The Story of the Foss River Ranch

by Cullum, Ridgwell

  It was only since the discovery of Lablache's perfidy that "Lord" Bill had understood what living meant. His discovery in Smith's saloon had roused in him a very human manhood. Since that time he had been seized with a mental activity, a craving for action he had never, in all his lazy life, before experienced. This sudden change had been aggravated by Lablache's subsequent conduct, and the flame had been fanned by the right that Jacky had given him to protect her. The sensation was one of absorbing excitement, and the loss of property sat lightly upon him in consequence. Money he had not—property he had not. But he had now what he had never possessed before—he had an object.

  A lasting, implacable vengeance was his, from the contemplation of which he drew a satisfaction which no possession of property could have given him. Nature had, with incorrigible perversity, cut him out for a life of ease, whilst endowing him with a character capable of very great things. Now, in her waywardness she had aroused that character and overthrown the hindering superficialty in which she had clothed it. And further to mark her freakish mood, these same capabilities which might easily, under other circumstances, have led him into the fore-front of life's battle, she directed, with inexorable cruelty, into an adverse course. He had been cheated, robbed, and his soul thirsted for revenge. Lablache had robbed the uncle of the girl he loved, and, worse than all, the wretch had tried to oust him from the affections of the girl herself. Yes, he thirsted for revenge as might any traveler in a desert crave for water. His eyes, no longer sleepy, gleamed as he thought. His long, square jaws seemed welded into one as he thought of his wrongs. His was the vengeance which, if necessary, would last his lifetime. At least, whilst Lablache lived no quarter would he give or accept.

  Something of this he was thinking as he took his farewell of the ranch on the hill, and struck out in the direction of the half-breed camp situated in a hollow some distance outside the settlement of Foss River.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XIII - THE FIRST CHECK

  The afterglow of sunset slowly faded out of the western sky. And the hush of the night was over all. The feeling of an awful solitude, which comes to those whose business is to pass the night on the open prairie, is enhanced rather than reduced by the buzz of insect life upon the night air. The steady hum of the mosquito—the night song of the grasshoppers and frogs—the ticking, spasmodic call of the invisible beetles—all these things help to intensify the loneliness and magnitude of the wild surroundings. Nor does the smoldering camp-fire lessen the loneliness. Its very light deepens the surrounding dark, and its only use, after the evening meal is cooked, is merely to dispel the savage attack of the voracious mosquito and put the fear of man into the hearts of the prairie scavenger, the coyote, whose dismal howl awakens the echoes of the night at painfully certain intervals, and often drives sleep from the eyes of the weary traveler.

  It is rare that the "cow-hand" pitches his camp amongst hills, or in the neighborhood of any bushy growth. The former he shuns from a natural dislike for a limited view. The latter, especially if the bush takes the form of pine woods, is bad for many reasons, chief amongst which is the fact of its being the harborage of the savage, gigantic timber wolf—a creature as naturally truculent as the far-famed grizzly, the denizen of the towering Rockies.

  Upon a high level of the prairie, out towards the upper reaches of the Rainy River, a tributary of the broad, swift-flowing Foss River, and some fifteen miles from the settlement, two men were lounging, curled leisurely round the smoldering remains of a camp fire. Some distance away the occasional lowing of a cow betrayed the presence of a band of cattle.

  The men were wide awake and smoking. Whether they refrained from sleep through necessity or inclination matters little. Probably the hungry attacks of the newly-hatched mosquito were responsible for their wakefulness. Each man was wrapped in a single brown blanket, and folded saddle-cloth answered as a pillow, and it was noticeable that they were stretched out well to leeward of the fire, so that the smoke passed across them, driving away a few of the less audacious "skitters."

  "We'll get 'em in by dinner to-morrow," said one of the sleepless men thoughtfully. His remark was more in the tone of soliloquy than addressed to the other. Then louder, and in a manner which implied resentment, "Them all-fired skitters is givin' me a twistin'."

  "Smoke up, pard," came a muffled rejoinder from the region of the other blanket "Maybe your hide's a bit tender yet. I 'lows skitters 'most allus goes fur young 'uns. Guess I'm all right."

  "Dessay you are," replied the first speaker, sharply. "I ain't been long in the country—leastways, not on the prairie, an' like as not I ain't dropped into the ways o' things. I've allus heerd as washin' is mighty bad when skitters is around. They doesn't worry you any."

  He pulled heavily at his pipe until his face was enveloped in a fog of smoke. His companion's tone of patronage had nettled him. The old hand moved restlessly but did not answer. It is doubtful if the other's sarcasm had been observed. It was scarcely broad enough to penetrate the toughened hide of the older hand's susceptibilities.

  The silence was broken by a man's voice in the distance. The sound of an old familiar melody, chanted in a manly and not unmusical voice, reached the fireside. It was the voice of the man who was on watch round the band of cattle, and he was endeavoring to lull them into quiescence. The human voice, in the stillness of the night, has a somnolent effect upon cattle, and even mosquitoes, unless they are very thick, fail to counteract the effect. The older hand stirred. Then he sat up and methodically replenished the fire, kicking the dying embers together until they blazed afresh.

  "Jim Bowley do sing mighty sweet," he said, in disparaging tones. "Like a crazy buzz-saw, I guess. S'pose them beasties is gettin' kind o' restless. Say, Nat, how goes the time? It must be night on ter your spell."

  Nat sat up and drew out a great silver watch.

  "Haf an hour yet, pard." Then he proceeded to re-fill his pipe, cutting great flakes of black tobacco from a large plug with his sheath knife. Suddenly he paused in the operation and listened. "Say, Jake, what's that?"

  "What's what?" replied Jake, roughly, preparing to lie down again.

  "Listen!"

  The two men bent their keen, prairie-trained ears to windward. They listened intently. The night was very black—as yet the moon had not risen. Jake used his eyes as well as ears. On the prairie, as well as elsewhere, eyes have a lot to do with hearing. He sought to penetrate the darkness around him, but his efforts were unavailing. He could hear no sound but the voice of Jim Bowley and the steady plodding of his horse's feet as he ceaselessly circled the band of somnolent cattle. The sky was cloudy, and only here and there a few stars gleamed diamond-like in the heavens, but threw insufficient light to aid the eyes which sought to penetrate the surrounding gloom. The old hand threw himself back on his pillow in skeptical irritation.

  "Thar ain't nothin', young 'un," he said disdainfully. "The beasties is quiet, and Jim Bowley ain't no tenderfoot. Say, them skitters 'as rattled yer. Guess you 'eard some prowlin' coyote. They allus come around whar ther's a tenderfoot."

  Jake curled himself up again and chuckled at his own sneering pleasantry.

  "Coyote yerself, Jake Bond," retorted Nat, angrily. "Them lugs o' yours is gettin' old. Guess yer drums is saggin'. You're mighty smart, I don't think."

  The youngster got on to his feet and walked to where the men's two horses were picketed. Both horses were standing with ears cocked and their heads held high in the direction of the mountains. Their attitude was the acme of alertness. As the man came up they turned towards him and whinnied as if in relief at the knowledge of his presence. But almost instantly turned again to gaze far out into the night. Wonderful indeed is a horse's instinct, but even more wonderful is the keenness of his sight and hearing.

  Nat patted his broncho on the neck, and then stood beside him watching—listening. Was it fancy, or was it fact? The faintest sound of a horse galloping reached him; at least, he thought so.

  He
returned to the fire sullenly antagonistic. He did not return to his blanket, but sat silently smoking and thinking. He hated the constant reference to his inexperience on the prairie. If even he did hear a horse galloping in the distance it didn't matter. But it was his ears that had first caught the sound in spite of his inexperience. His companion pigheadedly derided the fact because his own ears were not sufficiently keen to have detected the sound himself.

  Thus he sat for a few minutes gazing into the fire. Jake was now snoring loudly, and Nat was glad to be relieved from the tones of his sneering voice. Presently he rose softly from his seat, and taking his saddle blanket, saddled and bridled his horse. Then he mounted and silently rode off towards the herd. It was his relief on the cattle guard.

  Jim Bowley welcomed him with the genial heartiness of a man who knows that he has finished his vigil and that he can now lie down to rest. The guarding of a large herd at night is always an anxious time. Cattle are strange things to handle. A stampede will often involve a week's weary scouring of the prairie.

  Just as Jim Bowley was about to ride up to the camp, Nat fired a question which he had been some time meditating.

  "Guess you didn't hear a horse gallopin' jest now, pard?" he asked quietly.

  "Why cert, boy," the other answered quickly, "only a deaf mule could 'a' missed it. Some one passed right under the ridge thar, away to the southwest. Guess they wer' travelin' mighty fast too. Why?"

  "Oh, nothin', Jim, on'y I guess Jake Bond's that same deaf mule you spoke of. He's too fond of gettin' at youngsters, the old fossil. I told 'im as I 'card suthin', an' 'e told me as I was a tenderfoot and didn't know wot I was gassin' about."

  "Jake's a cantankerous cuss, boy. Let 'im gas; 'e don't cut any figger anyway. Say, you keep yer eye peeled on some o' the young heifers on the far side o' the bunch. They're rustlin' some. They keep mouching after new grass. When the moon gits up you'll see better. S'long, mate."

  Jim rode away towards the camp fire, and young Nat proceeded to circle round the great herd of cattle. It was a mighty bunch for three men to handle. But Lablache, its owner, was never one to underwork his men. This was the herd which he had purchased at the sale of Bunning-Ford's ranch. And they were now being taken to his own ranch, some distance to the south of the settlement, for the purpose of re-branding with his own marks.

  As young Nat entered upon his vigil the golden arc of the rising moon broke the sky-line of the horizon. Already the clouds were fast clearing, being slowly driven before the yellow glory of the orb of night. Soon the prairie would be bathed in the effulgent, silvery light which renders the western night so delicious when the moon is at its full.

  As the cowboy circled the herd, the moon, at first directly to his left, slowly dropped behind until its, as yet, dull light shone full upon his back. The beasts were quite quiet and the sense of responsibility which was his, in a measure, lessened.

  Some distance ahead, and near by where' he must pass, a clump of undergrowth and a few stunted trees grew round the base of a hillock and broken rocks. The cattle were reposing close up by this shelter. Nat's horse, as he drew near to the brush, was ambling along at that peculiar gait, half walk, half trot, essentially the pace of a "cow-horse." Suddenly the animal came to a stand, for which there seemed no apparent reason. He stood for a second with ears cocked, sniffing at the night air in evident alarm. Then a prolonged, low whistle split the air. The sound came from the other side of the rocks, and, to the tenderfoot's ears, constituted a signal.

  The most natural thing for him to have done would have been to wait for further developments, if developments there were to be. However, he was a plucky youngster, in spite of his inexperience, and, besides, something of the derision of Jake Bond was still rankling in his mind. He knew the whistle to be the effort of some man, and his discovery of the individual would further prove the accuracy of his hearing, and he would then have the laugh of his companion. A more experienced hand would have first looked to his six-shooter and thought of cattle thieves, but, as Jake had said, he was a tenderfoot. Instead, without a moment's hesitation, he dashed his spurs into his broncho's flanks and swept round to the shadowed side of the rocks.

  He realized his folly when too late. The moment he entered the shade there came the slithering whirr of something cutting through the air. Something struck the horse's front legs, and the next moment he shot out of the saddle in response to a somersault which the broncho turned. His horse had been roped by one of his front legs. The cowboy lay where he fell, dazed and half stunned. Then he became aware of three dark faces bending over him. An instant later a gag was forced into his mouth, and he felt himself being bound hand and foot. Then the three faces silently disappeared, and all was quiet about him.

  In the meantime, on the rising ground, where the camp fire burned, all was calm slumber. The two old hands were taking their rest with healthy contentment and noisy assertion. The glory of the rising moon was lost to the slumberers, and no dread of coming disaster disturbed them. The stertorous blasts of their nostrils testified to this. The replenished fire slowly died down to a mass of white smoldering ashes, and the chill-growing air caused one of the sleepers to move restlessly in his sleep and draw his head down beneath his blanket for greater warmth.

  Up the slope came three figures. They were moving with cautious, stealthy step, the movement of men whose purpose is not open. On they came swiftly—silently. One man led; he was tall and swarthy with long black hair falling upon his shoulders in straight, coarse mass. He was evidently a half-breed, and his clothes denoted him to be of the poorer class—a class accustomed to live by preying upon its white neighbors. He was clad in a pair of moleskin trousers, which doubtless at one time had been white, but which now were of that nondescript hue which dirt conveys. His upper garments were a beaded buckskin shirt and a battered Stetson hat. Around his waist was a cartridge belt, on which was slung a holster containing a heavy six-chambered revolver and a long sheath knife.

  His companions were similarly equipped, and the three formed a wild picture of desperate resolve. Yard by yard they drew toward the sleepers, at each step listening for the loud indications of sleep which were made only too apparent upon the still night air. Now they were close upon the fire. One of the unconscious cow-boys, Jim Bowley, stirred. A moment passed. Then the intruders drew a step nearer. Suddenly Jim roused and then sat up. His action at once became a signal. There was a sound of swift footsteps, and the next instant the astonished man was gazing into the muzzle of a heavy pistol.

  "Hands up!" cried the voice of the leading half-breed. One of his followers had similarly covered the half-awakened Jake.

  Without a word of remonstrance two pairs of hands went up. Astonishment had for the moment paralyzed speech on the part of the rudely awakened sleepers. They were only dimly conscious of their assailants. The compelling rings of metal that confronted them weighed the balance of their judgment, and their response was the instinctive response of the prairie. Whoever their assailants, they had got the drop on them. The result was the law of necessity.

  In depressing silence the assailants drew their captives' weapons. Then, after binding their arms, the leader bade them rise. His voice was harsh and his accent "South-western" American. Then he ordered them to march, the inexorable pistol ever present to enforce obedience. In silence the two men were conducted to the bush where the first capture had been made. And here they were firmly tied to separate trees with their own lariats.

  "See hyar," said the tall half-breed, as the captives' feet were bound securely. "There ain't goin' to be no shootin'. You're that sensible. You're jest goin' to remain right hyar till daylight, or mebbe later. A gag'll prevent your gassin'. You're right in the track of white men, so I guess you'll do. See hyar, bo', jest shut it," as Jim Bowley essayed to speak, "cause my barker's itchin' to join in a conversation."

  The threat had a quieting effect upon poor Jim, who immediately closed his lips. Silent but watchful he eyed the half-breed's fac
e. There was something very familiar about the thin cheeks, high cheek-bones, and about the great hooked nose. He was struggling hard to locate the man. At this moment the third ruffian approached with three horses. The other had been busy fixing a gag in Jake Bond's mouth. Jim Bowley saw the horses come up. And, in the now brilliant moonlight, he beheld and recognized a grand-looking golden chestnut. There was no mistaking that glorious beast. Jim was no tenderfoot; he had been on the prairie in this district for years. And although he had never come into actual contact with the man, he had seen him and knew about the exploits of the owner of that perfect animal.

  The half-breed approached him with an improvised gag. For the life of him Jim could not resist a temptation which at that moment assailed him. The threatening attitude of his captor for the instant had lost its effect. If he died for it he must blurt out his almost superstitious astonishment.

  The half-breed seized his prisoner's lower jaw in his hand and compressed the cheeks upon the teeth. Jim's lips parted, and a horrified amazement found vent in words.

  "Holy Gawd! man. But be ye flesh or sperrit? Peter Retief—as I'm a livin'—"

  He said no more, for, with a wrench, the gag was forced into his mouth by the relentless hand of the man before him. Although he was thus silenced his eyes remained wide open and staring. The dark stern face, as he saw it, was magnified into that of a fiend. The keen eyes and depressed brows, he thought, might belong to some devil re-incarnated, whilst the eagle-beaked nose and thin-compressed lips denoted, to his distorted fancy, a sanguinary cruelty. At the mention of his name this forbidding apparition flashed a vengeful look at the speaker, and a half smile of utter disdain flickered unnoticed around the corners of his mouth.

  Once his prisoners were secured the dark-visaged cattle-thief turned to the horses. At a word the trio mounted. Then they rode off, and the wretched captives beheld, to their unspeakable dismay, the consummate skill with which the cattle were roused and driven off. Away they went with reckless precipitance, the cattle obeying the master hand of the celebrated raider with an implicitness which seemed to indicate a strange sympathy between man and beast. The great golden chestnut raced backwards and forwards like some well-trained greyhound, heading the leading beasts into the desired direction without effort or apparent guidance. It was a grand display of the cowboy's art, and, in spite of his predicament and the cruel tightness of his bonds, Jim Bowley reveled in the sight of such a display.