Apparently there was no law against selling liquor to a half-breed in Turquoise City, and Pete was a regular customer of the Black Horse Saloon and of the gambling tables. More often than not, he quit a winner. It may have been his proverbial luck and his rather insolent smile that caused Joe Mallette, one of English Ed’s gamblers, to dislike him.They had clashed several times, and Mallette had asked English Ed to bar the half-breed from the place; but the owner of the saloon refused. Mallette was a big man, with the cold, hard eyes of a professional gambler and the chin of a fighter. He hated to see Pete Conley buy chips in his game, and he did not conceal his dislike of the half-breed.It was after dark that night when Pete took a chair in Mallette’s stud-poker game. It was not Mallette’s shift, but the other dealer had not put in an appearance. Mallette treated Pete civilly, for once; perhaps he thought that the other dealer would show up presently. Mallette had been drinking rather heavily and was just a bit clumsy in stacking up Pete’s chips. Jimmy Moran was in the game, loser, as usual, but still smiling.“I heard that Jim Randall pulled out,” said one of the players casually.“Time he did,” growled Mallette, shoving the chips over to the young half-breed.“Randall damn good man,” said Pete slowly.Mallette was too diplomatic to start an argument, so he said nothing. He played a close game, which was the natural thing for the dealer to do. He knew that Pete Conley had very little money, so he waited for a chance to break him; but the half-breed knew how Mallette played his cards. Pete was lucky, and his stacks of red and blue chips increased rapidly.It was about nine o’clock, and the other dealer had come in, but Mallette was in a pot which he had opened. He was playing very coldly and had opened the pot for a substantial bet, thinking that the others would drop out; but Pete had raised him heavily. Jimmy Moran, sitting at Pete’s left, had turned his cards in such a way that Pete got a flash of the king of hearts.But it made no difference in the play, because Jimmy passed the opening bet and threw his hand in the discards. Mallette was dealing. After deliberating heavily, Mallette called Pete’s raise. Pete drew one card, which he seemed to ignore; Mallette drew two. He dropped his cards one-handed from the top of the deck, and one of them skidded on top of some of the discards.At the same time, Mallette upset a stack of chips in front of him and straightened them up carefully. He looked at his cards and checked the bet. Pete studied Mallette’s face. Pete had four sevens in his hand. The best Mallette could have had before the draw would have been three of a kind, and with threes he would have drawn only one card, masking the fact of his having threes. Or perhaps he had only one pair of jacks or better to open on, and had held up another card as a “kicker.” Pete felt safe. After a moment of deliberation he shoved all of his chips to the center. There was possibly two hundred dollars’ worth of chips.“That’s all I got,” said Pete slowly. “I bet that.”Mallette turned the edges of his cards slightly, a half-sneer on his lips, as he shoved out enough chips to cover the bet. Pete grinned, as he spread out the four sevens; but his grin faded when Mallette showed four kings and began raking in the pot.Mallette nodded to the other dealer and started to slide his chair back from the table. Pete’s eyes were upon him; his lips twisted queerly.“You—you thief!” choked the half-breed.He jerked to his feet, reaching back for his gun. Jimmy Moran flung himself against Pete, blocking his draw, while another player twisted Pete’s gun from his hand. Mallette straightened up, his lips white.“What’s that?” he snapped. “Who’s a thief?”“You are!” rasped the enraged Pete. “Leave it to Jimmy Moran. He had that king of hearts in his hand. It was a dead card. You stole it, you thief!”Mallette’s eyes shifted to Jimmy Moran, who was looking at him, his mouth half-open.“By golly, I can’t remember,” said Jimmy. “Seems to me—no, I can’t say.”“I reckon you can’t,” said Mallette dryly.He turned and started toward the bar, when Pete tore away from Jimmy and started for Mallette.“Give back that money!” demanded Pete. “You stole—”Mallette whirled and met Pete, smashing him full in the face with a powerful right-hand swing. It knocked Pete flat on his back, almost under the feet of the men who come to see what it was all about. Mallette turned away and went out through the rear of the building.Pete sat up, wiping the blood from his lips, looking around in a dazed way. English Ed shoved his way to Pete. He had heard what it was all about.“Get up!” he exclaimed. “Pick up your hat and get out of here, you damned half-breed, and stay out! Don’t never come in here again.”“Wait just a minute,” said Jimmy Moran.He had secured Pete’s six-shooter and now he handed it to Pete.“Wait for what?” asked English Ed.“The trouble was caused by Mallette havin’ too many kings,” said Jimmy slowly. “I think I remember the king of hearts bein’ in my hand.”“I see it,” nodded Pete. “When you lay hand down, I see it.”“I don’t believe a word of it!” said English Ed.Whap!Jimmy Moran struck English Ed across the face with an open hand, and the sound of it could have been heard across the street. It caused the gambler to half-turn on his heels; and before he could recover his balance Jimmy swung a hard right fist against English Ed’s jaw, knocking him backward into the deserted poker table, where he went down in a sitting position, his eyes set in a silly stare.The room was in an uproar. A woman screamed, another laughed. Jimmy grinned widely and nudged Pete with his elbow.“Better get out, Pete,” he said. “If ye want Mallette, he’ll be spendin’ your money for dollar bottles of beer in one of our houses of ill fame.”Pete wiped the back of his hand across his bleeding lips and headed for the back door, still carrying the gun in his hand. No one made any attempt to molest him. Jimmy Moran backed against the wall and watched English Ed regain his senses.The big gambler was punch-drunk. He slowly got to his feet, tried to smile, but merely grimaced. A gambler came with a wet towel; but he motioned it aside and went to the bar. Some of the men followed him. The gambler with the towel came in closer to Jimmy.“Mallette was drunk,” he said, as if excusing him for what he had done. “All day he’s been drinking absinth with his whisky. Maybe he didn’t know what he was doing.”“Yeah, I know,” said Jimmy. “He was dead drunk. My, my, he was so drunk he could steal a card and none of us seen him. Drunk, hell! What’re you tryin’ to do, protect him?”“Oh, no, I just thought—do you suppose the half-breed will try to get him?”“Are you tryin’ get a statement from me?” demanded Jimmy. “English got what was comin’ to him. He backed a thief.”“I wouldn’t say that to Mallette, if I was you, Moran.”“A-a-a-aw, go wrap that rag around your head! If English Ed is goin’ to run a den of thieves, he can expect what a thief must expect. If Mallette had done that to me, he’d be in hell right now, ridin’ on the hot end of a bullet! It was me that cramped the half-breed, and I’m sorry I did.”Jimmy jerked his hat down over his eyes and strode through the room, going straight past the bar, where English Ed and a crowd of men were having a drink. The big gambler knew now what it was all about and he turned his head to watch Jimmy leave the place.“He got you when you wasn’t lookin’,” said a man.English Ed nodded slowly.“Did Mallette steal that card?” he asked.One of the men from the poker game was at the bar, and it was to him that English directed the question.“I don’t know,” said the man truthfully. “I wasn’t in the pot, so I didn’t pay any attention.”“Mallette is getting clumsy,” said English slowly.“It’s a wonder he can keep his feet,” said the bartender. “He’s full of absinth and whisky. He won’t know what it’s all about tomorrow.”“How much did he win from the breed?”“About two hundred dollars,” said the dealer who was to take Mallette’s place. “Goin’ to give it back?”“Not unless I get more proof than I’ve got. Don’t let that half-breed ever come in here again. He’s all through.”“How about Moran?”“I’ll handle Moran myself.”“Somebody ought to find Mallette and tell him to look out for Conley,” said the gambler. “That breed will kill him, if he gets a chance—and he’s huntin’ him now.”A man came through the room and shoved his way up to the bar beside English Ed.“The sheriff ain’t in here, is he?” he asked nervously.“What do you want him for?” asked English.“Found a dead man. He’s between here and the north end of the redlight district. It’s Mallette, the gambler.”“Mallette!” English grasped the man by the arm. “When did you find him?”“Who the hell do you think you’re pinchin’?” demanded the man, yanking his arm away. “I just found him. I was comin’ alone and almost fell over him. Oh, he’s dead all right.”The man had spoken loud enough for every one to hear, and there was a general exodus to view the body. A lantern was secured, and the crowd went through the rear entrance. It was about four hundred feet from the rear of the saloon to the line of buildings that comprised the redlight district of Turquoise City.The last house of this row, on the north end, was possibly two hundred yards from the rear of the saloon; and between that building and the Turquoise Hotel, which fronted on the main street, was Judge Beal’s little house.The crowd went past the rear of his building and found the body of Mallette. He had been shot squarely between the eyes. Indifferent to the fact that the sheriff and coroner might care to view the remains as found, they picked up the body and carried it back to the Black Horse Saloon and placed it on a cot in a rear room.
Apparently there was no law against selling liquor to a half-breed in Turquoise City, and Pete was a regular customer of the Black Horse Saloon and of the gambling tables. More often than not, he quit a winner. It may have been his proverbial luck and his rather insolent smile that caused Joe Mallette, one of English Ed’s gamblers, to dislike him.
They had clashed several times, and Mallette had asked English Ed to bar the half-breed from the place; but the owner of the saloon refused. Mallette was a big man, with the cold, hard eyes of a professional gambler and the chin of a fighter. He hated to see Pete Conley buy chips in his game, and he did not conceal his dislike of the half-breed.
It was after dark that night when Pete took a chair in Mallette’s stud-poker game. It was not Mallette’s shift, but the other dealer had not put in an appearance. Mallette treated Pete civilly, for once; perhaps he thought that the other dealer would show up presently. Mallette had been drinking rather heavily and was just a bit clumsy in stacking up Pete’s chips. Jimmy Moran was in the game, loser, as usual, but still smiling.
“I heard that Jim Randall pulled out,” said one of the players casually.
“Time he did,” growled Mallette, shoving the chips over to the young half-breed.
“Randall damn good man,” said Pete slowly.
Mallette was too diplomatic to start an argument, so he said nothing. He played a close game, which was the natural thing for the dealer to do. He knew that Pete Conley had very little money, so he waited for a chance to break him; but the half-breed knew how Mallette played his cards. Pete was lucky, and his stacks of red and blue chips increased rapidly.
It was about nine o’clock, and the other dealer had come in, but Mallette was in a pot which he had opened. He was playing very coldly and had opened the pot for a substantial bet, thinking that the others would drop out; but Pete had raised him heavily. Jimmy Moran, sitting at Pete’s left, had turned his cards in such a way that Pete got a flash of the king of hearts.
But it made no difference in the play, because Jimmy passed the opening bet and threw his hand in the discards. Mallette was dealing. After deliberating heavily, Mallette called Pete’s raise. Pete drew one card, which he seemed to ignore; Mallette drew two. He dropped his cards one-handed from the top of the deck, and one of them skidded on top of some of the discards.
At the same time, Mallette upset a stack of chips in front of him and straightened them up carefully. He looked at his cards and checked the bet. Pete studied Mallette’s face. Pete had four sevens in his hand. The best Mallette could have had before the draw would have been three of a kind, and with threes he would have drawn only one card, masking the fact of his having threes. Or perhaps he had only one pair of jacks or better to open on, and had held up another card as a “kicker.” Pete felt safe. After a moment of deliberation he shoved all of his chips to the center. There was possibly two hundred dollars’ worth of chips.
“That’s all I got,” said Pete slowly. “I bet that.”
Mallette turned the edges of his cards slightly, a half-sneer on his lips, as he shoved out enough chips to cover the bet. Pete grinned, as he spread out the four sevens; but his grin faded when Mallette showed four kings and began raking in the pot.
Mallette nodded to the other dealer and started to slide his chair back from the table. Pete’s eyes were upon him; his lips twisted queerly.
“You—you thief!” choked the half-breed.
He jerked to his feet, reaching back for his gun. Jimmy Moran flung himself against Pete, blocking his draw, while another player twisted Pete’s gun from his hand. Mallette straightened up, his lips white.
“What’s that?” he snapped. “Who’s a thief?”
“You are!” rasped the enraged Pete. “Leave it to Jimmy Moran. He had that king of hearts in his hand. It was a dead card. You stole it, you thief!”
Mallette’s eyes shifted to Jimmy Moran, who was looking at him, his mouth half-open.
“By golly, I can’t remember,” said Jimmy. “Seems to me—no, I can’t say.”
“I reckon you can’t,” said Mallette dryly.
He turned and started toward the bar, when Pete tore away from Jimmy and started for Mallette.
“Give back that money!” demanded Pete. “You stole—”
Mallette whirled and met Pete, smashing him full in the face with a powerful right-hand swing. It knocked Pete flat on his back, almost under the feet of the men who come to see what it was all about. Mallette turned away and went out through the rear of the building.
Pete sat up, wiping the blood from his lips, looking around in a dazed way. English Ed shoved his way to Pete. He had heard what it was all about.
“Get up!” he exclaimed. “Pick up your hat and get out of here, you damned half-breed, and stay out! Don’t never come in here again.”
“Wait just a minute,” said Jimmy Moran.
He had secured Pete’s six-shooter and now he handed it to Pete.
“Wait for what?” asked English Ed.
“The trouble was caused by Mallette havin’ too many kings,” said Jimmy slowly. “I think I remember the king of hearts bein’ in my hand.”
“I see it,” nodded Pete. “When you lay hand down, I see it.”
“I don’t believe a word of it!” said English Ed.
Whap!
Jimmy Moran struck English Ed across the face with an open hand, and the sound of it could have been heard across the street. It caused the gambler to half-turn on his heels; and before he could recover his balance Jimmy swung a hard right fist against English Ed’s jaw, knocking him backward into the deserted poker table, where he went down in a sitting position, his eyes set in a silly stare.
The room was in an uproar. A woman screamed, another laughed. Jimmy grinned widely and nudged Pete with his elbow.
“Better get out, Pete,” he said. “If ye want Mallette, he’ll be spendin’ your money for dollar bottles of beer in one of our houses of ill fame.”
Pete wiped the back of his hand across his bleeding lips and headed for the back door, still carrying the gun in his hand. No one made any attempt to molest him. Jimmy Moran backed against the wall and watched English Ed regain his senses.
The big gambler was punch-drunk. He slowly got to his feet, tried to smile, but merely grimaced. A gambler came with a wet towel; but he motioned it aside and went to the bar. Some of the men followed him. The gambler with the towel came in closer to Jimmy.
“Mallette was drunk,” he said, as if excusing him for what he had done. “All day he’s been drinking absinth with his whisky. Maybe he didn’t know what he was doing.”
“Yeah, I know,” said Jimmy. “He was dead drunk. My, my, he was so drunk he could steal a card and none of us seen him. Drunk, hell! What’re you tryin’ to do, protect him?”
“Oh, no, I just thought—do you suppose the half-breed will try to get him?”
“Are you tryin’ get a statement from me?” demanded Jimmy. “English got what was comin’ to him. He backed a thief.”
“I wouldn’t say that to Mallette, if I was you, Moran.”
“A-a-a-aw, go wrap that rag around your head! If English Ed is goin’ to run a den of thieves, he can expect what a thief must expect. If Mallette had done that to me, he’d be in hell right now, ridin’ on the hot end of a bullet! It was me that cramped the half-breed, and I’m sorry I did.”
Jimmy jerked his hat down over his eyes and strode through the room, going straight past the bar, where English Ed and a crowd of men were having a drink. The big gambler knew now what it was all about and he turned his head to watch Jimmy leave the place.
“He got you when you wasn’t lookin’,” said a man.
English Ed nodded slowly.
“Did Mallette steal that card?” he asked.
One of the men from the poker game was at the bar, and it was to him that English directed the question.
“I don’t know,” said the man truthfully. “I wasn’t in the pot, so I didn’t pay any attention.”
“Mallette is getting clumsy,” said English slowly.
“It’s a wonder he can keep his feet,” said the bartender. “He’s full of absinth and whisky. He won’t know what it’s all about tomorrow.”
“How much did he win from the breed?”
“About two hundred dollars,” said the dealer who was to take Mallette’s place. “Goin’ to give it back?”
“Not unless I get more proof than I’ve got. Don’t let that half-breed ever come in here again. He’s all through.”
“How about Moran?”
“I’ll handle Moran myself.”
“Somebody ought to find Mallette and tell him to look out for Conley,” said the gambler. “That breed will kill him, if he gets a chance—and he’s huntin’ him now.”
A man came through the room and shoved his way up to the bar beside English Ed.
“The sheriff ain’t in here, is he?” he asked nervously.
“What do you want him for?” asked English.
“Found a dead man. He’s between here and the north end of the redlight district. It’s Mallette, the gambler.”
“Mallette!” English grasped the man by the arm. “When did you find him?”
“Who the hell do you think you’re pinchin’?” demanded the man, yanking his arm away. “I just found him. I was comin’ alone and almost fell over him. Oh, he’s dead all right.”
The man had spoken loud enough for every one to hear, and there was a general exodus to view the body. A lantern was secured, and the crowd went through the rear entrance. It was about four hundred feet from the rear of the saloon to the line of buildings that comprised the redlight district of Turquoise City.
The last house of this row, on the north end, was possibly two hundred yards from the rear of the saloon; and between that building and the Turquoise Hotel, which fronted on the main street, was Judge Beal’s little house.
The crowd went past the rear of his building and found the body of Mallette. He had been shot squarely between the eyes. Indifferent to the fact that the sheriff and coroner might care to view the remains as found, they picked up the body and carried it back to the Black Horse Saloon and placed it on a cot in a rear room.