CHAPTER II
THE BLIZZARD: ITS CONSEQUENCES
On the whole, Canada can boast of one of the most perfect health-givingclimates in the world, despite the two extremes of heat and cold ofwhich it is composed. But even so, the Canadian climate is cursed by anevil which every now and again breaks loose from the bonds which fetterit, and rages from east to west, carrying death and destruction in itswake. I speak of the terrible--the raging Blizzard!
To appreciate the panic-like haste with which the Foss River Settlementparty left the ballroom, one must have lived a winter in the west ofCanada. The reader who sits snugly by his or her fireside, and who hasnever experienced a Canadian winter, can have no conception of one ofthose dread storms, the very name of which had drawn words of terrorfrom one who had lived the greater part of her life in the easternshadow of the Rockies. Hers was no timid, womanly fear for ordinaryinclemency of weather, but a deep-rooted dread of a life-and-deathstruggle in a merciless storm, than which, in no part of the world, canthere be found a more fearful. Whence it comes--and why, surely no onemay say. A meteorological expert may endeavor to account for it, but hisargument is unconvincing and gains no credence from the dweller on theprairies. And why? Because the storm does not come from above--neitherdoes it come from a specified direction. And only in the winter doessuch a wind blow. The wind buffets from every direction at once. No snowfalls from above and yet a blinding gray wall of snow, swept up from thewhite-clothed ground, encompasses the dazed traveller. His armoutstretched in daylight and he cannot see the tips of his heavy furmitts. Bitter cold, a hundred times intensified by the merciless forceof the wind, and he is lost and freezing--slowly freezing to death.
As the sleigh dashed through the outskirts of Calford, on its way to thesouth, there was not much doubt in the minds of any of its occupants asto the prospects of the storm. The gusty, patchy wind, the sudden sweepsof hissing, cutting snow, as it slithered up in a gray dust in themoonlight, and lashed, with stinging force, into their faces, was a sureherald of the coming "blizzard."
Bunning-Ford and Jacky occupied the front seat of the sleigh. The formerwas driving the spanking team of blacks of which old "Poker" John wasjustly proud. The sleigh was open, as in Canada all such sleighs are.Mrs. Abbot and the doctor sat in a seat with their backs to Jacky andher companion, and old John Allandale faced the wind in the back seat,alone. Thirty-five miles the horses had to cover before the stormthoroughly established itself, and "Lord" Bill was not a slow driver.
The figures of the travellers were hardly distinguishable so enwrappedwere they in beaver caps, buffalo coats and robes. Jacky, as she satsilently beside her companion, might have been taken for an inanimatebundle of furs, so lost was she within the ample folds of her buffalo.But for the occasional turn of her head, as she measured with her eyesthe rising of the storm, she gave no sign of life.
"Lord" Bill seemed indifferent. His eyes were fixed upon the road aheadand his hands, encased in fur mitts, were on the "lines" with atenacious grip. The horses needed no urging. They were high-mettled andcold. The gushing quiver of their nostrils, as they drank in the crisp,night air, had a comforting sound for the occupants of the sleigh.Weather permitting, those beautiful "blacks" would do the distance inunder three hours.
The sleigh bells jangled musically in response to the high steps of thehorses as they sped over the hard, snow-covered trail. They wereclimbing the long slope which was to take them out of the valleywherein was Calford situate. Presently Jack's face appeared from amidstthe folds of the muffler which kept her storm collar fast round her neckand ears.
"It's gaining on us, Billy."
"Yes, I know."
He understood her remark. He knew she referred to the storm. His lipswere curiously pursed. A knack he had when stirred out of himself.
"We shan't do it."
The girl spoke with conviction.
"No."
"Guess we'd better hit the trail for Norton's. Soldier Joe'll be glad towelcome us."
"Lord" Bill did not answer. He merely chirruped at the horses. Thewilling beasts increased their pace and the sleigh sped along with thatintoxicating smoothness only to be felt when travelling with double"bobs" on a perfect trail.
The gray wind of the approaching blizzard was becoming fiercer. The moonwas already enveloped in a dense haze. The snow was driving like finesand in the faces of the travellers.
"I think we'll give it an hour, Bill. After that I guess it'll be toothick," pursued the girl. "What d'you think, can we make Norton's inthat time--it's a good sixteen miles?"
"I'll put 'em at it," was her companion's curt response.
Neither spoke for a minute. Then "Lord" Bill bent his head suddenlyforward. The night was getting blacker and it was with difficulty thathe could keep his eyes from blinking under the lash of the whippingsnow.
"What is it?" asked Jacky, ever on the alert with the instinct of theprairie.
"Some one just ahead of us. The track is badly broken in places. Sittight, I'm going to touch 'em up."
He flicked the whip over the horses' backs, and, a moment later, thesleigh was flying along at a dangerous pace. The horses had broken intoa gallop.
"Lord" Bill seemed to liven up under the influence of speed. The windwas howling now, and conversation was impossible, except in short, jerkysentences. They were on the high level of the prairie and were gettingthe full benefit of the open sweep of country.
"Cold?" Bill almost shouted.
"No," came the quiet response.
"Straight, down-hill trail. I'm going to let 'em have their heads."
Both of these people knew every inch of the road they were travelling.There was no fear in their hearts.
"Put 'em along, then."
The horses raced along. The deadly gray wind had obscured all light. Thelights of the sleigh alone showed the tracks. It was a wild night andevery moment it seemed to become worse. Suddenly the man spoke again.
"I wish we hadn't got the others with us, Jacky."
"Why?"
"Because I could put 'em along faster, as it is--" His sentence remainedunfinished, the sleigh bumped and lifted on to one runner. It was withinan ace of overturning. There was no need to finish his sentence.
"Yes, I understand, Bill. Don't take too many chances. Ease 'emup--some. They're not as young as we are--not the horses. The others."
"Lord" Bill laughed. Jacky was so cool. The word fear was not in hervocabulary. This sort of a journey was nothing new to her. She hadexperienced it all before. Possibly, however, her total lack of fear wasdue to her knowledge of the man who, to use her own way of expressingthings, "was at the business end of the lines." "Lord" Bill was at oncethe finest and the most fearless teamster for miles around. Under thecloak of indolent indifference he concealed a spirit of fearlessness andeven recklessness which few accredited to him.
For some time the two remained silent. The minutes sped rapidly and halfan hour passed. All about was pitch black now. The wind was tearing andshrieking from every direction at once. The sleigh seemed to be thecenter of its attack. The blinding clouds of snow, as they swept up fromthe ground, were becoming denser and denser and offered a fierceresistance to the racing horses. Another few minutes and the two peopleon the front seat knew that progress would be impossible. As it was,"Lord" Bill was driving more by instinct than by what he could see. Thetrail was obscured, as were all landmarks. He could no longer see thehorses' heads.
"We've passed the school-house," said Jacky, at last.
"Yes, I know."
A strange knowledge or instinct is that of the prairie man or woman.Neither had seen the school-house or anything to indicate it. And yetthey knew they had passed it.
"Half a mile to Trout Creek. Two miles to Norton's. Can you do it,Bill?"
Quietly as the words were spoken, there was a world of meaning in thequestion. To lose their way now would be worse, infinitely, than to loseoneself in one of the sandy deserts of Africa. Death was in that bitingwind
and in the blinding snow. Once lost, and, in two or three hours,all would be over.
"Yes," came the monosyllabic reply. "Lord" Bill's lips were pursedtightly. Every now and then he dashed the snow and breath icicles fromhis eyelashes. The horses were almost hidden from his view.
They were descending a steep gradient and they now knew that they wereupon Trout Creek. At the creek Bill pulled up. It was the first stopsince leaving Calford. Jacky and he jumped down. Each knew what theother was about to do without speaking. Jacky, reins in hand, went roundthe horses; "Lord" Bill was searching for the trail which turned offfrom the main road up the creek to Norton's. Presently he came back.
"Animals all right?"
"Fit as fiddles," the girl replied.
"Right--jump up!"
There was no assisting this girl to her seat. No "by your leave" orEuropean politeness. Simply the word of one man who knows his businessto another. Both were on their "native heath."
Bill checked the horses' impetuosity and walked them slowly until hecame to the turning. Once on the right road, however, he let them havetheir heads.
"It's all right, Jacky," as the horses bounded forward.
A few minutes later the sleigh drew up at Norton's, but so dark was itand so dense the snow fog, that only those two keen watchers on thefront seat were able to discern the outline of the house.
"Poker" John and the doctor assisted the old lady to alight whilst Jackyand "Lord" Bill unhitched the horses. In spite of the cold the sweat waspouring from the animals' sides. In answer to a violent summons on thestorm door a light appeared in the window and "soldier" Joe Nortonopened the door.
For an instant he stood in the doorway peering doubtfully out into thestorm. A goodly picture he made as he stood lantern in hand, his ruggedold face gazing inquiringly at his visitors.
"Hurry up, Joe, let us in," exclaimed Allandale. "We are nearly frozento death."
"Why, bless my soul!--bless my soul! Come in! Come in!" the old manexclaimed hastily as he recognized John Allandale's voice. "You out, andon a night like this. Bless my soul! Come in! Down, Husky, down!" to abob-tail sheep-dog which bounded forward and barked savagely.
"Hold on, Joe," said "Poker" John. "Let the ladies go in, we must see tothe horses."
"It's all right, uncle," said Jacky, "we've unhitched 'em. Bill's taken'em right away to the stables."
The whole party passed into Joe Norton's sitting-room, where the oldfarmer at once set about kindling, with the aid of some coal-oil, a firein the great box-stove. While his host was busy John took the lanternand went to "Lord" Bill's assistance in the stables.
The stove lighted, Joe Norton turned to his guests.
"Bless me, and to think of you, Mrs. Abbot, and Miss Jacky, too. I mustfetch the o'd 'ooman. Hi, Molly, Molly, bestir yourself, old girl. Comeon down, an' help the ladies. They've come for shelter out o' theblizzard--good luck to it."
"Oh, no, don't disturb her, Joe," exclaimed Mrs. Abbot; "it's really toobad, at this unearthly hour. Besides, we shall be quite comfortable hereby the stove."
"No doubt--no doubt," said the old man, cheerfully, "but that's not myway--not my way. Any of you froze," he went on ungrammatically, "'causeif so, out you go and thaw it out in the snow."
"I guess there's no one frozen," said Jacky, smiling into the old man'sface. "We're too old birds for that. Ah, here's Mrs. Norton."
Another warm greeting and the two ladies were hustled off to the onlyspare bedroom the Nortons boasted. By this time "Lord" Bill and "Poker"John had returned from the stables. While the ladies were removing theirfurs, which were sodden with the melting snow, the farmer's wife waspreparing a rough but ample meal of warm provender in the kitchen. Suchis hospitality in the Far North-West.
When the supper was prepared the travellers sat down to the substantialfare. None were hungry--be it remembered that it was three o'clock inthe morning--but each felt that some pretense in that direction must bemade, or the kindly couple would think their welcome was insufficient.
"An' what made you venture on the trail on such a night?" asked oldNorton, as he poured out a joram of hot whiskey for each of the men. "Amoral cert, you wouldn't strike Foss River in such a storm."
"We thought it would have held off longer," said Dr. Abbot. "It was nouse getting cooped up in town for two or three days. You know what theseblizzards are. You may have to do with us yourself during the nextforty-eight hours."
"It's too sharp to last, Doc," put in Jacky, as she helped herself tosome soup. Her face was glowing after her exposure to the elements. Shelooked very beautiful and not one whit worse for the drive.
"Sharp enough--sharp enough," murmured old Norton, as if for somethingto say.
"Sharp enough to bring some one else to your hospitable abode, Joe,"interrupted "Lord" Bill, quietly; "I hear sleigh bells. The wind'showling, but their tone is familiar."
They were all listening now. "Poker" John was the first to speak.
"It's--" and he paused.
Before he could complete his sentence Jacky filled up the missing words.
"Lablache--for a dollar."
There was a moment's silence in that rough homely little kitchen. Theexpression of the faces of those around the board indexed a generalthought.
Lablache, if it were he, would not receive the cordial welcome which hadbeen meted out to the others. Norton broke the silence.
"Dang it! That's what I ses, dang it! You'll pardon me, ladies, but myfeelings get the better of me at times. I don't like him. Lablache--Ihates him," and he strode out of the room, his old face aflame withannoyance, to discharge the hospitable duties of the prairie.
As the door closed behind him Dr. Abbot laughed constrainedly.
"Lablache doesn't seem popular--here."
No one answered his remark. Then "Poker" John looked over at the othermen.
"We must go and help to put his horses away."
There was no suggestion in his words, merely a statement of plain facts."Lord" Bill nodded and the three men rose and went to the door.
As they disappeared Jacky turned to Mrs. Norton and Aunt Margaret.
"If that's Lablache--I'm off to bed."
Her tone was one of uncompromising decision. Mrs. Abbot was lessassured.
"Do you think it polite--wise?"
"Come along, aunt. Never mind about politeness or wisdom. What do yousay, Mrs. Norton?"
"As you like, Miss Jacky. I must stay up, or--"
"Yes--the men can entertain him."
Just then Lablache's voice was heard outside. It was a peculiar,guttural, gasping voice. Aunt Margaret looked doubtfully from Jacky toMrs. Norton. The latter nodded smilingly. Then following Jacky's leadshe passed up the staircase which led from the kitchen to the roomsabove. A moment later the door opened and Lablache and the other menentered.
"They've gone to bed," said Mrs. Norton, in answer to "Poker" John'slook of inquiry.
"Tired, no doubt," put in Lablache, drily.
"And not without reason, I guess," retorted "Poker" John, sharply. Hehad not failed to note the other's tone.
Lablache laughed quietly, but his keen, restless eyes shot an unpleasantglance at the speaker from beneath their heavy lids.
He was a burly man. In bulk he was of much the same proportions as oldJohn Allandale. But while John was big with the weight of muscle andframe, Lablache was flabby with fat. In face he was the antithesis ofthe other. Whilst "Poker" John was the picture of florid tanning--Whilehis face, although perhaps a trifle weak in its lower formation, wasbold, honest, and redounding with kindly nature, Lablache's wasbilious-looking and heavy with obesity. Whatever character was there, itwas lost in the heavy folds of flesh with which it was wreathed. Hisjowl was ponderous, and his little mouth was tightly compressed, whilehis deep-sunken, bilious eyes peered from between heavy, lashless lids.
Such was Verner Lablache, the wealthiest man of the Foss RiverSettlement. He owned a large store in the place, selling farmingmachinery to the settle
rs and ranchers about. His business was alwaysdone on credit, for which he charged exorbitant rates of interest,accepting only first mortgages upon crops and stock as security. Besidesthis he represented several of the Calford private banks, which manypeople said were really owned by him, and there was no one more ready tolend money--on the best of security and the highest rate ofinterest--than he. Should the borrower fail to pay, he was alwayssuavely ready to renew the loan at increased interest--provided thesecurity was sound. And, in the end, every ounce of his pound of flesh,plus not less than fifty per cent. interest, would come back to him.After Verner Lablache had done with him, the unfortunate rancher whoborrowed generally disappeared from the neighborhood. Sometimes thisman's victims were never heard of again. Sometimes they were discovereddoing the "chores" round some obscure farmer's house. Anyway, ranch,crops, stock--everything the man ever had--would have passed into thehands of the money-lender, Lablache.
Hard-headed dealer--money-grubber--as Lablache was, he had a weakness.To look at him--to know him--no one would have thought it, but he had.And at least two of those present were aware of his secret. He was inlove with Jacky. That is to say, he coveted her--desired her. WhenLablache desired anything in that little world of his, he generallysecured it to himself, but, in this matter, he had hitherto beenthwarted. His desire had increased proportionately. He was annoyed tothink that Jacky had retired at his coming. He was in no way blind tothe reason of her sudden departure, but beyond his first remark he wasnot the man to advertise his chagrin. He could afford to wait.
"You'll take a bite o' supper, Mr. Lablache?" said old Norton, in a toneof inquiry.
"Supper?--no, thanks, Norton. But if you've a drop of something hot Ican do with that."
"We've gener'ly got somethin' o' that about," replied the old man."Whiskey or rum?"
"Whisky, man, whisky. I've got liver enough already without touchingrum." Then he turned to "Poker" John.
"It's a devilish night, John, devilish. I started before you. Thought Icould make the river in time. I was completely lost on the other side ofthe creek. I fancy the storm worked up from that direction."
He lumped into a chair close beside the stove. The others had alreadyseated themselves.
"We didn't chance it. Bill drove us straight here," said "Poker" John.
"Guess Bill knew something--he generally does," as an afterthought.
"I know a blizzard when I see it," said Bunning-Ford, indifferently.
Lablache sipped his whisky. A silence fell on that gathering ofrefugees. Mrs. Norton had cleared the supper things.
"Well, if you gents'll excuse me I'll go back to bed. Old Joe'll lookafter you," she said abruptly. "Good-night to you all."
She disappeared up the staircase. The men remained silent for a momentor two. They were getting drowsy. Suddenly Lablache set his glass downand looked at his watch.
"Four o'clock, gentlemen. I suppose, Joe, there are no beds for us." Theold farmer shook his head. "What say, John--Doc--a little game untilbreakfast?"
John Allandale's face lit up. His sobriquet was no idle One. He livedfor poker--he loved it. And Lablache knew it. Old John turned to theothers. His right cheek twitched as he waited the decision. "Doc" Abbotsmiled approval; "Lord" Bill shrugged indifferently. The old gamblerrose to his feet.
"That's all right, then. The kitchen table is good enough for us. Comealong, gentlemen."
"I'll slide off to bed, I guess," said Norton, thankful to escape anight's vigil. "Good-night, gentlemen."
Then the remaining four sat down to play.
The far-reaching consequences of that game were undreamt of by theplayers, except, perhaps, by Lablache. His story of the reason of hisreturn to Norton's farm was only partially true. He had returned in thehopes of this meeting; he had anticipated this game.