"How?" he said, repeating the question as though it had been addressed to himself. "He shall pay—pay! Everlastingly pay! So long as I have life—and liberty, he shall pay!"
Then as if anticipating a request for explanation he told her the means by which Lablache had consistently cheated. The girl listened, speechless with amazement. She hung upon his every word. At the conclusion of his story she put an abrupt question.
"And you gave no sign? He doesn't suspect that you know?"
"He suspects nothing."
"Good. You are real smart, Bill. Yes, shooting's no good. This is no case for shooting. What do you propose? I see you mean business."
The man was still smiling but his smile had suddenly changed to one of kindly humor.
"First of all Jacky," he said, taking a step towards her, "I can do nothing without your help. I propose that you share this task with me. No, no, I don't mean in that way," as she commenced to assure him of her assistance. "What I mean is that—that I love you, dear. I want you to give me the right to protect—your uncle."
He finished up with his hands stretched out towards her. Golden Eagle stirred in his stable, and the two heard him whinny as if in approval. Then as the girl made no answer Bill went on: "Jacky, I am a ruined man. I have nothing, but I love you better than life itself. We now have a common purpose in life. Let us work together."
His voice sank to a tender whisper. He loved this motherless girl who was fighting the battle of life single-handed against overwhelming odds, with all the strength of his nature. He had loved her ever since she had reached woman's estate. In asking for a return of his affections now he fully realized the cruelty of his course. He knew that the future—his future—was to be given up to the pursuit of a terrible revenge. And he knew that, in linking herself with him, she would perforce be dragged into whatever wrong-doing his contemplated revenge might lead him. And yet he dared not pause. It all seemed so plain—so natural—that they should journey through the crooked, paths of the future together. Was she not equally determined upon a terrible revenge?
He waited in patience for his answer. Suddenly she looked up into his face and gently placed her hands in his. Her answer came with simple directness.
"Do you really, Bill? I am glad—yes, glad right through. I love you, too. Say, you're sure you don't think badly of me because—because I'm Peter's sister?"
There was a smiling, half-tearful look in her eyes—those expressive eyes which, but a moment before, had burnt with a vengeful fire—as she asked the question. After all her nature was wondrously simple.
"Why should I, dear?" he replied, bending and kissing the gauntleted hands which rested so lovingly in his. "My life has scarcely been a Garden of Eden before the Fall. And I don't suppose my future, even should I escape the laws of man, is likely to be most creditable. Your past is your own—I have no right nor wish to criticise. Henceforth we are united in a common cause. Our hand is turned against one whose power in this part of the country is almost absolute. When we have wrested his property from him, to the uttermost farthing, we will cry quits—"
"And on the day that sees Lablache's downfall, Bill, I will become your wife."
There was a pause. Then Bill drew her towards him and they sealed the compact with one long embrace. They were roused to the matters of the moment by another whinny from Golden Eagle, who was chafing at his forced imprisonment.
The two stood back from one another, hand in hand, and smiled as they listened to the tuneful plaint. Then the man unfolded a wonderful plan to this girl whom he loved. Her willing ears drank in the details like one whose heart is set with a great purpose. They also talked of their love in their own practical way. There was little display of sentiment. They understood without that. Their future was not alluring, unless something of the man's strange plan appealed to the wild nature of the prairie which, by association, has somehow become affiliated with theirs. In that quiet, evening-lit valley these two people arranged to set aside the laws of man and deal out justice as they understood it. An eye for an eye—a tooth for a tooth; fortune favoring, a cent, per cent, interest in each case. The laws of the prairie, in those days always uncertain, were more often governed by human passions than the calm equity of unbiased jurymen. And who shall say that their idea of justice was wrong? Two "wrongs," it has been said, do not make one "right." But surely it is not a human policy when smote upon one cheek to turn the other for a similar chastisement.
"Then we leave Golden Eagle where he is," said Jacky, as she remounted her horse and they prepared to return home.
"Yes. I will see to him," Bill replied, urging his horse into a canter towards the winding ascent which was to take them home.
The ducks frolicking in their watery playground chattered and flapped their heavy wings. The frogs in their reedy beds croaked and chirruped without ceasing. And who shall say how much they had heard, or had seen, or knew of that compact sealed in Bad Man's Hollow?
* * *
CHAPTER IX - LABLACHE'S "COUP"
Lablache was seated in a comfortable basket chair in his little back office. He preferred a basket chair—he knew its value. He had tried other chairs of a less yielding nature, but they were useless to support his weight; he had broken too many, and they were expensive—there is nothing more durable than a strong basket chair. Lablache appreciated strength combined with durability, especially when the initial outlay was reduced to a minimum.
His slippered feet were posted on the lower part of the self-feeding stove and he gazed down, deep in thought, at the lurid glow of the fire shining through the mica sides of the firebox.
A clock was ticking away with that peculiar, vibrating aggressiveness which characterizes the cheap American "alarm." The bare wood of the desk aggravated the sound, and, in the stillness of the little room, the noise pounded exasperatingly on the ear-drums. From time to time he turned his great head, and his lashless eyes peered over at the paper dial of the clock. Once or twice he stirred with a suggestion of impatience. At times his heavy breathing became louder and shorter, and he seemed about to give expression to some irritable thought.
At last his bulk heaved and he removed his feet from the stove. Then he slowly raised himself from the depths of the yielding chair. His slippered feet shuffled over the floor as he moved towards the window. The blind was down, but he drew it aside and wiped the steam from the glass pane with his soft, fat hand. The night was black—he could see nothing of the outside world. It was nearly an hour since he had left the saloon where he had been playing poker with John Allandale. He appeared to be waiting for some one, and he wanted to go to bed.
Once more he returned to his complaining chair and lowered himself into it. The minutes slipped by. Lablache did not want to smoke; he felt that he must do something to soothe his impatience, so he chewed at the quicks of his finger-nails.
Presently there came a tap at the window. The money-lender ponderously rose, and, cautiously opening the door, admitted the dark, unkempt form of Pedro Mancha. There was no greeting; neither spoke until Lablache had again secured the door. Then the money-lender turned his fishy eyes and mask-like face to the newcomer. He did not suggest that his visitor should sit down. He merely looked with his cold, cruel eyes, and spoke.
"Well?—been drinking."
The latter part of his remark was an assertion. He knew the Mexican well. The fellow had an expressive countenance, unlike most of his race, and the least sign of drink was painfully apparent upon it. The man was not drunk but his wild eyes testified to his recent libations.
"Guess you've hit it right thar," he retorted indifferently.
It was noticeable that this man had adopted the high-pitched, keen tone and pronounced accent of the typical "South-Westerner." In truth he was a border Mexican; a type of man closely allied to the "greaser." He was a perfect scoundrel, who had doubtless departed from his native land for the benefit of that fair but swarming hornet's nest.
"It's a pity when you have busi
ness on hand you can't leave that 'stuff' alone."
Lablache made no effort to conceal his contempt. He even allowed his mask-like face to emphasize his words.
"You're almighty pertickler, mister. You ask for dirty work to be done, an' when that dirty work's done, gorl-darn-it you croak like a flannel-mouthed temperance lecturer. Guess I came hyar to talk straight biz. Jest leave the temperance track, an' hit the main trail."
Pedro's face was not pretty to look upon. The ring of white round the pupils of his eyes gave an impression of insanity or animal ferocity. The latter was his chief characteristic. His face was thin and scored with scars, mainly long and narrow. These, in a measure, testified to his past. His mouth, half hidden beneath a straggling mustache, was his worst feature. One can only liken it to a blubber-lipped gash, lined inside with two rows of yellow fangs, all in a more or less bad state of decay.
The two men eyed one another steadily for a moment. Lablache could in no way terrorize this desperado. Like all his kind this man was ready to sell his services to any master, provided the forthcoming price of such services was sufficiently exorbitant. He was equally ready to play his employer up should any one else offer a higher price. But Lablache, when dealing with such men, took no chances. He rarely employed this sort of man, preferring to do his own dirty work, but when he did, he knew it was policy to be liberal. Pedro served him well as a rule, consequently the Mexican was enabled to ruffle it with the best in the settlement, whilst people wondered where he got his money from. Somehow they never thought of Lablache being the source of this man's means; the money-lender was not fond of parting.
"You are right, I am particular. When I pay for work to be done I don't want gassing over a bar. I know what you are when the whisky is in you."
Lablache stood with his great back to the fire watching his man from beneath his heavy lids. Bad as he was himself the presence of this man filled him with loathing. Possibly deep down, somewhere in that organ he was pleased to consider his heart, he had a faint glimmer of respect for an honest man. The Mexican laughed harshly.
"Guess all you know of me, mister, wouldn't make a pile o' literature. But say, what's the game to-night?"
Lablache was gnawing his fingers.
"How much did you take from the Honorable?" he asked sharply.
"You told me to lift his boodle. Time was short—he wouldn't play for long."
"I'm aware of that. How much?"
Lablache's tone was abrupt and peremptory. Mancha was trying to estimate what he should be paid for his work.
"See hyar, I guess we ain't struck no deal yet. What do you propose to pay me?"
The Mexican was sharp but he was no match for his employer. He fancied he saw a good deal over this night's work.
"You played on paper, I know," said the money-lender, quietly. He was quite unmoved by the other's display of cunning. It pleased him rather than otherwise. He knew he held all the cards in his hands—he generally did in dealing with men of this stamp. "To you, the amounts he lost are not worth the paper they are written on. You could never realize them. He couldn't meet 'em."
Lablache leisurely took a pinch of snuff from his snuff-box. He coughed and sneezed voluminously. His indifferent coolness, his air of patronage, aggravated the Mexican while it alarmed him. The deal he anticipated began to assume lesser proportions.
"Which means, I take it, you've a notion you'd like the feel of those same papers."
Mancha had come to drive a bargain. He was aware that the I.O.U.'s he held would take some time to realize on, in the proper quarter, but, at the same time, he was quite aware of the fact that Bunning-Ford would ultimately meet them.
Lablache shrugged his shoulders with apparent indifference—he meant to have them.
"What do you want for the debts? I am prepared to buy—at a reasonable figure."
The Mexican propped himself comfortably upon the corner of the desk.
"Say, guess we're talkin' biz, now. His 'lordship' is due to ante up the trifle of seven thousand dollars—"
The fellow was rummaging in an inside pocket for the slips of paper. His eyes never left his companion's face. The amount startled Lablache, but he did not move a muscle.
"You did your work well, Pedro," he said, allowing himself, for the first time in this conversation, to recognize that the Mexican had a name. He warmed towards a man who was capable of doing another down for such a sum in such a short space of time. "I'll treat you well. Two thousand spot cash, and you hand over the I.O.U.'s. What say? Is it a go?"
"Be damned to you. Two thousand for a certain seven? Not me. Say, what d'ye do with the skin when you eat a bananny? Sole your boots with it? Gee-whiz! You do fling your bills around."
The Mexican laughed derisively as he jammed the papers back into his pocket. But he knew that he would have to sell at the other's price.
Lablache moved heavily towards his desk. Selecting a book he opened it at a certain page.
"You can keep them if you like. But you may as well understand your position. What's Bunning-Ford worth? What's his ranch worth?"
The other suggested a figure much below the real value.
"It's worth more than that. Fifty thousand if it's worth a cent," Lablache said expansively. "I don't want to do you, my friend, but as you said we're talking business now. Here is his account with me, you see," pointing to the entries. "I hold thirty-five thousand on first mortgage and twenty thousand on bill of sale. In all fifty-five thousand, and his interest twelve months in arrears. Now, you refuse to part with those papers at my price, and I'll sell him up. You will then get not one cent of your money."
The money-lender permitted himself to smile a grim, cold smile. He had been careful to make no mention of Bunning-Ford's further assets. He had quite forgotten to speak of a certain band of cattle which he knew his intended victim to possess. It was a well-known thing that Lablache knew more of the financial affairs of the people of the settlement than any one else; doubtless the Mexican thought only of "Lord" Bill's ranch. Mancha shifted his position uneasily. But there was a cunning look on his face as he retorted swiftly,—
"You're a'mighty hasty to lay your hands on his reckoning. How's it that you're ready to part two thou' for 'em?"
There was a moment's silence as the two men eyed each other. It seemed as if each were endeavoring to fathom the other's thoughts. Then the money-lender spoke, and his voice conveyed a concentration of hate that bit upon the air with an incisiveness which startled his companion.
"Because I intend to crush him as I would a rattlesnake. Because I wish to ruin him so that he will be left in my debt. So that I can hound him from this place by holding that debt over his head. It is worth two thousand to me to possess that power. Now, will you part?"
This explanation appealed to the worst side of the Mexican's nature. This hatred was after his own heart. Lablache was aware that such would be the case. That is why he made it. He was accustomed to play upon the feelings of people with whom he dealt—as well as their pocket. Pedro Mancha grinned complacently. He thought he understood his employer.
"Hand over the bills. Guess I'll part. The price is slim, but it's not a bad deal."
Lablache oozed over to the safe. He opened it, keeping one heavy eye upon his companion. He took no chances—he trusted no one, especially Pedro Mancha. Presently he returned with a roll of notes. It contained the exact amount. The Mexican watched him hungrily as he counted out the green-backed bills. His lips moistened beneath his mustache—his eyes looked wilder than ever. Lablache understood his customer thoroughly. A loaded revolver was in his own coat pocket. It is probable that the brown-faced desperado knew this.
At last the money-lender held out the money. He held out both hands, one to give and the other to receive. Pedro passed him the I.O.U.'s and took the bills. One swift glance assured Lablache that the coveted papers were all there. Then he pointed to the door.
"Our transaction is over. Go!"
He had had enough of
his companion. He had no hesitation in thus peremptorily dismissing him.
"You're in a pesky hurry to get rid of me. See hyar, pard, you'd best be civil. Your dealin's ain't a sight cleaner than mine."
"I'm waiting." Lablache's tone was coldly commanding. His lashless eyes gazed steadily into the other's face. Something the Mexican saw in them impelled him towards the door. He moved backwards, keeping his face turned towards the money-lender. At this moment Lablache was at his best. His was a dominating personality. There was no cowardice in his nature—at least no physical cowardice. Doubtless, had it come to a struggle where agility was required, he would have fallen an easy prey to his lithe companion; but with him, somehow, it never did come to a struggle. He had a way with him that chilled any such thought that a would-be assailant might have. Will and unflinching courage are splendid assets. And, amongst others, this man possessed both.
Mancha slunk back to the door, and, fumbling at the lock, opened it and passed out. Lablache instantly whipped out a revolver, and, stepping heavily on one side, advanced to the door, paused and listened. He was well under cover. The door was open. He was behind it. He knew better than to expose himself in the light for Mancha to make a target of him from without. Then he kicked the door to. Making a complete circuit of the walls of the office he came to the opposite side of the door, where he swiftly locked and bolted it. Then he drew an iron shutter across the light panelling and secured it.
The Story of the Foss River Ranch Page 9