The Story of the Foss River Ranch

by Cullum, Ridgwell

  "Lord" Bill turned, startled at the sudden apparition. Jacky hesitated. Here was a contingency which none had reckoned upon. One glance at those dark, cruel faces warned all three that these prairie outcasts had been silent witnesses of everything that had taken place. It was a supreme moment, and the deadly pallor which had assumed a leadenish hue on Lablache's face told of one who appreciated the horror of that silent coming.

  Baptiste stepped over to where Jacky stood. He looked at her, and then his gaze passed to the dead man upon the floor. His beady, black eyes turned fiercely upon the cowering money-lender.

  "Ow!" he grunted. And his tone was the fierce expression of an Indian roused to homicidal purpose.

  Then he turned back to Jacky, and the look on his face changed to one of sympathy and even love.

  "Not you, missie—and the white man—no. The prairie is the land of the Breed and his forefathers—the Red Man. Guess the law of the prairie'll come best from such as he. You are one of us," he went on, surveying the girl's beautiful face in open admiration. "You've allus been mostly one of us—but I take it y'are too white. No, guess you ain't goin' ter muck yer pretty hands wi' the filthy blood of yonder," pointing to Lablache. "These things is fur the likes o' us. Jest leave this skunk to us. Death is the sentence, and death he's goin' ter git—an' it'll be somethin' ter remember by all who behold. An' the story shall go down to our children. This poor dead thing was our best frien'—an' he's dead—murdered. So, this is a matter for the Breed."

  Then the half-breed turned away. Seeing the chalk upon the floor he stooped and picked it up.

  "Let's have the formalities. It is but just—"

  Bill suddenly interrupted. He was angry at the interference of Baptiste.

  "Hold on!"

  Baptiste swung round. The white man got no further. The Breed broke in upon him with animal ferocity.

  "Who says hold on? Peace, white man, peace! This is for us. Dare to stop us, an'—"

  Jacky sprang between her lover and the ferocious half-breed.

  "Bill, leave well alone," she said. And she held up a warning finger.

  She knew these men, of a race to which she, in part, belonged. As well baulk a tiger of its prey. She knew that if Bill interfered his life would pay the forfeit. The sanguinary lust of these human devils once aroused, they cared little how it be satisfied.

  Bill turned away with a shrug, and he was startled to see that he had been noiselessly surrounded by the rest of the half-breeds. Had Jacky's command needed support, it would have found it in this ominous movement.

  Fate had decreed that the final act in the Foss River drama should come from another source than the avenging hands of those who had sealed their compact in Bad Man's Hollow.

  Baptiste turned away from "Lord" Bill, and, at a sign from him, Lablache was brought round to the other side of the table—to where the dead rancher was lying. Baptiste handed him the chalk and then pointed to the wall, on which had been written the score of old John's last gamble.

  "Write!" he said, turning back to his prisoner.

  Lablache gazed fearfully around. He essayed to speak, but his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth.

  "Write—while I tell you." The Breed still pointed to the wall.

  Lablache held out the chalk.

  "I kill John Allandale," dictated Baptiste.

  Lablache wrote.

  "Now, sign. So."

  Lablache signed. Jacky and Bill stood looking on silent and wondering.

  "Now," said Baptiste, with all the solemnity of a court official, "the execution shall take place. Lead him out!"

  At this instant Jacky laid her hand upon the half-breed's arm.

  "What—what is it?" she asked. And from her expression something of the stony calmness had gone, leaving in its place a look of wondering not untouched with horror.

  "The Devil's Keg!"

  * * *

  CHAPTER XXIX - THE MAW OF THE MUSKEG

  Down the sloping shore to the level of the great keg, the party of Breeds—and in their midst the doomed money-lender—made their way. Jacky and "Lord" Bill, on their horses, brought up the rear.

  The silent cortège moved slowly on, out on to the oozing path across the mire. Lablache was now beyond human aid.

  The right and wrong of their determination troubled the Breeds not one whit. But it was different with the two white people. What thoughts Bill had upon the matter he kept to himself. He certainly felt that he ought to interfere, but he knew how worse than useless his interference would be. Besides, the man should die. The law of Judge Lynch was the only law for such as he. Let that law take its course. Bill would have preferred the stout tree and a raw-hide lariat. But—and he shrugged his shoulders.

  Jacky felt more deeply upon the subject. She saw the horror in all its truest lights, and yet she had flouted her lover's suggestion that she should not witness the end. Bad and all as Lablache was—cruel as was his nature, murderer though he be, surely no crime, however heinous, could deserve the fate to which he was going. She had remonstrated—urged Baptiste to forego his wanton cruelty, to deal out justice tempered with a mercy which should hurl the money-lender to oblivion without suffering—with scarce time to realize the happening. Her efforts were unavailing. As well try to turn an ape from its mischief—a man-eater from its mania for human blood. The inherent love of cruelty had been too long fostered in these Breeds of Foss River. Lablache had too long swayed their destinies with his ruthless hand of extortion. All the pent-up hatred, stored in the back cells of memory, was now let loose. For all these years in Foss River they had been forced to look to Lablache as the ruler of their destinies. Was he not the great—the wealthy man of the place? When he held up his finger they must work—and his wage was the wage of a dog. When money was scarce among them, would he not drive them starving from his great store? When their children and women were sick, would he not refuse them drugs—food—nourishment of any sort, unless the money was down? They had not even the privilege of men who owned land. There was no credit for the Breeds—outcasts. Baptiste and his fellows remembered all these things. Their time had come. They would pay Lablache—and their score of interest should be heavy.

  On their way from the shed to the muskeg Lablache had seen the reflection of the fire at his store in the sky. Gautier had taken devilish satisfaction in telling the wretched man of what had been done—mouthing the details in the manner of one who finds joy in cruelty. He remembered past injuries, and reveled in the money-lender's agony.

  After a toilsome journey the Breeds halted at the point where the path divided into three. Jacky and Bill sat on their horses and watched the scene. Then, slowly, something of Baptiste's intention was borne in upon them.

  Jacky reached out and touched her lover's arm.

  "Bill, what are they going to do?"

  She asked the question. But the answer was already with her. Her companion remained silent. She did not repeat her question.

  Then she heard Baptiste's raucous tones as he issued his commands.

  "Loose his hands!"

  Jacky watched Lablache's face in the dim starlight. It was ghastly. The whole figure of the man seemed to have shrunk. The wretched man stood free, and yet more surely a prisoner than any criminal in a condemned cell.

  The uncertain light of the stars showed only the dark expanse of the mire upon all sides. In the distance, ahead, the mountains were vaguely outlined against the sky; behind and around, nothing but that awful death-trap. Jacky had lived all her life beside the muskeg, but never, until that moment, had she realized the awful terror of its presence.

  Now Baptiste again commanded.

  "Prepare for death."

  It seemed to the listening girl that a devilish tone of exultation rang in his words. She roused herself from her fascinated attention. She was about to urge her horse forward. But a thin, powerful hand reached out and gripped her by the arm. It was "Lord" Bill. His hoarse whisper sung in her ears.

  "Your own w
ords—Leave well alone."

  And she allowed her horse to stand.

  Now she leaned forward in her saddle and rested her elbows upon the horn in front of her. Again she heard Baptiste speak. He seemed to be in sole command.

  "We'll give yer a chance fur yer life—"

  Again the fiendish laugh underlaid the words.

  "It's a chance of a dog—a yellow dog," he pursued. Jacky shuddered. "But such a chance is too good fur yer likes. Look—look, those hills. See the three tall peaks—yes, those three, taller than the rest. One straight in front; one to the right, an' one away to the left. Guess this path divides right hyar—in three, an' each path heads for one of those peaks. Say, jest one trail crosses the keg—one. Savee? The others end sudden, and then—the keg."

  The full horror of the man's meaning now became plain to the girl. She heaved a great gasp, and turned to Bill. Her lover signed a warning. She turned again to the scene before her.

  "Now, see hyar, you scum," Baptiste went on. "This is yer chance. Choose yer path and foller it. Guess yer can't see it no more than yer ken see this one we're on, but you've got the lay of it. Guess you'll travel the path yer choose to—the end. If yer don't move—an' move mighty slippy—you'll be dumped headlong into the muck. Ef yer git on to the right path an' cross the keg safe, yer ken sling off wi' a whole skin. Guess you'll fin' it a ticklish job—mebbe you'll git through. But I've a notion yer won't. Now, take yer dog's chance, an' remember, its death if yer don't, anyway."

  The man ceased speaking. Jacky saw Lablache shake his great head. Then something made him look at the mountains beyond. There were the three dimly-outlined peaks. They were clear enough to guide him. Jacky, watching, saw the expression of his face change. It was as though a flicker of hope had risen within him. Then she saw him turn and eye Baptiste. He seemed to read in that cruel, dark face a vengeful purpose. He seemed to scent a trick. Presently he turned again to the hills.

  How plainly the watching girl read the varying emotions which beset him. He was trying to face this chance calmly, but the dark expanse of the surrounding mire wrung his heart with terror. He could not choose, and yet he knew he must do so or—

  Baptiste spoke again.

  "Choose!"

  Lablache again bent his eyes upon the hills. But his lashless lids would flicker, and his vision became impaired. He turned to the Breed with an imploring gesture. Baptiste made no movement. His relentless expression remained unchanged. The wretched man turned away to the rest of the Breeds.

  A pistol was leveled at his head and he turned back to Baptiste. The only comfort he obtained was a monosyllabic command.

  "Choose!"

  "God, man, I can't." Lablache gasped out the words which seemed literally to be wrung from him.

  "Choose!" The inexorable tone sent a shudder over the distraught man. Even in the starlight the expression of the villain's face was hideous to behold.

  Baptiste's voice again rang out on the still night air.

  "Move him!"

  A pistol was pushed behind his ear.

  "Do y' hear?"

  "Mercy—mercy!" cried the distraught man. But he made no move.

  There was an instant's pause. Then the loud report of the threatening pistol rang out. It had been fired through the lobe of his ear.

  "Oh, God!"

  The exclamation was forced from Jacky. The torture—the horror nearly drove her wild. She lifted her reins as though to ride to the villain's aid. Then something—some cruel recollection—stayed her. She remembered her uncle and her heart hardened.

  The merciless torture of the Breed was allowed to pass.

  To the wretched victim it seemed that his ear-drum must be split for the shot had left him almost stone deaf. The blood trickled from the wound. He almost leapt forward. Then he stood all of a tremble as he felt the ground shake beneath him. A cold sweat poured down his great face.

  "Choose!" Baptiste followed the terror-stricken man up.

  "No—no! Don't shoot! Yes, I'll go—only—don't shoot."

  The abject cowardice the great man now displayed was almost pitiable. Bill's lip curled in disdain. He had expected that this man would have shown a bold front.

  He had always believed Lablache to be, at least, a man of courage. But he did not allow for the circumstances—the surroundings. Lablache on the safe ground of the prairie would have faced disaster very differently. The thought of that sucking mire was too terrible. The oily maw of that death-trap was a thing to strike horror into the bravest heart.

  "Which path?" Baptiste spoke, waving his hand in the direction of the mountains.

  Lablache moved cautiously forward, testing the ground with his foot as he went. Then he paused again and eyed the mountains.

  "The right path," he said at last, in a guttural whisper.

  "Then start." The words rang out cuttingly upon the night air.

  Lablache fixed his eyes upon the distant peak of the mountain which was to be his guide. He advanced slowly. The Breeds followed, Jacky and Bill bringing up the rear. The ground seemed firm and the money-lender moved heavily forward. His breath came in gasps. He was panting, not with exertion, but with terror. He could not test the ground until his weight was upon it. An outstretched foot pressed on the grassy path told him nothing. He knew that the crust would hold until the weight of his body was upon it. With every successful step his terror increased. What would the next bring forth?

  His agony of mind was awful.

  He covered about ten yards in this way. The sweat poured from him. His clothes stuck to him. He paused for a second and took fresh bearings. He turned his head and looked into the muzzle of Baptiste's revolver. He shuddered and turned again to the mountains. He pressed forward. Still the ground was firm. But this gave him no hope. Suddenly a frightful horror swept over him. It was something fresh; he had not thought of it before. The fact was strange, but it was so. The path—had he taken the wrong one? He had made his selection at haphazard and he knew that there was no turning back. Baptiste had said so and he had seen his resolve written in his face. A conviction stole over him that he was on the wrong path. He knew he was. He must be. Of course it was only natural. The center path must be the main one. He stood still. He could have cried out in his mental agony. Again he turned—and saw the pistol.

  He put his foot out. The ground trembled at his touch. He drew back with a gurgling cry. He turned and tried another spot. It was firm until his weight rested upon it. Then it shook. He sought to return to the spot he had left. But now he could not be sure. His mind was uncertain. Suddenly he gave a jump. He felt the ground solid beneath him as he alighted. His face was streaming. He passed his hand across it in a dazed way. His terror increased a hundredfold. Now he endeavored to take his bearings afresh. He looked out at the three mountains. The right one—yes, that was it. The right one. He saw the peak, and made another step forward. The path held. Another step and his foot went through. He drew back with a cry. He tripped and fell heavily. The ground shook under him and he lay still, moaning.

  Baptiste's voice roused him and urged him on.

  "Git on, you skunk," he said. "Go to yer death."

  Lablache sat up and looked about. He felt dazed. He knew he must go on. Death—death which ever way he turned. God! did ever a man suffer so? The name of John Allandale came to his mind and he gazed wildly about, fancying some one had whispered it to him in answer to his thoughts. He stood up. He took another step forward with reckless haste. He remembered the pistol behind him. The ground seemed to shake under him. His distorted fancy was playing tricks with him. Another step. Yes, the ground was solid—no, it shook. The weight of his body came down on the spot. His foot went through. He hurled himself backwards again and clutched wildly at the ground. He shuddered and cried out. Again came Baptiste's voice.

  "Git on, or—"

  The distraught man struggled to his feet. He was becoming delirious with terror. He stepped forward again. The ground seemed solid and he laughed a
horrid, wild laugh. Another step and another. He paused, breathing hard. Then he started to mutter,—

  "On—on. Yes, on again or they'll have me. The path—this is the right one. I'll cheat 'em yet."

  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 bastard. 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 grass, 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.