The Story of the Foss River Ranch Part 42

The girl could be relentless even with her uncle.

"Lablache--oh--er--talk bus--bus'ness, child--bus'ness," and he attempted to get up from his chair again.

But Jacky would not let him go.

"Wait a moment, uncle dear, I want to talk to you. I sha'n't keep you long." The old man looked anywhere but at his companion. A cold sweat was on his forehead, and his cheek twitched painfully under the steady gaze of the girl's somber eyes. "I don't often get a chance of talking to you now," she went on, with a slight touch of bitterness. "I just want to talk about that skunk, Lablache. I guess he didn't pa.s.s the evening talking of Retief--and what he intends to do towards his capture? Say, uncle, what was it about?"

The old man grasped at the suggestion.

"Yes--yes, child. It was Retief."

He kept his eyes averted. The girl was not deceived.

"All the time?"

"Poker" John remained silent. He would have lied but could not.

"Uncle!"

Her tone was a moral pressure. The old man turned for relief to his avuncular authority.

"I must go. You've no right--question me," he stuttered. "I refu--"

"No, uncle, you won't refuse me." The girl had risen and had moved round to where the old man sat. She fondled him lovingly and his attempt at angry protest died within him. "Come, dear, tell me all about it. You are worried and I can help you. What did he threaten you with? I suppose he wants money," contemptuously. "How much?"

The old drunkard was powerless to resist her loving appeal.

He was cornered. Another might have lied and so escaped, but John Allandale's weakness was such that he had not the courage to resort to subterfuge. Moreover, there was a faint spark of honor nickering deep down in his kindly heart. The girl's affectionate display was surely fanning that spark into a flame. Would the flame grow or would it sparkle up for one brief moment and then go out from pure lack of fuel?

Suddenly something of the truth of the cause of her uncle's distress flashed across Jacky's mind. She knew Lablache's wishes in regard to herself. Perhaps she was the subject of that interview.

"Uncle, it is I who am causing you this trouble. What is it that Lablache wants of me?" She asked the question with her cheek pressed to the old man's face. His whisky-laden breath reeked in her nostrils.

Her question took him unawares, and he started up pus.h.i.+ng her from him.

"Who--who told you, girl?" His bleared eyes were now turned upon her, and they gazed fearfully into hers.

"I thought so," she exclaimed, smiling back into the troubled face. "No one told me, uncle, I guess that beast wants to marry me. Say, uncle, you can tell me everything right here. I'll help you. He's smart, but he can't mate with me."

"But--but--" He struggled to collect his thoughts.

"No 'buts,' dear. I've refused Lablache once. I guess I can size up the racket he thinks to play. Money--money! He'd like to buy me, I take it.

Say, uncle, can't we frolic him some? Now--what did he say?"

"I--can't tell you, child," the old man protested desperately. Then he weakened further before those deep, steadfast eyes. "Don't--press me.

Don'--press me." His voice contained maudlin tears. "I'm a vill'n, girl. I'm worse. Don'--look a' me--like that.

Ja'y--Ja'y--I've--sol'--you!"

The miserable old man flung himself back in his chair and his head bowed until his chin sank heavily upon his chest. Two great tears welled into his bloodshot eyes and trickled slowly down his seared old cheeks. It was a pitiable sight. Jacky looked on silently for a moment. Her eyes took in every detail of that picture of despair. She had heard the old man's words but took no heed of them. She was thinking very hard.

Suddenly she seemed to arrive at a decision. Her laugh rang out, and she came and knelt at her uncle's side.

"So you've sold me, you old dear, and not a bad thing too. What's the price?"

Her uncle raised his bowed head. Her smiling face dried his tears and put fresh heart into him. He had expected bitter invective, but instead the girl smiled.

Jacky's task now became a simple one. A mere matter of pumping. Sharp questions and rambling replies. Bit by bit she learned the story of Lablache's proposal and the manner in which an acceptance had been forced upon her uncle. She did not relinquish her task until the minutest detail had been gleaned. At last she was satisfied with her cross-examination.

She rose to her feet and pa.s.sed her hand with a caressing movement over her uncle's head, gazing the while out of the window. Her mind was made up. Her uncle needed her help now. That help should be his. She condoned his faults; she saw nothing but that which was lovable in his weakness.

Hers was now the strength to protect him, who, in the days of his best manhood had sheltered her from the cruel struggles of a life in the half-breed camp, for such, at the death of her impecunious father, must otherwise have been her lot.

Now she looked down into that worn, old face, and her brisk, business-like tones roused him into new life.

"Uncle, you must meet Lablache and play--the game. For the rest, leave it to me. All I ask is--no more whisky to-day. Stay right here and have a sleep. Guess you might go an' lie down. I'll call you for supper. Then you'll be fit. One thing you must remember; watch that ugly-faced cur when you play. See he don't cheat any. I'll tell you more before you start out. Come right along now and have that sleep."

The old man got up and the girl led him from the room. She saw him to his bedroom and then left him. She decided that, for herself, she would not leave the house until she had seen Bill. She must get her uncle sober before he went to meet Lablache.

CHAPTER XXVI

IN WHICH MATTERS REACH A CLIMAX

Foss River Settlement was, at the time, a very small place, and of practically no importance. It was brought into existence by the neighborhood of one or two large ranches; these ranches employed considerable labor. Foss River might be visited by an earthquake, and, provided the earthquake was not felt elsewhere, the world would not be likely to hear of it for weeks. The newspapers of the Western cities were in their infancy, and contented themselves with the news of their own towns and feverish criticisms of politics which were beyond the understanding of their editors. Progress in the West was very slow--almost at a standstill.

After the death of Horrocks the police had withdrawn to report and to receive augmentation. No one felt alarm at their absence. The inhabitants of Foss River were a self-reliant people--accustomed to look to themselves for the remedy of a grievance. Besides, Horrocks, they said, had shown himself to be a duffer--merely a tracker, a prairie-man and not the man to bring Retief to justice. Already the younger members of the settlement and district were forming themselves into a vigilance committee. The elders--those to whom the younger looked for a lead in such matters--had chosen to go to the police; now the younger of the settlement decided to act for themselves.

This was the condition and feeling in Foss River at the time of the death of Horrocks; this was the state of affairs when the _insouciant_ Bill leisurely strolled into the sitting-room at the Foss River Ranch, about the time that Joaquina Allandale had finished her tea. With the familiarity of the West, Bill entered by the French window. His lazy smile was undisturbed. He might have been paying an ordinary call instead of answering a summons which he knew must be a matter of emergency, for it was understood between these two that private meetings were tabooed, except when necessity demanded them.

Jacky's greeting was not rea.s.suring, but her lover's expression remained unchanged, except that his weary eyelids further unclosed.

"Guess we're side-tracked, Bill," she said meaningly. "The line's blocked. Signals dead against us."

Bill looked into her eyes; then he turned and closed the window, latching it securely. The door was closed. His keen eyes noted this.

"What do you mean?"

The girl shrugged.

"The next twelve hours must finish our game."

"Ah!"

"Yes," the girl went on, "it is Lablache's doing. We must settle our reckoning with him to-night."

Bill flung himself into a chair.

"Will you explain?--I don't understand. May I smoke?"