The Story of the Foss River Ranch: A Tale of the Northwest

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 tête-à-tête 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.

"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!"

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 come down from the hill above.

"See, Bill," she cried, as she drew abreast of his hard-breathing horse, "there he is! Down there, peacefully, grazing."

Her excitement was intense, and the hand with which she pointed shook like an aspen. Her agitation was incomprehensible to the man. He looked down. Hitherto he had seen little beyond the brink at which he had come to such a sudden stand. But now, as he gazed down, he beheld a deep dark-shadowed valley, far-reaching and sombre. From their present position its full extent was beyond the range of vision, but sufficient was to be seen to realize that here was one of those vast hiding-places only to be found in lands where Nature's fanciful mood has induced the mighty upheaval of the world's greatest mountain ranges. On the far side of the deep, sombre vale a towering craig rose wall-like, sheer up, overshadowing the soft, green pasture deep down at the bottom of the yawning gulch. Dense patches of dark, relentless pinewoods lined its base, and, over all, in spite of the broad daylight, a peculiar shadow, as of evening, added mystery to the haunting view.

It was some seconds before the man was able to distinguish the tiny object which had roused the girl to such unaccountable excitement. When he did, however, he beheld a golden chestnut horse quietly grazing as it made its way leisurely towards the ribbon-like stream which flowed in the bosom of the mysterious valley. "Lord" Bill's voice was quite emotionless when he spoke.

"Ah, a chestnut!" he said quietly. "Well, our quest is vain. He is beyond our reach."

For a moment the girl looked at him in indignant surprise. Then her mood changed and she nearly laughed outright. She had forgotten that this man as yet knew nothing of what had all along been in her thoughts. As yet he knew nothing of the secret of this hollow. To her it meant a world of recollection—a world of stirring adventure and awful hazard. When first she had seen that horse, grazing within sight of her uncle's house, her interest had been aroused—suspicions had been sent teeming through her brain. Her thoughts had flown to the man whom she had once known, and who was now dead. She had believed his horse had died with him. And now the strange apparition had yielded up its secret. The beast had been traced to the old, familiar haunt, and what had been only suspicion had suddenly become a startling reality.

"Ah, I forgot," she replied, "you don't understand. That is Golden Eagle. Can't you see, he has the fragments of his saddle still tied round his body. To think of it—and after two years."

Her companion still seemed dense.

"Golden Eagle?" he repeated questioningly. "Golden Eagle?" The name seemed familiar but he failed to comprehend.

"Yes, yes," the girl broke out impatiently. "Golden Eagle—Peter Retief's horse. The grandest beast that ever stepped the prairie. See, he is keeping watch over his master's old hiding-place—faithful—faithful to the memory of the dead."

"And this is—is the haunt of Peter Retief," Bill exclaimed, his interest centering chiefly upon the yawning valley before him.

"Yes—follow me closely, and we'll get right along down. Say, Bill, we must round up that animal."

For a fleeting space the man looked dubious, then, with lips pursed, and a quiet look of resolution in his sleepy eyes, he followed in his companion's wake. The grandeur—the solitude—the mystery and associations, conveyed by the girl's words, of the place were upon him. These things had set him thinking.

The tortuous course of that perilous descent occupied their full attention, but, at length, they reached the valley in safety. Now, indeed, was a wonderful scene disclosed. Far as the eye could reach the great hollow extended. Deep and narrow; deep in the heart of the hills which towered upon either side to heights, for the most part, inaccessible, precipitous. It was a wondrous gulch, hidden and unsuspected in the foothills, and protected by those amazing wilds, in which the ignorant or unwary must infallibly be lost. It was a perfect pasture, a perfect hiding-place, watered by a broad running stream; sheltered from all cold and storm. No wonder then that the celebrated outlaw, Peter Retief, had chosen it for his haunt and the harborage of his ill-gotten stock.

With characteristic method the two set about "roping" the magnificent crested horse they had come to capture. They soon found that he was wild—timid as a hare. Their task looked as though it would be one of some difficulty.

At first Golden Eagle raced recklessly from point to point. And so long as this lasted his would-be captors could do little but endeavor to "head" him from one to the other, in the hope of getting him within range of the rope. Then he seemed suddenly to change his mind, and, with a quick double, gallop towards the side of the great chasm. A cry of delight escaped the girl as she saw this. The horse was making for the mouth of a small cavern which had been boarded over, and, judging by the door and window in the woodwork, had evidently been used as a dwelling or a stable. It was the same instinct which led him to this place that had caused the horse to remain for two years the solitary tenant of the valley. The girl understood, and drew her companion's attention. The capture at once became easy. Keeping clear of the cave they cautiously herded their quarry towards it. Golden Eagle was docile enough until he reached the, to him, familiar door. Then, when he found that his pursuers still continued to press in upon him, he took alarm, and, throwing up his head, with a wild, defiant snort he made a bolt for the open.

Instantly two lariats whirled through the air towards the crested neck. One missed its mark, but the other fell, true as a gun-shot over the small, thoroughbred head. It was Jacky's rope which had found its mark. A hitch round the horn of her saddle, and her horse threw himself back with her forefeet braced, and faced the captive. Then the rope tightened with a jerk which taxed its rawhide strands to their utmost. Instantly Golden Eagle, after two years' freedom, stood still; he knew that once more he must return to captivity.