AT THE MISSION
Far in the Northland, upon the bank of a great river that disgorges into the frozen sea, stands a little Roman Catholic Mission. The mission is very old—having had its inception in the early days of the fur trade. Its little chapel boasts a stained glass window—a window fashioned in Europe, carried across the Atlantic to Hudson Bay in a wooden sailing vessel, and transported through three thousand miles of wilderness in canoes, York boats, and scows, and over many weary miles of portage upon the backs of sweating Indians. Upon its walls hang paintings—works of real merit, the labor of priestly hands long dead. A worthy monument, this mission, to the toil and self sacrifice of the early Fathers, and a living tribute to the labor of the grave Grey Nuns.
The time was July—late evening of a July day. The sun still held high above the horizon, and upon the grassed plateau about the buildings of the mission children were playing. They were Indian children, for the most part, thick bodied and swarthy faced but among them here and there, could beseen the lighter skin of a half breed. Near the door of one of the buildings sat a group of older Indian girls sewing. In the doorway the good Father Ambrose stood with his eyes upon the up-reach of the river.
Like a silent grey shadow Sister Mercedes glided from the chapel and seated herself upon a wooden bench drawn close beside the door. Her eyes followed the gaze of the priest. "No sign of the brigade?" she asked. "They have probably tied up for the night. Tomorrow maybe—or the day after, they will come." Ensued a long pause during which both studied the river. "I think," continued the Nun, "that when the scows return southward we will be losing Snowdrift."
"Eh?" The priest turned his head quickly and regarded Sister Mercedes with a frown. "Henri of the White Water? Think you he has——"
The Sister interrupted: "No, no! To school. She is nineteen, now. We can do nothing more for her here. In the matter of lessons, as you well know, she has easily outstripped all others, and books! She has already exhausted our meagre library."
The priest nodded. The frown still puckered his brow but his lips smiled—a smile that conveyed more of questioning than of mirth. Intensely human himself, Father Ambrose was no mean student of human nature, and he spoke with a troubled mind: "To us here at the mission have been brought many children, both of the Indians and ofthe Metis. And, having absorbed to their capacity our teachings, the Indians have gone stolidly back to their tepees, and to their business of hunting and trapping, carrying with them a measure of useful handicraft, a smattering of letters, and the precepts of the Word." The smile had faded from the clean-cut lips of the priest, and Sister Mercedes noted a touch of sadness in the voice, as she watched a slanting ray of sunlight play for a moment upon the thinning, silvery hair. "I have grown old in the service of God here at this mission, and it is natural that I have sought diligently among my people for the outward and visible signs of the fruit of my labor. And I have found, with a few notable exceptions that in one year, or two, or three, the handicraft is almost forgotten, the letters are but a dim blur of memory, and the Word?" He shrugged, "Who but God can tell? It is the Metis who are the real problem. For it is in their veins that civilization meets savagery. The clash and the conflict of races—the antagonism that is responsible for the wars of the world—is inherent in the very blood that gives them life. And the outcome is beyond the ken or the conjecture of man. I have seen, I think, every conceivable combination of physical and mental condition, save the one most devoutly to be hoped for—a blending of the best that is in each race. That I have not seen. Unless it be that we are to see it in Snowdrift."
Sister Mercedes smiled: "I do not believe thatSnowdrift is a half breed. I believe she is a white child."
Father Ambrose smiled tolerantly: "Still of that belief? But, it is impossible. I know her mother. She, too, was a child of this mission—long before your time. She is one of the few Indians who did not forget the handicraft nor the letters." The old man paused and shook his head sadly, "And until she brought this child here I believed that she had not forgotten the Word. For she continued to profess her belief, and among her people she waged war upon the rum-runners. Later, I, myself, married her to a Dog Rib, a man who was the best of his tribe. Then they disappeared and I heard nothing from her until she brought this child, Snowdrift, to us here at the mission. She told me that her husband had been drowned in a rapid, and then she told me—not in confessional, for she would not confess, that this was her child and that her father was a white man, but that he was not her husband."
"She may have lied. Loving the child, she may have feared that we would take her away, or institute a search for her people."
"She loves the child—with the mother love. But she did not lie. If she had lied, would she not have said that after the death of her husband she had married this white man? I would have believed her. But, evidently the idea of truth is more firmly implanted in her heart than—other virtues—so she told the truth—knowing even as she did so thelight in which she would stand before men, and also the standing of her daughter."
"Oh, it is a shame!" cried the Nun, "But, still I do not believe it! I cannot believe it! Snowdrift's skin, where the sun and the wind have not turned it, is as white as mine."
"But her hair and eyes are the dark hair and eyes of the Indian. And when she was first brought here, have you forgotten that she fought like a little wild cat, and that she ran away and trailed her band to its encampment? Could a white child have done that?"
"But after she had been brought back, and had begun to learn she fought just as hard against returning to the tribe for a brief vacation. She is a dreamer of dreams. She loves music and appreciates its beauty, and the beauty of art and the poets."
"She can trail an animal through country that would throw many an Indian at fault."
"She hates the sordid. She hates the rum-runners, and the greasy smoke-blackened tepees of the Indians. In her heart there has been an awakening. She longs for something better—higher. She has consented to go to the convent."
"And at the same time we are in mortal dread lest she marry that prince of all devils, Henri of the White Water. Why she even dresses like an Indian—the only one of the older girls who does not wear the clothing of white women."
"That is because of her artistic temperament. She loves the ease and comfort of the garments. And she realizes their beauty in comparison to the ugliness of the coarse clothing and shoes with which we must provide them."
"Where is she now?"
"Hunting."
Father Ambrose laughed: "And I predict that she will not return until she has brought down her caribou, or her moose. Would your white maiden of nineteen be off hunting alone in the hills with her rifle? No. By our very contentions we have established the dual nature of her. In her the traits of civilization and savagery are not blended, but each in turn dominate and order her thoughts and actions. Hers is what one might term an alternating ego. And it is a thing that troubles me sore. What will happen down there—down at the convent, where they will not understand her, and where there is no hunting? To what end will this marvelous energy exert itself? For, it will not remain pent up within her breast. It will seek outlet. And then?"
"Who can tell?" answered the Nun, thoughtfully. "At least, I shall be glad indeed to know that she will be far from the baleful influence of Henri of the White Water. For, devil that he is, there is no gainsaying the fact that there is something attractive about him, with his bold free manner, and his handsome face, and gay clothing. He is a figure that might well attract a more sophisticated womanthan our little Snowdrift. As yet, though, I think he has failed to rouse in her more than a passing interest. If she cared for him she would not be away hunting while everyone else is eagerly watching for the brigade."
Father Ambrose shrugged: "'Tis past understanding—the way of a maid with a man. But see, here she comes, now." Both watched the lithe form that swung across the clearing from the bush. The girl was hatless, her mass of black hair, caught up and held in place by an ingenious twist of bark. Her face and full rounded throat that rose gracefully from the open collar of a buckskin hunting shirt showed a rich hazel brown in the slanting rays of the sun. Buckskin gloves protected her hands from the ever present mosquitoes. A knee-length skirt of heavy cloth, a pair of deer skin leggings tanned with the hair on, and Indian moccasins completed her costume.
"What luck?" greeted the priest.
The girl paused before them and flashing a smile, disclosed a set of teeth that gleamed like wet pearls: "Good luck," she answered, "A young bull caribou, and two wolves that were just closing in on a cow with a young calf. Every bullet went true. I shot three times. Has the brigade passed?"
The priest shook his head: "No, not yet. They will have camped before this for the night." As he spoke the girl's eyes strayed to the river, and at the extreme reach of glistening water, they held:"Look!" she cried, "They are coming, now!" Around the bend into view shot a scow, and another, and another, until the whole surface of the river seemed black with the scows. The playing children had seen them too, and with wild whoops of delight they were racing for the bank, followed by the older Indian girls, and by Father Ambrose. For the annual coming of the brigade is an event in the North, bringing as it does the mail and the supplies for the whole year to these lonely dwellers of the far outlands.
Sister Mercedes remained seated upon her bench and standing her rifle against the wall, Snowdrift sat down beside her, and in silence the two watched the scows swing shoreward in response to the strokes of the heavy steering sweeps, and listened to the exchange of shouted greetings.
Of all the rivermen, the bravest figure was that of Henri of the White Water. The two women could see him striding back and forth issuing orders regarding the mooring of scows and the unloading of freight. They saw him pause suddenly in his restless pacing up and down, and eagerly scan the faces of the assembled group. Then, his glance travelled back from the river and rested upon the two silent figures beside the door, and with a wave of his hand, he tossed the sack of mail to the waiting priest, and stepping past him strode rapidly up the bank in the direction of the mission.
The face of Sister Mercedes hardened as shenoted the flaunting air of the approaching man, his stocking cap of brilliant blue, his snow-whitecapotethrown open to reveal the flannel shirt of vivid red and black checks.
With a royal bow, he swept the blue stocking cap from his head and saluted the two upon the bench: "Ah-ha, greetings,machères! From Henri of the White Water to the fairest flower of the North, and her—ah, guardian angel—non?" His lips flashed a smile, and he continued: "But, there are times when even a guardian angel is not desired to be. Come with me, Snowdrift, and we will walk yonder to the edge of the bank, where we will still be within sight of the ever watching eye of the church, but well out of hearing of its ever listening ear. You see, Sisterreligieuse, I am a respecter of your little laws!" He laughed aloud, "Ah, yes Henri of the White Water is a great respecter of laws,voila!"
Seating themselves upon the high bank of the river the two watched the sun dip slowly behind the scrub timber. And, as the twilight deepened, the man talked rapidly and earnestly, while the girl listened in silence. "And so," he concluded, "When the scows return, in one month from now, you shall leave this place forever. We shall go away and be married, and we will journey far, far up the rivers to the cities of the white men, and only upon occasion will we make flying trips into the North—to the trade."
"It is said that you trade hooch," said the girl, "I will not marry any man who trades hooch. I hate the traders of hooch."
"Ah-ha!Ma chère!Yes, I have now and then traded hooch. You see, I do not deny. Henri of the White Water must have adventure. But upon my soul, if you do not want me to trade hooch, I shall never trade another drop—non."
"When the scows return in a month, I shall go with them," answered the girl dispassionately, "But, not to be married. I am going to school——"
"To school!Mon Dieu!Have you not had enough of school? It is time you were finished with such foolishness. You, who are old enough to be the mother of children, talking of going to school! Bah! It is to laugh! And where would you go—to school?"
"To the convent, at Montreal."
"The devil take these meddlers!" cried the man, rising and pacing rapidly up and down before the girl. Then suddenly he paused and looking down upon her, laughed aloud. "Ha, ha! You would go to Montreal! And what will you do when you get there? What will you say when they ask you who is your father? Eh, what will you tell them?"
The girl looked at him in wide-eyed surprise. "Why, what do you mean? I shall tell them the truth—that my father is dead. Why should I not tell them that my father is dead. He was a good man. My mother has told me."
Again the man laughed, his laugh of cruel derision: "Such innocence! It is unbelievable! They will have nothing to do with you in the land of the white men. They will scorn you and look down upon you. You never had a father——"
The girl was upon her feet, now, facing him with flashing eyes: "It is a lie! I did have a father! And he was a good man. He was not like the father of you, old Boussard, the drunken and thieving old hanger-on about the posts!"
"Aye, I grant you that the old devil is nothing to brag of. I do not point to him with the finger of pride, but he is nevertheless a produceable father. He and my Indian mother were married. I at least am noenfant natural—nobatarde! No one can poke at me the finger of scorn, and draw aside in the passing, as from a thing unclean!"
The girl's face flamed red, and tears of rage welled from her eyes: "I do not know what you mean!" she cried, "But I do know that I hate you! I will find out what you mean—and then maybe I will kill you." In her rage she sprang at the man's throat with her bare hands, but he easily thrust her aside, and sobbing she ran toward the mission.
It was long after midnight that Snowdrift emerged from the room of Sister Mercedes. The girl had gone straight to the Nun and asked questions, nor would she be denied their answers. And so explaining, comforting, as best she could, the good Sister talked till far into the night. Snowdrifthad gone into the room an unsophisticated girl—she came out from it a woman—but, a woman whose spirit, instead of being crushed and broken by the weight of her shame, rose triumphant and defiant above that shame. For in her heart was bitter hatred against the white men, whose code of ethics brought shame upon the innocent head of one whose very existence was due to the lust of a man of their own race.
Silently the girl crossed the clearing to the building in which was her room, and very silently she made up a pack of her belongings. Then, taking the pack, and her rifle, she stole silently out the door and crossing the broad open space, entered the bush. At the edge of the clearing she turned, and stood for a long time looking back at the mission with its little buildings huddled together in the moonlight. And then, with a choking sob that forced itself past her tight-pressed lips, she turned and plunged into the timber.
ACE-IN-THE-HOLE
On the outskirts of Dawson, city of the tents and log buildings, Brent pitched his own tent, paid off his Indian canoeman, and within the hour was sucked into the mad maelstrom of carousal that characterized the early days of the big gold camp.
It was the city of men gone mad. The saloon was the center of activity—and saloons there were aplenty; Dick Stoell's Place, which was "the big game" of Dawson; "The Nugget" of uproarious fame; Cuter Malone's "Klondike Palace," where, nightly, revel raged to thenth power—where bearded men and scarlet women gave over to debauch magnificent in its wild abandon; and many others, each with its wheels of chance, its cards, its music, and its women.
And into the whirl of it Carter Brent plunged with a zest born of youth and of muscles iron-hard from the gruelling trail. And into it he fitted as though to the manner born. No invisible lines of demarkation divided the bars of Dawson as they had divided Kelliher's bar. Millionaires in blanketcoats and mukluks rubbed shoulders with penniless watery-eyed squaw-men. Sourdoughs who spilled coarse gold from the mouths of sacks, misfitchechakos, and painted women, danced, and sang, and cursed, and gambled, the short nights through.
The remnant of Brent's thousand dollars was but a drop in the bucket, and he was glad when it was gone three days after his arrival. Not that he particularly wanted to be "broke." But in the spending of it, men had taken his measure—the bills and the coined gold had branded him as a man from the "outside," achechako—a tenderfoot.
An hour after he had tossed his last yellow disk upon the bar in payment for a round of drinks he had hired out to Camillo Bill Waters to sluice gravel at an ounce a day. An ounce was sixteen dollars. Thereafter for the space of a month he was seen no more in Dawson.
Then one day he returned. He presented a slip of paper signed by Camillo Bill to the bartender at Stoell's and received therefor thirty ounces of gold—raw gold, in dust and nuggets. He bought a round of drinks glorying in the fact that at last he, too, was spending coarse gold. He bet ten ounces on an Indian foot race, and won. More drinks, and an hour later he bet his pile on a seven, a ten-spot, a deuce, and a king in a game of stud poker. Two players called the bet and he flipped over his hole card—it was a seven-spot and again he won.
He quit the game and danced for an hour, and between dances he drank whiskey. He got the hunch that this was his lucky day and that he could win, but the hunch called for quick big bets, and not for long continued play. He rode his hunch, and at Cuter Malone's wheel he tossed fifty ounces on Number 21. The ivory ball rolled slower and slower, hesitated on the 10 and then with a last turn settled into 21. He pocketed twenty-eight thousand dollars with a grin. The news of the bet spread swiftly and Brent became a man of sorts. Four times more that night he placed big bets—and three of the times he won.
One of these plays also in a game of stud earned him the name by which he became known in the North. With a king, and a queen, showing in his own hand he mercilessly raised an exposed pair of Jacks. Of the six other players in the game five dropped out. The holder of the Jacks stayed for the last draw and checked the bet. Brent laid fifty thousand dollars on his cards, a king, a queen, an eight spot and a four spot. The other stared at the hand for a long time. He was a man known for his nerve and his high play, and he knew that Brent knew this. Whispers of the big bet had gone about the room and men and women crowded the table. At length the other turned down his cards in token of surrender, and with a laugh Brent turned his hole card face up. It was the Ace of Diamonds, and an audible gasp hissed from twenty throats.Thereafter Brent was known as Ace-In-The-Hole.
The next morning he deposited one hundred and thirty thousand dollars in Dick Stoell's safe, and his pockets still bulged with dust. For two days and nights he drank and danced, but not a card did he touch, nor did he lay any bet. When questioned he answered that his hunch was not working. The sourdoughs respected him and treated him as an equal. He spent dust lavishly but he did not throw it away.
Then suddenly he bought an outfit and disappeared. When the first snow flew he was back, and into Dick Stoell's safe went many sacks of raw gold. He drank harder than ever and spent gold more freely. His fame spread to other camps, and three men came up from Circle to relieve him of his pile. He was gambling regularly now, and in a game of stud he caught them at the trick by means of which they had won forty thousand dollars from him. Many miners, among them a goodly sprinkling of old timers, were watching the play, and many of them had already detected the swindle, but after the custom of the country they held their peace. Brent never batted an eye upon discovering the trick, but when a few moments later it was repeated, things happened in Stoell's—and they happened with the rapidity of light. One minute after the trouble started there was an ominous silence in the room. A circle of men stood and stared at the wreck of a table, across which sagged the body ofa man killed with his own gun. Another man with his jaw shattered lay on the floor, and a third lay white and still across him with a wide red mark on his forehead where a sack of gold dust had caught him fair. And over all stood Brent with one leg jammed through the rungs of a broken chair.
The incident placed Ace-In-The-Hole in the foremost ranks of the big men of the North. He was regarded as the equal of such men as Old Bettles, Camillo Bill Waters, Swiftwater Bill, and McMann. Sourdoughs sought his acquaintance andchechakosheld him in awe. When the snow lay deep he bought the best string of dogs he could find, hired an Indian musher, and again disappeared. He was back at Christmas for a two weeks carousal, and when he hit the trail again he carried with him several gallons of whiskey. The sourdoughs shook their heads and exchanged glances at this, but a man's business is his own. In July he sent his Indian down for ten men to work his sluices and much whiskey. In September he came down himself and he brought with him a half million in gold.
Others had cleaned up big during the summer, and that winter saw Dawson's highest peak of wild orgies and wild spending. Riding a hunch when he first hit town Brent doubled and trebled his pile, and then with Jimmie the Rough, McMann, Camillo Bill and a few others they inaugurated such a campaign of reckless spending as the North had never seen and never again did see.
Brent was never sober, now—and men said he never slept. He was the youngest and by far the strongest of the spenders, the urge of the game was in his blood, and he rode it as he rode his hunches—to the limit of his endurance. All men liked him—open hearted, generous to the fault, and square as a die in his dealings, he spent his money like a prince. And where the men liked him the painted women worshipped him—but they worshipped from afar. For despite the utmost blandishments of the most intriguing of them, he treated all alike—even Kitty, whom men called "The Queen of the Yukon," failed to hold him in thrall. This dancing girl who had taken the North by storm, who was the North's darling and beautiful plaything, whose boast it was that she had never sought any man, fell violently in love with Brent. Men saw it and marvelled, for it was known in the camps that she had spurned men who had laid fortunes at her feet. It was not that he feared women, rather he sought them. He danced with them, frolicked with them—and then promptly forgot them. His one real passion was gambling. Any game or device whereupon big bets could be laid found him an enthusiastic devotee. And his luck became a byword in the North.
"Sometime your luck will change," warned the dancing girl as the two sat one evening in the early fall at a little table in Stoell's and drank champagne which cost Brent fifty dollars the quart. "And then you'll be broke and——"
Brent who had been idly toying with the rings upon her fingers returned the slender hand to the table. "It can't change. It's a part of me. As long as I'm me, I'll be lucky. Look, I'll show you! You want to marry me—you've told me so. Well, I don't want to marry you, or anyone else—wouldn't know what to do with you if I did marry you. You want me to go back on the claim—well, here's a bargain—just to show you that I can't lose." He pulled a buckskin sack full of gold from his pocket and held it before the girl's eyes. "See this sack. It isn't very big. It can't cover many numbers. I'm going to stand up in this chair and toss it onto the roulette table over there, and play every number it touches. If I lose I lose the dust—Stoell will get that. But that isn't all I'll lose—I'll lose myself—to you. If one of the numbers that this sack falls on don't win, I marry you tonight, and we hit for the claim tomorrow."
The girl stared at him, fascinated: "Do you mean that—you'll quit gambling—and you'll sober up and—and live with me?"
Again Brent laughed: "Yes, I'll quit gambling, and sober up, and live with you till—how does it go—till death us do part."
"Toss it!" The words of the girl came short, with a curious indrawing of the breath, and her fingers clutched at the edge of the table till the knuckles whitened. The men who were crowded about the wheel glanced toward the table at thesound, and standing in his chair Brent waved them to fall back. Then he told them of his bet—while the dancing girl sat with parted lips, her eyes fastened upon his face. The men at the wheel surged back to give room. The proposition caught their fancy. Ace-In-The-Hole, prince of gamblers, was betting himself—with the odds against him! And every man and woman in the room knew that if he lost he would keep his word to the last letter.
Carefully measuring the distance, Brent balanced the sack in his hand, then with a slow movement of his arm, tossed it onto the table. It struck almost squarely in the center, covering Numbers 13, 14, 16, 17, 19, and 20. The croupier spun the wheel, and sent the ivory ball spinning on its way. The men who had been playing, and the men from the bar, crowded close, their eyes on the whirling wheel. Brent sat down in his chair, lighted a cigarette, and filled the two empty champagne glasses from the bottle. He glanced across at Kitty. She was leaning forward with her face buried in her arms. Her shoulders were heaving with quick, convulsive sobs. In Brent's heart rose sudden pity for this girl. What to him had been a mere prank, a caprice of the moment, was to her a thing of vital import. The black fox fur had fallen away from about her neck exposing a bare shoulder that gleamed white in the light of the swinging lamp. She looked little and helpless, and Brent felt a desire to take her in his arms and comfort her. He leanedtoward her, half rose from his chair and then, at a sound from the table, he settled back.
"Number 13 wins," announced the croupier, and the room was suddenly filled with the voices of many men. The croupier scribbled a notation upon a piece of paper and together with the sack of dust laid it upon the table between Brent and the girl. A moment later she raised her head and stared, dry eyed into Brent's face.
"Here, little girl," he said gently. "Forgive me. I didn't know you really felt—that way. Here, this is all yours—take it. The bet paid six to one. The weigher will cash this slip at the bar."
With a swift motion of her hand the girl swept sack and slip to the floor. "Oh, I—I hope youdie!" she cried hysterically, and gathering her wrap about her, she sped from the room.
LUCK TURNS
Before the advent of the tin-horns, who invaded the Yukon at the time of the big rush, a "limit" in a poker game was a thing unknown. "Table stakes" did not exist, nor did a man mention the amount he stood to lose when he sat in a game. When a player took his seat it was understood that he stood good for all he possessed of property, whatever or wherever it might be. If the play on any hand ran beyond his "pile" all he had to do was to announce the fact and the other players would either draw down to it, or if they wished to continue the play, the pot, including the amount of the "short" player's last bet was pushed aside until the last call was made, the "short" player only participating in the portion of the pot so set aside. If, in the final show-down his hand was the highest he raked in this pot and the next high hand collected the subsequent bets.
Stud poker was the play most favored by Brent, and when he sat in a game the table soon became rimmed with spectators. Other games would breakup that the players might look on, and they were generally rewarded by seeing plenty of action. It was Brent's custom to trail along for a dozen hands or more, simply calling moderate bets on good hands, or turning down his cards at the second or third card. Then, suddenly, he would shove out an enormous bet, preferably raising a pair when his own hand showed nothing. If this happened on the second or third card dealt it invariably gave the other players pause, for they knew that each succeeding bet would be higher than the first, and that if they stayed for the final call they would stand to lose heavily if not be actually wiped out. But they knew also that the bet was as apt to be made on nothing as on a good hand, and should they drop out they must pass up the opportunity to make a killing. Another whim of Brent's was always to expose his hole card after the play, a trick that aggravated his opponents as much as it amused the spectators.
The result was that many players had fallen into the habit of dropping out of a game when Ace-In-The-Hole sat in—not because they disliked him personally, but because, as they openly admitted, they were afraid of his play. Many of these spent hours watching his cards. Not a man among them but knew that he was as square as a die, but every man among them knew that his phenomenal luck must sometime desert him, and when that time came they intended to be in at the killing. For onlyBrent himself believed that his luck would hold—believed it was as much a part of himself as the color of his hair or his eyes.
Among those who refused to play was Johnny Claw, from whom Brent had won ten thousand dollars a month before on three successive hands—two cold bluffs, and a club in the hole with four clubs showing, against Claw's king in the hole with two kings showing. Unlike the others who had lost to him, Claw nursed a bitter and secret hatred for him, and he determined that when luck did turn he would profit to the limit of his pile.
Johnnie Claw was one of the few old timers whom men distrusted. He was a squaw-man who had trapped and traded in the country as far back as any man could remember. With the coming of more white men, and the establishment of saloons along the river, Claw had ceased his trapping, and had confined his trading to the illicit peddling of hooch, for the most part among the Indians of the interior, and to that uglier, but more profitable traffic that filled the brothels and the dance halls of the Yukon with painted women from the "outside." So Claw moved among his compeers as a man despised, yet accepted, because he was of the North, and of the civilization thereof a component part.
Brent's luck held until the night before Thanksgiving, then the inevitable happened—he began to lose. At the roulette wheel and the faro table he lost twenty-five thousand dollars, and later, in agame of stud, he dropped one hundred thousand more. The loss did not worry him any, he drank a little more than usual during the play, and his plunges came a little more frequently, but the cards were not falling his way, and when they did fall, he almost invariably ran them up against a stronger hand.
Rumor that the luck of Ace-In-The-Hole had changed at last spread rapidly through the camp, and late in the afternoon of Thanksgiving day, when the play was resumed, spectators crowded the table ten deep. Men estimated Brent's winnings at anywhere from one to five millions and there was an electric thrill in the air as the players settled themselves in their chairs and counted their stacks of chips. The game was limited to eight players, and Camillo Bill Waters arriving too late to be included, promptly bought the seat of a prospector named Troy, paying therefor twenty-thousand dollars in dust. "We're after yer hide," he grinned good-naturedly at Brent, "an' I'm backin' the hunch that we're a-goin' to hang it on the fence this day."
"Come and get it!" laughed Brent. "But I'll give you fair warning that I wear it tight and before you rip it off someone's going to get hurt." Cards in hand he glanced at the tense faces around the board. "I've got a hunch that this game is going to make history on the Yukon," he smiled, "And it better be opened formally with a good stiff round ofdrinks." While they waited for the liquor his eye fell upon the face of Johnny Claw, who sat at the table, the second man from his right. "I thought you wouldn't sit in a game with me," he said, truculently.
"An' I wouldn't, neither, while yer luck was runnin'—but, it's different, now. Yer luck's busted—an' you'll be busted. An' I'm right here to git my money back, an' some of yourn along with it."
Brent laughed: "You won't be in the game an hour, Claw. I don't like you, and I don't like your business, and the best thing you can do is to cash in right now before the game starts."
A moment of tense silence followed Brent's words, for among the men of the Yukon, open insult must be wiped out in blood. But Claw made no move except to reach out and finger a stack of chips, while men shot sidewise glances into each other's faces. The stack of chips rattled upon the cloth under the play of his nervous fingers, and Kitty, who had taken her position directly behind Brent with a small slippered foot upon a rung of his chair, tittered. Claw took his cue from the sound and laughed loudly: "I'll play my cards, an' you play yourn, an' I'll do my cashin' in later," he answered. "An' here's the drinks, so le's liquor an' git to goin'." He downed his whiskey at a gulp, the bartender removed the empty glasses, and the big game was on.
The play ran rather cautiously at first, even morecautiously than usual. But there was an unwonted tenseness in the atmosphere. Each man had bought ten thousand dollars worth of chips, with the white chips at one hundred dollars, the reds at five hundred, and blues at a thousand—and each man knew that his stack was only a shoestring.
After five or six deals Camillo Bill, who sat directly across the table from Brent tossed in a red chip on his third card which was a queen. Claw stayed, the next man folded, and Brent, who showed a seven and a nine-spot raised a thousand. The others dropped, and Camillo Bill saw the raise. Claw, whose exposed cards were a ten-spot and a jack, hesitated for a moment and tossed in a blue chip. Camillo Bill's next card was an ace, Claw paired his jack and Brent drew a six-spot. With a grin at Brent, Claw pushed in a blue chip, and without hesitation Brent dropped in four blue ones, raising Claw three thousand. Camillo Bill studied the cards, tilted his hole card and glanced at its corner, and raised Brent two thousand. Claw, also surveyed the cards:
"Yer holdin' a four-straight damn high," he snarled at Brent, "but I've got mine—my pair of jacks has got anything you've got beat, an' Camillo hain't got no pair of queens or he'd of boosted yer other bet. I'd ort to raise, but I'll jest stay." And he dropped five blue chips into the pot. Camillo Bill paired his ace with the last card, Claw drew a deuce, and Brent a ten spot. Camillo Bill bet awhite chip, Claw stared at Brent's cards for a few moments and merely called, and Brent laughed:
"Here's your white chip, Bill, and I'll just lift it ten thousand—I'm that much light in the pot for a minute."
Camillo Bill called after a moment's deliberation, and Claw sat staring at the pot. He had just two blue chips left before him. "I ain't got ten thousan'," he whined, "I figger I've got about five thousan' outside this here stack, an' if I call fer that an' lose I'm busted flat." His hand pushed the two blue chips toward the pot, hesitated, and was quickly withdrawn. "Damned if I do!" he snarled, "My jacks-up ain't worth it—not agin luck like yourn." He turned over his hole card which was a deuce, and again Brent laughed and flipped his hole card over. It was the king of spades.
"I haven't got a damned thing, and I never did have. What have you got buried, Bill, another ace?"
Camillo Bill grinned and shook his head: "Nope, my down card's a king, too. All I got is them pair of aces. Where's yer guts, Claw?"
Claw glared at Brent as the latter bought a new stack of chips, scribbled an I.O.U. for ten thousand upon a scrap of paper, and tossed it across to Camillo Bill. Then clutching his two chips he rose from the table: "You jest done that to git me!" he growled, "I ain't got no show in this game—if you can't beat me yerself you'll run me up agin a better hand till I'm busted, if you lose money doin' it!"
"You've got it doped right, Claw," said Brent, evenly. "I told you you wouldn't last an hour, and if you'd have listened to me you'd have been eight thousand better off. Your hour isn't up yet, we've got plenty of time to get the rest of it."
"You'll raise hell gittin' the rest of it!" muttered the man, and as he walked toward the bar, Troy, who had sold his seat to Camillo Bill, slipped into the vacated chair.
The incident served to liven the game up, and thereafter red and blue chips outnumbered the white ones in nearly every pot.
There was no thought of stopping for supper, and when the game broke up long past midnight Brent had lost three hundred thousand dollars. He turned to Kitty, who had never left her post at the back of his chair: "Come on, girl, let's go find something to eat and some fuzzy water," he smiled. "They sure had my number, tonight, but I'll go after them tomorrow."
Brent ordered and drank three glasses of whiskey, while waiting for the meal to be served, and after it was over, the girl leaned back in her chair and studied him as she sipped her champagne.
"You're different than you were a year ago," she said.
Brent laughed: "Sure, I was a poor man, then——"
The girl straightened in her chair and interrupted him abruptly, "And you'll never amount to adamnuntil you're a poor man again!" she exclaimed, with such feeling that Brent stared at her in surprise.
"What! What do you mean?"
"I mean just what I said. A year ago you weresome man. Folks say you're a mining engineer—educated in a college. What are you now? You're a gam., that's what you are, and the hooch is putting its mark on you, too—and it's a shame."
"What in the world is the matter with you, Kitty?" The man stared at her in surprise, "The hooch don't hurt me any—and I only play for the fun of the game——"
"No you don't! You play because its got into your blood, and you can't help playing. And you'll keep on playing till you're busted and it'll be a good thing when you are! Your luck has changed now, and they'll get you."
"I'm still playing on their money," retorted Brent a little nettled at the girl's attack. "If they clean me out, all right. They'll only win the half million I took out of my two claims—the rest of it I took away from them. Anyway, whose business is it?" he asked sullenly.
"It ain't nobody's business, but yours. I—I wish to God it was mine. Everybody knows the hooch is getting you—and that is just what they all say—it's a shame—but it's his own business. I'm the only one that could say anything to you, and I'm—I'm sorry I did."
"They're right—it's my business, and no oneelse's. If they think I'm so damned far gone let them come and get my pile—I'll still have the claims, and I'll go out and bring in another stake and go after them harder than ever!"
"No you won't—they'll get the claims, too. And you won't have the nerve, nor the muscles to go out and make another strike. When you once bust, you'll be a bum—a has-been—right."
"I suppose," sneered Brent, thoroughly angry now: "that I should marry you and hit out for the claim so we could keep what's left in the family—and you'd be the family."
The girl laughed, a trifle hysterically: "No—I wouldn't marry you on a bet—now. I was foolish enough to think of it, once—but not now. I've done some thinking since that night you tossed that sack of dust on the board. If you married me and did go back to where you were—if you quit the cards and the hooch and got down to be what you ought to be—where would I stand? Who am I, and what am I? You would stick by your bargain—but you wouldn't want me. You could never go back outside—withme. And if you wouldn't quit the cards and the hooch, I wouldn't haveyou—not like you are now—flabby, and muddy-eyed, an' your breath so heavy with rot-gut you could light it with a match. No, that dream's busted and inside of a week you'll be busted, too." Setting down her glass the girl quitted the table abruptly, leaving Brent to finish the bottle of champagne alone, afterwhich he sauntered down to Cuter Malone's "Klondike Palace" and made a night of it, drinking and dancing.
The week that followed was a week of almost unbroken losses for Brent. In vain, he plunged, betting his cards more wildly, and more recklessly than ever before, in an effort to force his luck. But it only hastened the end, which came about midnight upon the Thursday following Thanksgiving Day, at the moment he looked into the eyes of Camillo Bill Waters and called a bet of fifty-thousand: "That's good," he announced, as Bill showed Aces-up. "And that just finishes me—I held the claims at a million—and that's the last of it."
THE DEALER AT STOELL'S
On the morning after the final game of stud in which he had slipped the last dollar of his fortune across the green cloth, Brent threw back his blankets and robes and sat upon the edge of his bunk. He had long since discarded his tent for a cabin and his eyes took in the details of the rough furnishings in the grey light that filtered through the heavily frosted window panes. He drew on his shirt and trousers and glanced at his watch. It was ten o'clock. He built a roaring fire, broke the ice that had formed upon the surface of a huge pail of water, filled his coffee-pot, and set his wash pan beside it upon the stove. Then he returned to his bunk and, feeling beneath his pillow, withdrew a flat quart bottle and took a long drink. When the water had warmed in the pan, he shaved before a small mirror that hung above his rude wash stand. Twice during the process he returned to the bottle for a swallow of liquor.
"Kitty was right," he confided to his reflection in the glass, "My luck did turn—and now, I'm broke."
He finished shaving and, as he was about to turn from the wash stand paused, and thrusting his face close to the mirror, subjected it to careful scrutiny.
"Eyesarea little muddy," he grudgingly admitted, "And face a little pouchy and red, but, hell, it isn't the hooch!—I don't drink enough to hurt me any. It's being indoors so much, and the smoke. Two days on the trail will fix that. I've got to slip out and make another strike. And when I come back—that bunch will be in for an awful cleaning."
He threw a handful of coffee into the pot, and sliced some bacon into a frying pan, and when the grease ran, he broke a half-dozen eggs and scrambled them with the bacon.
"She said I wouldn't have the nerve nor the muscles to hit out and locate another claim," he grinned as he swallowed a draught of scalding coffee. "I'll show her!"
He finished his meal, washed the dishes, and drew on his mukluks and blanket coat. As he opened the door he was met by a blast of wind-driven snow that fairly took his breath, and drawing back into the room he shut the door.
"I thought it was pretty dark in here for this time of day—some blizzard!"
He drew down the ear-flaps of his fur cap, hunted up his heavy mittens, and once more opening the door, pushed out into the storm.
Twenty minutes later he entered Stoell's place,and as he stamped the snow from his garments, and beat it from his cap and mittens, Camillo Bill greeted him from the bar.
"Hello, Ace-In-The-Hole! I'm buyin' a drink." The room was deserted except for the bartender who promptly set out bottle and glasses. "Let's go over here," suggested Camillo Bill, when the empty glasses had been returned to the bar. He led the way to a small table.
"Bring the bottle and glasses!" called Brent over his shoulder, and Camillo Bill seconded the order with a nod.
"Now," he began, as Brent filled his glass, "Let's get this here deal straightened out. In the first place, is them two claims of yourn worth a million?"
Brent flushed, hotly, but Camillo Bill forestalled his reply. "Hold on, now. I didn't mean what you're thinkin' about—an' you ort to know me well enough to know I didn't. When you said them two claims was worth a million, not me, nor no one else questioned your word, did we? Well, what I'm gettin' at is are they worth more than a million, 'n' how much more?"
Brent laughed: "They're worth more than a million. How much more I don't know. I took out a half a million last summer, and I don't think I'm half way to bed-rock at the deepest."
Camillo Bill nodded: "All right, that's what I wanted to know. You see, there's five or six ofus holds your slips an' markers that totals a million over an' above what was in Stoell's safe. I'll jest cash them slips an' markers, an' take over the claims."
Brent shrugged, "Go ahead. It don't make any difference to me how you divide them up."
Camillo Bill grinned: "It does make a hell of a lot of difference to you how we divide 'em up," he said. "It's like this: I like your style. You're atillicum—a natural borned sourdough. You're white clean through. When you said there's so and so much in Stoell's safe, the dust was there. An' when you know'd yer claims was worth more than a million, you says a million instead of stretchin' it to two million, an' maybe stickin' some one. Now when I cash them markers that's out agin the claims, an' figger in the slips an' markers I hold myself, I'll have a million invested, won't I? An', that's what I won—a million—not a million an' a half, or two million—just a million. Well, when I get that million back—you get the claims back—see?"
Brent stared at the man in amazement: "What do you mean? I lost the claims—lost them fair and square——"
"No you didn't," interrupted the other, "You lose just what yer slips an' markers says you lose—an' not a damn cent more. The claims was only a sort of security for the dust. C'latteral the banks would call it. Am I right, or wrong?"
Brent drank the whiskey in his glass and refilling it, shoved the bottle toward Camillo Bill, but the man shook his head. "No more for me. Too much of that stuff ain't no good. But about them claims—am I right, or wrong?"
"You're the whitest damned white man that walks on two legs, if that's what you mean," answered Brent, in a low voice. "I'll make the claims over to you, now."
"Don't say that," replied Camillo Bill, "they was five or six of us that figgered out this play—all friends of yourn. We all of us agreed to do what I'm doin'—it was only a question of who could afford to carry the load till next fall. I kin. Right's right—an' wrong ain't deuce-high, nowheres. A million's a million—an' it ain't two million. An' you don't need to make over them claims to me, neither. Jest you sign a paper givin' me the right to go into 'em an' take out a million, an' we'll tear up them slips an' markers."
"But what if there isn't a million in them. I believe there is—much more than a million. But, what if they're 'spotted,' and I just happened to hit the spots, or what if bed-rock shows a lot shallower than I think it will——"
"What if! What if! To hell with what if! If the claims peter out I ain't no better off if I hold title to 'em, am I? If they ain't good for the million, what the hell difference does it make who owns 'em? I'd ruther someone else holds a bum claimthan me, any day," he added with a grin. "An' now that's settled, what you goin' to do, while I'm gettin' out my dust?"
Brent drank his liquor, and reached for the bottle: "Why, I'm going to hit out and locate another strike," he said, a trifle thickly.
Camillo Bill regarded him thoughtfully: "Where at?"
"Why I don't know. There are plenty of creeks—Eldorado—Ophir—Doolittle——"
The other laughed: "Listen here," he said, "While you be'n here in town rollin' 'em high an' soppin' up hooch, they's be'n a hell of a change on the creeks. Ain't you stopped to notice that Dawson's more'n twict as big as she was in August, an' that the country is gittin full of tin-horns, an'chechakos. Well it is—an' every creek's filed that's worth a damn—an' so's every one that ain't. They ain't a claim to be took up no more on Bonanza, nor Ophir, nor Siwash, nor Eldorado, nor Alhambra, nor Sulphur, nor Excelsis, nor Christo, nor Doolittle, nor not hardly none on no pup nor dry wash that runs into 'em."
"All right, I'll go farther, then," retorted Brent, pouring more liquor into his glass. "I'll go beyond the last creek that's staked. And, by God, I'll find gold!"
Camillo Bill shook his head: "Look a here, you ain't in no shape to hit out on no long trip. You've laid up too long to tackle it, an' you've drunk toomuch of that damned hooch. It ain't none of my business what you do, or what you don't do—maybe you ain't drinkin' enough of it, I don't know. But that there's damn poor stuff to train on for a long trail in winter—an' I'm tellin' it to you that winter's sure hit these diggin's an' hit 'em hard. Tell you what I'll do. I've be'n nosin' 'round buyin' claims while you be'n layin' abed daytimes sleepin' off the hooch. I've got more'n what I kin 'tend to alone. I'll give you two thousand a month to help me look after 'em, an' you can sort of ease off the hooch, an' get broke in easy agin. If you sleep nights, an' keep out doors daytimes, an' lay off the cards an' the hooch, you'll be good as ever agin spring."
"Not on your life," flared Brent, "I'm as good a man right now as I ever was! And a damn sight too good a man to be anybody's pensioner. You know damned well that you don't need me at two thousand a month, or any other figure, except at an ounce a day, the same as anyone else gets. What the hell's the matter with everybody?" A querulous note crept into Brent's voice, "I tell you I'm as good a man as I ever was! Kitty told me the same thing—that I'm drinking too much! Whose business is it if I am? But, I'm not, and I'll hit the trail tomorrow and show you all!"
"So long," said Camillo Bill as he rose from his chair. "I told you it wasn't no one's business but yourn, so they ain't no argyment there. Only, jestyou remember that I'm a friend of yourn, an' so is Kitty—an' a man might have a damn sight worse friend than her, at that."
Later in the day Stoell accosted Brent as he stood drinking alone at the bar. "They romped right up your middle, didn't they, the last week or so?"
Brent nodded: "They cleaned me out. I played them too high for the cards I was holding."
"What you figuring on doing now?"
"Going to hit out and locate another claim when this storm lets up."
"You've got a long trip ahead. Everything's staked."
"So they say, but I guess I'll find something, somewhere."
"Why don't you take an inside job this winter. Hell of a lot of grief out there in the snow with only a tent and a bunch of huskies."
"What kind of a job?"
"I'm figuring on starting up a new layout—faro. How'd you like to deal? Just till spring when the weather lets up a little. You can't tell what you're staking under ten foot of snow anyhow."
"I never dealt faro."
"It won't take you long to learn. I only run one big game now because I can't trust no one to deal another—but I could get plenty of play on one if I had it goin'. I figure that the boys all like you, an' you'd be a good card. They all know you're square an' I'd get a good play on your layout.What do you say? It's a damn sight better than mushin' out there in the cold."
"What will you pay?"
"Well, how would five hundred a month, an' five percent of the winnings of the layout do? You wouldn't need to come on till around nine in the evening, and stay till the play was through. I'll throw in your supper, and dinner at midnight, and we won't keep any bar tab. You're welcome to what drinks you want—only you've got to keep sober when you're on shift."
Brent did not answer immediately. A couple of men came through the door in a whirl of flying snow, and he shivered slightly, as the blast of cold air struck him. Stoell was right, there would be a hell of a lot of grief out there on the long snow trail. "I guess I'll take you up on that," he said, "When do I start?"
"It'll take me a day or so to get rigged up. Let's make it day after tomorrow night. Meantime you can do your eating and drinking here—just make yourself at home. The boys'll be tickled when they hear the news—it'll spread around the camp pretty lively that you're dealing faro at Stoell's, and we'll get good play—see."
During the next two days Brent spent much time in Stoell's, drinking at the bar, and watching the preparation of the new layout over which he was to preside. And to him there, at different times came eight or ten of the sourdoughs of the Yukon,each with a gruff offer of assistance, but carefully couched in words that could give no offense. "You'll be on yer feet agin, 'fore long. If you need any change in the meantime, just holler," imparted one. Said another: "Here, jest slip this poke in yer jeans. I ain't needin' it. Somethin'll turn up d'rectly, an' you can slip it back then." But Brent declined all offers, with thanks. And to each he explained that he had a job, and each, when he learned the nature of the job, either answered rather evasively, or congratulated him in terms that somehow seemed lacking in enthusiasm. Old Bettles was the only man to voice open disapproval: "Hell," he blurted, "Anyone c'n deal faro. Anyone c'n gamble with another man's money, an' eat another man's grub, an' drink another man's hooch. But, it's along the cricks an' the gulches you find the reg'lar he-man sourdoughs."
At the words of this oldest settler on the Yukon, Brent strangely took no offense. Rather he sought to excuse his choice of profession: "I'm only doing it till spring, then I'm going to hit into the hills, and when I come back we'll play them higher than ever," he explained. "I'm a little soft now and don't feel quite up to tackling the winter trail."
"Humph," grunted Bettles, "You won't be comin' back—because you ain't never goin' to go. If yer soft now, you'll be a damn sight softer agin spring. Dealin' from a box an' lappin' up hooch ain't a-goin' to put you in shape for to chaw moose-meat an'wrestle a hundred pound pack. It'll sap yer guts." But Brent laughed at the old man's warning, and the next evening took his place behind the layout with the cards spread before him.
As Stoell had predicted, Brent proved to be a great drawing card for the gambling house. Play at his layout ran high, and the table was always crowded. But nearly all the players werechechakos—men new to the country, who had struck it lucky and were intent upon making a big splash. Among these tin-horns and four-flushers, Ace-In-The-Hole was a deity. For among petty gamblers he was a prince of gamblers. Rumors and fantastic lies were rife at all the bars concerning his deeds. "He had cleaned up ten million in a summer on a claim." "He killed three men with three blows of his fist." "The Queen of the Yukon was all caked in on him, and he wouldn't have her. He tossed her a slip for half a million that he had won on a single bet at the wheel, and because she was sore at him, she ground it into the floor with her foot." "He had bet a million on an ace in the hole—hence his name. He had gambled away twenty million in a week." And so it went. Men fell over themselves to make his acquaintance that they might ostentatiously boast of that acquaintance at the bars. One would casually mention that "Ace-In-The-Hole says to me, the other day, he says—" Or, "I was tellin' Ace-In-The-Hole about one time I an' a couple of tarts down in 'Frisco—" Or, "Me an' Ace-In-The-Hole was eatin' supper the other night, an' he says to me—" When he was off duty, men crowded to stand next to him at the bar, they plied him with drinks, and invited him to dine. All of which meant increased business for Stoell. So that upon several occasions when Brent was too drunk to attend to business, Stoell himself dealt his game and said nothing.
It was inevitable that this sudden popularity should in a measure turn Brent's head. Personally, he detested the loud-mouthed fawningchechakos, but as his association with them grew, his comradery with the real sourdoughs diminished. They did not openly or purposely cut him. They still greeted him as an equal, they drank with him, and occasionally they took a fling at his game. But there was a difference that Brent was quick to notice, and quick to resent, but powerless to dispel. He was a professional gambler, now—and they were mining men—that was all.
Only once since he had taken up his new vocation had he seen Kitty. She had come into Stoell's one evening, and slipping behind the table stood at his elbow until the end of the deal. As he shuffled the cards preparatory to returning them into the box, she placed her lips close to his ear: "Who are all your friends?" she whispered indicating the tin-horns andchechakosthat rimmed the table. Brent flushed, slightly, and answered nothing. "So this is what you meant by hitting the trail when theybroke you, is it? Well, take it from me, it's a short trail, and a steep grade slanting down, and when you're on the toboggan it ain't going to take long to hit the bottom—with a bump." And before Brent could reply she had slipped away and lost herself in the crowd.
Night after night, although his eyes sought the crowd, he never saw her again, nor did he find her upon his excursions to "The Nugget," or to Cuter Malone's "Klondike Palace." If she were purposely avoiding him, she was succeeding admirably.
Along in February, Brent was surprised one day to receive, in his own cabin, a visit from Johnny Claw. "What do you want?" he asked as the man stood in the doorway.
Claw entered, closing the door behind him. He removed his cap and mittens, and fumbling beneath his parka, produced a sealed bottle of whiskey which he set upon the table: "Oh, jest dropped in fer a little visit. Been 'outside.' Try a shot of this hooch—better'n anything Stoell's got."
Brent sat down upon the edge of his bunk and motioned the man to a chair: "Didn't know you were so damned friendly with me that you would lug me in a bottle of hooch from the outside," he said, "What's on your chest?"
Claw produced a corkscrew and opened the bottle, then he poured a half-tumbler into each of two glasses. "Le's liquor," he said, offering one to Brent. "Good stuff, ain't it?"
Brent nodded: "Damned good. But what's the idea?"
"Idee is jest this," announced Claw, eyeing him shrewdly, "You damn near busted me, but I ain't holdin' that agin' you." He paused and Brent, who knew that he was lying, waited for him to proceed. "You told me right plain out that you didn't like the business I was in! That's all right, too. I s'pose it ain't no hell of a good business, but someone's got to bring 'em in or you bucks wouldn't have nobody to dance with. But, layin' all that aside, you're dealin' the big game for Stoell."
"Yup."
"Well, listen: You're hittin' the hooch too hard fer to suit Stoell. At the end of the month you're out of a job—see? He's goin' to let you out, 'cause yer showin' up too reg'lar with a bun on. Says it's got to where yer crocked so often he might's well be dealin' the game hisself."
"Who did he tell this to—you?"
The other leered: "Naw, not to me. He don't like me no more'n what you do. But, I happened to hear him tellin' it to Old Bettles an' Camillo Bill. 'That's right,' says Bettles, 'fire him, an' maybe we kin git him into the hills.' 'I'm 'fraid not,' says Camillo Bill. 'Leastways not till spring. An' at the rate he's goin', by that time he'll be countin' bees.' 'It's a shame,' says Bettles, 'There's a damn good man gone wrong.' 'He is a damn good man,' says Stoell, 'They ain't many I'd trust to deal thatbig game. He's square as hell—but, the hooch has got him.'"
"The hell it has," said Brent, with a short laugh. "They're damned fools! I don't drink enough to hurt me any. I'm as good a man as I ever was!"
"Sure you be," assented Claw. "What little you drink wouldn't hurt no one. What's it any of their business? You don't need no guardeen to tell you when to take a drink," he paused and refilled Brent's glass. "'Yer square as hell,'" says Stoell—"but what's it gittin' you? He's goin' to fire you, ain't he?"
"Well?"
"Well—why not git even with him, an' at the same time clean up big fer yerself? They ain't no chanct to git caught."
"What do you mean?" Brent's voice rasped a trifle harshly, but Claw did not notice.
"I got it all doped out. Cold deck him—an' I'll play agin the fixed deck an' make a cleanin'—an' we'll split."
"You mean——"
"I mean this. Me an' you will fix up a deck, an' I'll copy off how the cards lays. Then you slip 'em into the box an' start the deal, an' I'll lay the bets. Of course, knowin' how they'll fall, I kin win whenever I want to. No one'll ever b'lieve it's a frame-up, 'cause they know you're square, an' likewise they know you hate me, an' they wouldn't figger we'd git together. I'll make the play strongby comin' in fer a night er two before we spring it an' braggin' that I've got a system. Then I'll have my slip of paper an' I'll look at it, an' make bets, an' of course I'll lose—'cause they ain't no system. An' the next night I'll do the same an' the third night we'll slip in the fixed deck—an' then my system'll win. An' all the time I'll be sneerin' at you, like I hated yer guts——"
The sentence was never finished. In a blind rage Brent hurled himself upon the man, and both crashed to the floor together. The fight was fast and furious while it lasted. But, flabby, and with his brain befuddled with liquor, Brent was no match for the other, who a year before, he could have killed with his bare hands. He got in several good blows at the start, which slowed up his antagonist, and rendered him incapable of inflicting serious damage later, when Brent winded and gasping, was completely at his mercy. A referee would unhesitatingly have declared it Claw's fight, for when he slipped from the cabin it was to leave Brent nursing two half-closed and rapidly purpling eyes, with nose and lips to match.
When, four days later he showed up at Stoell's, the latter called him aside and weighing out what was coming to him in dust, informed him that his services were no longer required.