The Story of the Foss River Ranch Part 50

He strode out boldly. His foot sank in something soft He did not seem to notice it. Another step and his foot sank again in the reeking muck.

Suddenly he seemed to realize. He threw himself back and obtained a foothold. He stood trembling. He turned and tried another direction.

Again he sank. Again he drew back. His knees tottered and he feared to move. Suddenly a ring of metal pressed against his head from behind. In a state of panic he stepped forward on the shaking ground. It held. He paused, then stepped again, his foot coming down on a reedy tuft. It shook, but still held. He took another step. His foot sunk quickly, till the soft muck oozed round his ankle. He cried out in terror and turned to come back.

Baptiste stood with leveled pistol.

"On--on, you gopher. Turn again an' I wing yer. On, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You've chosen yer path, keep to it."

"Mercy--I'm sinking."

"Git on--not one step back."

Lablache struggled to release his sinking limb. By a great effort he drew it out only to plunge it into another yielding spot. Again he struggled, and in his struggle his other foot slipped from its reedy hold. It, too, sank. With a terrible cry he plunged forward. He lurched heavily as he sought to drag his feet from the viscid muck. At every effort he sank deeper. At last he hurled himself full length upon the surface of the reeking mire. He cried aloud, but no one answered him.

Under his body he felt the yielding crust cave. He clutched at the surface gra.s.s, but he only plucked the tufts from their roots. They gave him no hold.

The silent figures on the path watched his death-struggle. It was ghastly--horrible. The expression of their faces was fiendish. They watched with positive joy. There was no pity in the hearts of the Breeds.

They hearkened to the man's piteous cries with ears deafened to all entreaty. They simply watched--watched and reveled in the watching--for the terrible end which must come.

Already the murderer's vast proportions were half buried in the slimy ooze, and, at every fresh effort to save himself, he sank deeper. But the death which the Breeds awaited was slow to come. Slow--slow. And so they would have it.

Like some hungry monster the muskeg mouths its victims with oozing saliva, supping slowly, and seemingly revels in antic.i.p.ation of the delicate morsel of human flesh. The watchers heard the gurgling mud, like to a great tongue licking, as it wrapped round the doomed man's body, sucking him down, down. The clutch of the keg seemed like something alive; something so all-powerful--like the twining feelers of the giant cuttle-fish. Slowly they saw the doomed man's legs disappear, and already the slimy muck was above his middle.

The minutes dragged along--the black slime rose--it was at Lablache's breast. His arms were outspread, and, for the moment, they offered resistance to the sucking strength of the mud. But the resistance was only momentary. Down, down he was drawn into that insatiable maw. The dying man's arms canted upwards as his shoulders were dragged under.

He cried--he shrieked--he raved. Down, down he went--the mud touched his chin. His head was thrown back in one last wild scream. The watchers saw the staring eyes--the wide-stretched, lashless lids.

His cries died down into gurgles as the mud oozed over into his gaping mouth. Down he went to his dreadful death, until his nostrils filled and only his awful eyes remained above the muck. The watchers did not move.

Slowly--slowly and silently now--the last of him disappeared. Once his head was below the surface his limpened arms followed swiftly.

The Breeds reluctantly turned back from the horrid spectacle. The fearful torture was done. For a few moments no words were spoken. Then, at last, it was Baptiste who broke the silence. He looked round on the pa.s.sion-distorted faces about him. Then his beady eyes rested on the horrified faces of Jacky and her lover. He eyed them, and presently his gaze dropped, and he turned back to his countrymen. He merely said two words.

"Scatter, boys."

The tragedy was over and his words brought down the curtain. In silence the half-breeds turned and slunk away. They pa.s.sed back over their tracks. Each knew that the sooner he reached the camp again, the sooner would safety be a.s.sured. As the last man departed Baptiste stepped up to Jacky and Bill, who had not moved from their positions.

"Guess there's no cause to complain o' yer friends," he said, addressing Jacky, and leering up into her white, set face.

The girl s.h.i.+vered and turned away with a look of utter loathing on her face. She appealed to her lover.

"Bill--Bill, send him away. It's--it's too horrible."

"Lord" Bill fixed his gray eyes on the Breed.

"Scatter--we've had enough."

"Eh? Guess yer per-tickler."

There was a truculent tone in Baptiste's voice.

Bill's revolver was out like lightning.

"Scatter!"

And in that word Baptiste realized his dismissal.

His face looked very ugly, but he moved off under the covering muzzle of the white man's pistol.

Bill watched him until he was out of sight. Then he turned to Jacky.

"Well? Which way?"

Jacky did not answer for a moment. She gazed at the mountains. She s.h.i.+vered. It might have been the chill morning air--it might have been emotion. Then she looked back in the direction of Foss River. Dawn was already streaking the horizon.

She sighed like a weary child, and looked helplessly about. Her lover had never seen her vigorous nature so badly affected. But he realized the terrors she had been through.

Bill looked at her.

"Well?"

"Yonder." She pointed to the distant hills. "Foss River is no longer possible."

"The day that sees Lablache--"

"Yes--come."

Bill gazed lingeringly in the direction of the settlement. Jacky followed his gaze. Then she touched n.i.g.g.e.r's flank with her spur. Golden Eagle c.o.c.ked his ears, his head was turned towards Bad Man's Hollow. He needed no urging. He felt that he was going home.

Together they rode away across the keg.

Dr. Abbot had been up all night, as had most of Foss River. Everybody had been present at the fire. It was daylight when it was discovered that John Allandale and Jacky were missing. Lablache had been missed, but this had not so much interested people. They thought of Retief and waited for daylight.

Silas brought the news of "Poker" John's absence--also his niece's.

Immediately was a "hue and cry" taken up. Foss River bustled in search.

It was noon before the rancher was found. Doctor Abbot and Silas had set out in search together. The fifty-acre pasture was Silas's suggestion.

Dr. Abbot did not remember the implement shed.

They found the old man's body. They found Lablache's confession. Silas could not read. He took no stock in the writing and thought only of the dead man. The doctor had read, but he said nothing. He dispatched Silas for help.

When the foreman had gone Dr. Abbot picked up the black wig which Bill had used. He stood looking at it for a while, then he put it carefully into his pocket.

"Ah! I think I understand something now," he said, slowly fingering the wig. "Um--yes. I'll burn it when I get home."

Silas returned with help. John Allandale was buried quietly in the little piece of ground set aside for such purposes. The truth of the disappearance of Lablache, Jacky and "Lord" Bill was never known outside of the doctor's house.

How much or how little Dr. Abbot knew would be hard to tell. Possibly he guessed a great deal. Anyway, whatever he knew was doubtless shared with "Aunt" Margaret. For when the doctor had a secret it did not remain his long. "Aunt" Margaret had a way with her. However, she was the very essence of discretion.