunning-Ford drank his tea and rose from the table. The girl followed
his example.

There was something very strong and resolute in the brisk,
ready-for-emergency ways of this girl. There was nothing of the
ultra-feminine dependence and weakness of her sex about her. And yet her
hardiness detracted in no way from her womanly charm; rather was that
complex abstract enhanced by her wonderful self-reliance. There are
those who decry independence in women, but surely only such must come
from those whose nature is largely composed of hectoring selfishness.
There was a resolute set of the mouth as Jacky sent word to the stables
to have her horse brought round. She asked no questions of her
companion, as, waiting for compliance with her orders, she drew on her
stout buckskin gauntlets. She understood this man well enough to be
aware that his suggestion was based upon necessity. "Lord" Bill rarely
interfered with anything or anybody, but when such an occasion arose his
words carried a deal of weight with those who knew him.

A few minutes later and they were both riding slowly down the avenue of
pines leading from the house. The direction in which they were moving
was away from the settlement, down towards where the great level flat of
the muskeg began. At the end of the avenue they turned directly to the
southeast, leaving the township behind them. The prairie was soft and
springy. There was still a keen touch of winter in the fresh spring air.
The afternoon sun was shining coldly athwart the direction of their
route.

Jacky led the way, and, as they drew clear of the bush, and the house
and settlement were hidden from view behind them, she urged her horse
into a good swinging lope. Thus they progressed in silence. The
far-reaching deadly mire on their right, looking innocent enough in the
shadow of the snow-clad peaks beyond, the ranch well behind them in the
hollow of the Foss River Valley, whilst, on their left, the mighty
prairie rolled away upwards to the higher level of the surrounding
country.

In this way they covered nearly a mile, then the girl drew up beside a
small clump of weedy bush.

"Are you ready for the plunge, Bill?" she asked, as her companion drew
up beside her. "The path's not more than four feet wide. Does your
'plug' shy any?"

"He's all right. You lead right on. Where you can travel I've a notion
I'm not likely to funk. But I don't see the path."

"I guess you don't. Never did nature keep her secret better than in the
setting out of this one road across her woeful man-trap. You can't see
the path, but I guess it's an open book to me, and its pages ain't
Hebrew either. Say, Bill, there's been many a good prairie man looking
for this path, but"--with a slight accent of exultation--"they've never
found it. Come on. Old Nigger knows it; many a time has he trodden its
soft and shaking surface. Good old horse!" and she patted the black neck
of her charger as she turned his head towards the distant hills and
urged him forward with a "chirrup."

Far across the muskeg the distant peaks of the mountain range glistened
in the afternoon sun like diamond-studded sugar loaves. So high were the
clouds that every portion of the mighty summits was clearly outlined.
The great ramparts of the prairie are a magnificent sight on a clear
day. Flat and smooth as any billiard-table stretched this silent,
mysterious muskeg, already green and fair to the eye, an alluring
pasture to the unwary. An experienced eye might have judged it too
green--too alluring. Could a more perfect trap be devised by evil human
ingenuity than this? Think for one instant of a bottomless pit of liquid
soil, absorbing in its peculiar density. Think of all the horrors of a
quicksand, which, embracing, sucks down into its cruel bosom the
despairing victim of its insatiable greed. Think of a thin, solid crust,
spread like icing upon a cake and concealing the soft, spongy matter
beneath, covering every portion of the cruel plain; a crust which yields
a crop of luxurious, enticing grass of the most perfect emerald hue; a
crust firm in itself and dry looking, and yet not strong enough to bear
the weight of a good-sized terrier. And what imagination can possibly
conceive a more cruel--more perfect trap for man or beast? Woe to the
creature which trusts its weight upon that treacherous crust. For one
fleeting instant it will sway beneath the tread, then, in the flash of a
thought, it will break, and once the surface gives no human power can
save the victim. Down, down into the depths must the poor wretch be
plunged, with scarce time to offer a prayer to God for the poor soul
which so swiftly passes to its doom. Such is the muskeg; and surely more
terrible is it than is that horror of the navigator--the quicksands.

The girl led the way without as much as a passing thought for the
dangers which surrounded her. Truly had her companion said "I don't see
the path," for no path was to be seen. But Jacky had learned her lesson
well--and learned it from one who read the prairie as the Bedouin reads
the desert. The path was there and with a wondrous assurance she
followed its course.

The travelers moved silently along. No word was spoken; each was wrapped
in thought. Now and again a stray prairie chicken would fly up from
their path with a whirr, and speed across the mire, calling to its mate
as it went. The drowsy chirrup of frogs went on unceasingly around, and
already the ubiquitous mosquito was on the prowl for human gore.

The upstanding horses now walked with down-drooped heads, with sniffing
noses low towards the ground, ears cocked, and with alert, careful
tread, as if fully alive to the danger of their perilous road. The
silence of that ride teemed with a thrill of danger. Half an hour passed
and then the girl gathered up her reins and urged her willing horse into
a canter.

"Come on, Bill, the path is more solid now, and wider. The worst part is
on the far side," she called back over her shoulder.

Her companion followed her unquestioningly.

The sun was already dipping towards the distant peaks and already a
shadowy haze was rising upon the eastern prairie. The chill of winter
grew keener as the sun slowly sank.

Two-thirds of the journey were covered and Jacky, holding up a warning
hand, drew up her horse. Her companion came to a stand beside her.

"The path divides in three here," said the girl, glancing keenly down at
the fresh green grass. "Two of the branches are blind and end abruptly
further on. Guess we must avoid 'em," she went on shortly, "unless we
are anxious to punctuate our earthly career. This is the one we must
take," turning her horse to the left path. "Keep your eye peeled and
stick to Nigger's footprints."

The man did as he was bid, marvelling the while at the strange knowledge
of his companion. He had no fear; he only wondered. The trim, graceful
figure on the horse ahead of him occupied all his thoughts. He watched
her as, with quiet assurance she guided her horse. He had known Jacky
for years. He had watched her grow to womanhood, but although her
up-bringing must of necessity have taught her an independence and
courage given to few women, he had never dreamt of the strength of the
sturdy nature she was now displaying. Again his thoughts went to the
tales of the gossips of the settlement, and the strange figure of the
daring cattle-thief loomed up over his mental horizon. He rode, and as
he rode he wondered. The end Of this journey would be a fitting place
for the explanations which must take place between them.

At length the shaking path came to an end and the mire was crossed. A
signal from the girl brought her companion to her side.

"We have crossed it," she said, glancing up at the sun, and indicating
the muskeg with a backward jerk of her head. "Now for the horse."

"What about your promise to tell me about Peter Retief?"

"Guess being the narrator you must let me take my time."

She smiled up into her companion's eagle face.

"The horse is a mile or so further up towards the foothills. Come
along."

They galloped side by side over the moist, springy grass--moist with the
recently-melted snow. "Lord" Bill was content to wait her pleasure.
Suddenly the man brought his horse up with a severe "yank."

"What's up?" The girl's beautiful eyes were fixed upon the ground with a
peculiar instinct. Bill pointed to the ground on the side furthest from
his companion.

"Look!"

Jacky gazed at the spot indicated.

"The tracks of the horse," she said sharply.

She was on the ground in an instant and inspecting the hoof-prints
eagerly, with that careful study acquired by experience.

"Well?" said the other, as she turned back to her horse.

"Recent." Then in an impressive tone which her companion failed to
understand, "That horse has been shod. The shoes are off--all except a
tiny bit on his off fore. We must track it."

They now separated and rode keeping the hoof-prints between them. The
marks were quite fresh and so plain in the soft ground that they were
able to ride at a good pace. The clear-cut indentations led away from
the mire up the gently-sloping ground. Suddenly they struck upon a path
that was little more than a cattle-track, and instantly became mingled
with other hoof-marks, older and going both ways. Hitherto the girl had
ridden with her eyes closely watching the tracks, but now she suddenly
raised her sweet, weather-tanned face to her companion, and, with a
light of the wildest excitement in her eyes, she pointed along the path
and set her horse at a gallop.

"Come on! I know," she cried, "right on into the hills."

Bill followed willingly enough, but he failed to understand his
companion's excitement. After all they were merely bent upon "roping" a
stray horse. The girl galloped on at breakneck speed; the heavy black
ringlets of hair were swept like an outspread fan from under the broad
brim of her Stetson hat, her buckskin bodice ballooning in the wind as
rider and horse charged along, utterly indifferent to the nature of the
country they were traveling--indifferent to everything except the mad
pursuit of an unseen quarry. Now they were on the summit of some
eminence whence they could see for miles the confusion of hills, like
innumerable bee-hives set close together upon an endless plain; now
down, tearing through a deep hollow, and racing towards another abrupt
ascent. With every hill passed the country became less green and more
and more rugged. "Lord" Bill struggled hard to keep the girl in view as
she raced on--on through the labyrinth of seemingly endless hillocks.
But at last he drew up on the summit of a high cone-like rise and
realized that he had lost her.

For a moment he gazed around with that peculiar, all-observing keenness
which is given to those whose lives are spent in countries where human
habitation is sparse--where the work of man is lost in the immensity of
Nature's effort. He could see no sign of the girl. And yet he knew she
could not be far away. His instincts told him to search for her horse
tracks. He was sure she had passed that way. While yet he was thinking,
she suddenly reappeared over the brow of a further hill. She halted at
the summit, and, seeing him, waved a summons. Her gesticulations were
excited and he hastened to obey. Down into the intervening valley his
horse plunged with headlong recklessness. At the bottom there was a
hard, beaten track. Almost unconsciously he allowed his beast to adopt
it. It wound round and upwards, at the base of the hill on which Jacky
was waiting for him. He passed the bend, then, with a desperate,
backward heave of the body, he "yanked" his horse short up, throwing the
eager animal on to its haunches.

He had pulled up on what, at first appeared to be the brink of a
precipice, and what in reality was a declivity, down which only the slow
and sure foot of a steer or broncho might safely tread. He sat aghast at
his narrow escape. Then, turning at the sound of a voice behind him, he
found that Jacky had com