_ CHAPTER XXVIII. SETTLING THE RECKONING
Jacky stood at the gate of the fifty-acre pasture. She had been standing there for some minutes. The night was quite dark; there was no moon. Her horse, Nigger, was standing hitched to one of the fence posts a few yards away from her and inside the pasture. The girl was waiting for "Lord" Bill.
Not a sound broke the stillness of the night as she stood listening. A wonderful calmness was over all. From her position Jacky had seen the light shining through the window of the implement shed. Now the shed was quite dark--the window had been covered. She knew that her uncle and Lablache were there. She was growing impatient.
Every now and then she would turn her face from the contemplation of the blackness of the distant end of the field to the direction of the settlement, her ears straining to catch the sound of her dilatory lover's coming. The minutes passed all too swiftly. And her impatience grew and found vent in irritable movements and sighs of vexation.
Suddenly her ears caught the sound of distant cries coming from the settlement. She turned in the direction. A lurid gleam was in the sky. Then, as she watched, the glare grew brighter, and sparks shot up in a great wreathing cloud of smoke. The direction was unmistakable. She knew that Lablache's store had been fired.
"Good," she murmured, with a sigh of relief. "I guess Bill'll come right along now. I wish he'd come. They've been in that shack ten minutes or more. Why don't he come?"
The glare of the fire fascinated her, and her eyes remained glued in the direction of it. The reflection in the sky was widespread and she knew that the great building must be gutted, for there was no means of putting the fire out. Then her thoughts turned to Lablache, and she smiled as she thought of the surprise awaiting him. The sky in the distance grew brighter. She could only see the lurid reflection; a rising ground intervened between her and the settlement.
Suddenly against the very heart of the glare the figure of a horseman coming towards her was silhouetted as he rode over the rising ground. One glance sufficed the girl. That tall, thin figure was unmistakable--her lover was hastening towards her. She turned to her horse and unhitched the reins from the fence post.
Presently Bill came up and dismounted. He led Golden Eagle through the gate. The greeting was an almost silent one between these two. Doubtless their thoughts carried them beyond mere greetings. They stood for a second.
"Shall we ride?" said Jacky, inclining her head in the direction of the shed.
"No, we will walk. How long have they been there?"
"A quarter of an hour, I guess."
"Come along, then."
They walked down the pasture leading their two horses.
"I see no light," said Bill, looking straight ahead of him.
"It is covered--the window, I mean. What are you going to do, Bill?"
The man laughed.
"Lots--but I shall be guided by circumstances. You must remain outside, Jacky; you can see to the horses."
"P'r'aps."
The man turned sharply.
"P'r'aps?"
"Yes, one never knows. I guess it's no use fixing things when--guided by circumstances."
They relapsed into silence and walked steadily on. Half the distance was covered when Jacky halted.
"Will Golden Eagle stand 'knee-haltering,' Bill?"
"Yes, why?"
"We'll 'knee-halter' 'em."
Bill stood irresolute.
"It'll be better, I guess," the girl pursued. "We'll be freer."
"All right," replied Bill. "But," after a pause, "I'd rather you didn't come further, little woman--there may be shooting--"
"That's so. I like shootin'. What's that?"
The girl had secured her horse, Bill was in the act of securing his. Jacky raised her hand in an attitude of attention and turned her face to windward. Bill stood erect and listened.
"Ah!--it's the boys. Baptiste said they would come."
There was a faint rustling of grass near by. Jacky's keen ears had detected the stealing sound at once. To others it might have passed for the effect of the night breeze.
They listened for a few seconds longer, then Bill turned to the girl.
"Come--the horses are safe. The boys will not show themselves. I fancy they are here to watch only--me."
They continued on towards the shed. They were both wrapt in silent thought. Neither was prepared for what was to come. They were still nearly a quarter of a mile from the building. Its outline was dimly discernible in the darkness. And, too, now the light from the oil lamp could be seen dimly shining through the red bandanna which was stretched over the window.
Now the sound of "Poker" John's voice raised in anger reached them. They stood still with one accord. It was astonishing how the voice traveled all that distance. He must be shouting. A sudden fear gripped their hearts. Bill was the first to move. With a whispered "Wait here," he ran forward. For an instant Jacky waited, then, on a sudden impulse, she followed her lover.
The girl had just started. Suddenly the sharp report of firearms split the air. She came up with Bill, who had paused at the sound.
"Hustle, Bill. It's murder," the girl panted.
"Yes," and he ran forward with set face and gleaming eyes.
Murder--and who was the victim? Bill wondered, and his heart misgave him. There was no longer any sound of voices. The rancher had been silenced. He thought of the girl behind him. Then his whole mind suddenly centered itself upon Lablache. If he had killed the rancher no mercy should be shown to him.
Bill was rapidly nearing the building, and it was wrapped in an ominous silence.
For a second he again came to a stand. He wanted to make sure. He could hear Jacky's speeding footfalls from behind. And he could hear the stealthy movements of those others. These were the only sounds that reached him. He-went on again. He came to the building. The window was directly in front of him. He tried to look into the room but the handkerchief effectually hid the interior. Suddenly the light went out. He knew what this meant. Turning away from the window he crept towards the door. Jacky had come up. He motioned her into the shadow. Then he waited.
The door opened and a great figure came out. It was Lablache. Even in the darkness Bill recognized him. His heavy, asthmatical breathing must have betrayed the money-lender if there had been no other means of identification.
Lablache stepped out on to the prairie utterly unconscious of the figures crouching in the darkness. He stepped heavily forward. Four steps--that was all. A silent spring--an iron grip round the money-lender's throat, from behind. A short, sharp struggle--a great gasping for breath. Then Lablache reeled backwards and fell to the ground with Bill hanging to his throat like some tiger. In the fall the money-lender's pistol went off. There was a sharp report, and the bullet tore up the ground. But no harm was done. Bill held on. Then came the swish of a skirt. Jacky was at her lover's side. She dragged the money-lender's pistol from his pocket. Then Bill let go his hold and stood panting over the prostrate man. The whole thing was done in silence. No word was spoken.
Lablache sucked in a deep whistling breath. His eyes rolled and he struggled into a sitting posture. He was gazing into the muzzle of Bill's pistol.
"Get up!" The stern voice was unlike Bill's, but there was nothing of the twang of Retief about it.
The money-lender stared, but did not move--neither did he speak. Jacky had darted into the hut. She had gone to light the lamp and learn the truth.
"Get up!" The chilling command forced the money-lender to rise. He saw before him the tall, thin figure of his assailant.
"Retief!" he gasped, and then stood speechless.
Now the re-lighted lamp glowed through the doorway. Bill pointed towards the door.
"Go inside!" The relentless pistol was at Lablache's head.
"No--no! Not inside." The words whistled on a gasping breath.
"Go inside!"
Cowed and fearful, Lablache obeyed the mandate.
Bill followed the money-lender into the miserable room. His keen eyes took in the scene in one swift glance. He saw Jacky kneeling beside the prostrate form of her uncle. She was not weeping. Her beautiful face was stonily calm. She was just looking down at that still form, that drawn gray face, the staring eyes and dropped jaw. Bill saw and understood. Lablache might expect no mercy.
The murderer himself was now looking in the direction of--but not at--the body of his victim. He was gazing with eyes which expressed horrified amazement at the sight of the crouching figure of Jacky Allandale. He was trying to fathom the meaning of her association with Retief.
Bill closed the door. Now he came forward towards the table, always keeping Lablache in front of him.
"Is he dead?" Bill's voice was solemn.
Jacky looked up. There was a look as of stone in her somber eyes.
"He is dead--dead."
"Ah! For the moment we will leave the dead. Come, let us deal with the living. It is time for a final reckoning."
There was a deadly chill in the tone of Bill's voice--a chill which was infinitely more dreadful to Lablache's ears than could any passionate outburst have been.
The door opened gently. No one noticed it, so absorbed were they in the ghastly matter before them. Wider the door swung and several dusky faces appeared in the opening.
The money-lender stood motionless. His gaze ignored the dead. He watched the living. He wondered what "Lord" Bill's preamble portended. He shook himself like one rousing from some dreadful nightmare. He summoned his courage and tried to face the consequences of his act with an outward calm. Struggle as he might a deadly fear was ever present.
It was not the actual fear of death--it was the moral dread of something intangible. He feared at that moment not that which was to come. It was the presence of the dusky-visaged raider and--the girl. He feared mostly the icy look on Jacky's face. However, his mind was quite clear. He was watching for a loophole of escape. And he lost no detail of the scene before him.
A matter which puzzled him greatly was the familiar voice of the raider. Retief, as he knew him, spoke with a pronounced accent, but now he only heard the ordinary tones of an Englishman.
Bill had purposely abandoned his exaggerated Western drawl. Now he removed the scarf from his neck and proceeded to wipe the yellow grease from his face and neck. Lablache, with dismay in his heart, saw the white skin which had been concealed beneath the paint. The truth flashed upon him instantly. And before Bill had had time to remove his wig his name had passed the money-lender's lips.
"Bunning-Ford?" he gasped. And in that expression was a world of moral fear.
"Yes, Bunning-Ford, come to settle his last reckoning with you."
Bill eyed the murderer steadily and Lablache felt his last grip on his courage relax. A terrible fear crept upon him as his courage ebbed. Slowly Bill turned his eyes in the direction of the still kneeling Jacky. The girl's eyes met his, and, in response to some mute understanding which passed between them, she rose to her feet.
Bill did not speak. He merely looked at his pistol. Jacky spoke as if answering some remark of his.
"Yes, this is my affair."
Then she turned upon the money-lender. There was no wrath in her face, no anger in her tones; only that horrid, stony purpose which Lablache dreaded. He wished she would hurl invective at him. He felt that it would have been better so.
"The death which you have dealt to that poor old man is too good for you--murderer," she said, her deep, somber eyes seeming to pass through and through the mountain of flesh she was addressing. "I take small comfort in the thought that he had no time to suffer bodily pain. You will suffer--later." Bill gazed at her wonderingly. "Liar!--cheat!--you pollute the earth. You thought to cozen that poor, harmless old man out of his property--out of me. You thought to ruin him as you have ruined others. Your efforts will avail you nothing. From the moment Bill discovered the use of your memorandum pad"--Lablache started--"your fate was sealed. We swore to confiscate your property. For every dollar you took from us you should pay ten. But now the matter is different. There is a justice on the prairie--a rough, honest, uncorruptible justice. And that justice demands your life. You shall scourge Foss River no longer. You have murdered. You shall die!--"
Jacky was about to go further with her inexorable denunciation when the door of the shed was flung wide, and eight Breeds, headed by Gautier and Baptiste, came in. They came in almost noiselessly, their moccasined feet giving out scarcely any sound upon the floor of the room.
"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!" _