“IN AN INSTANT THE FOUR SACKS WERE DROPPED SOFTLY INTO THE FEATHERY BOTTOM”“IN AN INSTANT THE FOUR SACKS WERE DROPPED SOFTLY INTO THE FEATHERY BOTTOM”
neither. ’Stead of our bein’ caught in the mountains, I reckon we’ll shoot it out here. We should have cached that gold somewhere.”
He spun the cylinder of his blackened Colt, while his face grew hard and vulture-like.
Meanwhile, Cherry Malotte watched the hunted look in Glenister’s face grow wilder and then stiffen into the stubbornness of a man at bay. The posse was at the door now, knocking. The three inside stood rigid and strained. Then Glenister tossed his burden on the bed.
“Go into the back room, Cherry; there’s going to be trouble.”
“Who’s there?” inquired Dextry through the door, to gain time. Suddenly, without a word, the girl glided to the hot-blast heater, now cold and empty, which stood in a corner of the room. These stoves, used widely in the North, are vertical iron cylinders into which coal is poured from above. She lifted the lid and peered in to find it a quarter full of dead ashes, then turned with shining eyes and parted lips to Glenister. He caught the hint, and in an instant the four sacks were dropped softly into the feathery bottom and the ashes raked over. The daring manœuvre was almost as quick as the flash of woman’s wit that prompted it, and was carried through while the answer to Dextry’s question was still unspoken.
Then Glenister opened the door carelessly and admitted the group of men.
“We’ve got a search-warrant to look through your house,” said Voorhees.
“What are you looking for?”
“Gold-dust from Anvil Creek.”
“All right—search away.”
They rapidly scoured the premises, covering every inch, paying no heed to the girl, who watched them with indifferent eyes, nor to the old man, who glared at their every movement. Glenister was carelessly sarcastic, although he kept his right arm free, while beneath hissang-froidwas a thoroughly trained alertness.
McNamara directed the search with a manner wholly lacking in his former mock courtesy. It was as though he had been soured by the gall of defeat. The mask had fallen off now, and his character showed—insistent, overbearing, cruel. Towards the partners he preserved a contemptuous silence.
The invaders ransacked thoroughly, while a dozen times the hearts of Cherry Malotte and her two companions stopped, then lunged onward, as McNamara or Voorhees approached, then passed the stove. At last Voorhees lifted the lid and peered into its dark interior. At the same instant the girl cried out, sharply, flinging herself from her position, while the marshal jerked his head back in time to see her dash upon Dextry.
“Don’t! Don’t!” She cried her appeal to the old man. “Keep cool. You’ll be sorry, Dex—they’re almost through.”
The officer had not seen any movement on Dextry’s part, but doubtless her quick eye had detected signs of violence. McNamara emerged, glowering, from the back room at that moment.
“Let them hunt,” the girl was saying, while Dextry stared dazedly over her head. “They won’t find anything. Keep cool and don’t act rash.”
Voorhees’s duties sat uncomfortably upon him atthe best, and, looking at the smouldering eyes of the two men, he became averse to further search in a powdery household whose members itched to shoot him in the back.
“It isn’t here,” he reported; but the politician only scowled, then spoke for the first time directly to the partners:
“I’ve got warrants for both of you and I’m tempted to take you in, but I won’t. I’m not through yet—not by any means. I’ll get you—get you both.” He turned out of the door, followed by the marshal, who called off his guards, and the group filed back along the walk.
“Say, you’re a jewel, Cherry. You’ve saved us twice. You caught Voorhees just in time. My heart hit my palate when he looked into that stove, but the next instant I wanted to laugh at Dextry’s expression.”
Impulsively Glenister laid his hands upon her shoulders. At his look and touch her throat swelled, her bosom heaved, and the silken lids fluttered until she seemed choked by a very flood of sweet womanliness. She blushed like a little maid and laughed a timid, broken laugh; then pulling herself together, the merry, careless tone came into her voice and her cheeks grew cool and clear.
“You wouldn’t trust me at first, eh? Some day you’ll find that your old friends are the best, after all.”
And as she left them she added, mockingly:
“Say, you’re a pair of ‘shine’ desperadoes. You need a governess.”
Araw, gray day with a driving drizzle from seaward and a leaden rack of clouds drifting low matched the sullen, fitful mood of Glenister.
During the last month he had chafed and fretted like an animal in leash for word of Wheaton. This uncertainty, this impotent waiting with folded hands, was maddening to one of his spirit. He could apply himself to no fixed duty, for the sense of his wrong preyed on him fiercely, and he found himself haunting the vicinity of the Midas, gazing at it from afar, grasping hungrily for such scraps of news as chanced to reach him. McNamara allowed access to none but his minions, so the partners knew but vaguely of what happened on their property, even though, under fiction of law, it was being worked for their protection.
No steps regarding a speedy hearing of the case were allowed, and the collusion between Judge Stillman and the receiver had become so generally recognized that there were uneasy mutterings and threats in many quarters. Yet, although the politician had by now virtually absorbed all the richest properties in the district and worked them through his hirelings, the people of Nome as a whole did not grasp the full turpitude of the scheme nor the system’s perfect working.
Strange to say, Dextry, the fire-eater, had assumed an Oriental patience quite foreign to his peppery disposition, and spent much of his time in the hills prospecting.
On this day, as the clouds broke, about noon, close down on the angry horizon a drift of smoke appeared, shortly resolving itself into a steamer. She lay to in the offing, and through his glasses Glenister saw that it was theRoanoke. As the hours passed and no boat put off, he tried to hire a crew, but the longshoremen spat wisely and shook their heads as they watched the surf.
“There’s the devil of an undertow settin’ along this beach,” they told him, “and the water’s too cold to drownd in comfortable.” So he laid firm hands upon his impatience.
Every day meant many dollars to the watcher, and yet it seemed that nature was resolute in thwarting him, for that night the wind freshened and daylight saw the ship hugging the lee of Sledge Island, miles to the westward, while the surf, white as boiling milk, boomed and thundered against the shore.
Word had gone through the street that Bill Wheaton was aboard with a writ, or a subpœna, or an alibi, or whatever was necessary to put the “kibosh” on McNamara, so public excitement grew. McNamara hoarded his gold in the Alaska Bank, and it was taken for granted that there would lie the scene of the struggle. No one supposed for an instant that the usurper would part with the treasure peaceably.
On the third morning the ship lay abreast of the town again and a life-boat was seen to make off from her, whereupon the idle population streamed towards the beach.
“She’ll make it to the surf all right, but then watch out.”
“We’d better make ready to haul ’em out,” said another. “It’s mighty dangerous.” And sure enough, as the skiff came rushing in through the breakers she was caught.
She had made it past the first line, soaring over the bar on a foamy roller-crest like a storm-driven gull winging in towards the land. The wiry figure of Bill Wheaton crouched in the stern while two sailors fought with their oars. As they gathered for their rush through the last zone of froth, a great comber rose out of the sea behind them, rearing high above their heads. The crowd at the surf’s edge shouted. The boat wavered, sucked back into the ocean’s angry maw, and with a crash the deluge engulfed them. There remained nothing but a swirling flood through which the life-boat emerged bottom up, amid a tangle of oars, gratings, and gear.
Men rushed into the water, and the next roller pounded them back upon the marble-hard sand. There came the sound of splitting wood, and then a group swarmed in waist-deep and bore out a dripping figure. It was a hempen-headed seaman, who shook the water from his mane and grinned when his breath had come.
A step farther down the beach the by-standers seized a limp form which the tide rolled to them. It was the second sailor, his scalp split from a blow of the gunwale. Nowhere was Wheaton.
Glenister had plunged to the rescue first, a heaving-line about his middle, and although buffeted about he had reached the wreck, only to miss sight of the lawyer utterly. He had time for but a glance when he wasdrawn outward by the undertow till the line at his waist grew taut, then the water surged over him and he was hurled high up on the beach again. He staggered dizzily back to the struggle, when suddenly a wave lifted the capsized cutter and righted it, and out from beneath shot the form of Wheaton, grimly clutching the life-ropes. They brought him in choking and breathless.
“I got it,” he said, slapping his streaming breast. “It’s all right, Glenister. I knew what delay meant so I took a long chance with the surf.” The terrific ordeal he had undergone had blanched him to the lips, his legs wabbled uncertainly, and he would have fallen but for the young man, who thrust an arm about his waist and led him up into the town.
“I went before the Circuit Court of Appeals in ’Frisco,” he explained later, “and they issued orders allowing an appeal from this court and gave me a writ of supersedeas directed against old Judge Stillman. That takes the litigation out of his hands altogether, and directs McNamara to turn over the Midas and all the gold he’s got. What do you think of that? I did better than I expected.”
Glenister wrung his hand silently while a great satisfaction came upon him. At last this waiting was over and his peaceful yielding to injustice had borne fruit; had proven the better course after all, as the girl had prophesied. He could go to her now with clean hands. The mine was his again. He would lay it at her feet, telling her once more of his love and the change it was working in him. He would make her see it, make her see that beneath the harshness his years in the wild had given him, his love for her was gentle and true andall-absorbing. He would bid her be patient till she saw he had mastered himself, till he could come with his soul in harness.
“I am glad I didn’t fight when they jumped us,” he said. “Now we’ll get our property back and all the money they took out—that is, if McNamara hasn’t salted it.”
“Yes; all that’s necessary is to file the documents, then serve the Judge and McNamara. You’ll be back on Anvil Creek to-morrow.”
Having placed their documents on record at the court-house, the two men continued to McNamara’s office. He met them with courtesy.
“I heard you had a narrow escape this morning, Mr. Wheaton. Too bad! What can I do for you?”
The lawyer rapidly outlined his position and stated in conclusion:
“I filed certified copies of these orders with the clerk of the court ten minutes ago, and now I make formal demand upon you to turn over the Midas to Messrs. Glenister and Dextry, and also to return all the gold-dust in your safe-deposit boxes in accordance with this writ.” He handed his documents to McNamara, who tossed them on his desk without examination.
“Well,” said the politician, quietly, “I won’t do it.”
Had he been slapped in the face the attorney would not have been more astonished.
“Why—you—”
“I won’t do it, I said,” McNamara repeated, sharply. “Don’t think for a minute that I haven’t gone into this fight armed for everything. Writs of supersedeas! Bah!” He snapped his fingers.
“We’ll see whether you’ll obey or not,” said Wheaton;and when he and Glenister were outside he continued:
“Let’s get to the Judge quick.”
As they neared the Golden Gate Hotel they spied McNamara entering. It was evident that he had slipped from the rear door of his office and beaten them to the judicial ear.
“I don’t like that,” said Glenister. “He’s up to something.”
So it appeared, for they were fifteen minutes in gaining access to the magistrate and then found McNamara with him. Both men were astounded at the change in Stillman’s appearance. During the last month his weak face had shrunk and altered until vacillation was betrayed in every line, and he had acquired the habit of furtively watching McNamara’s slightest movement. It seemed that the part he played sat heavily upon him.
The Judge examined the papers perfunctorily, and, although his air was deliberate, his fingers made clumsy work of it. At last he said:
“I regret that I am forced to doubt the authenticity of these documents.”
“My Heavens, man!” Wheaton cried. “They’re certified copies of orders from your superior court. They grant the appeal that you have denied us and take the case out of your hands altogether. Yes—and they order this man to surrender the mine and everything connected with it. Now, sir, we want you to enforce these orders.”
Stillman glanced at the silent man in the window and replied:
“You will, of course, proceed regularly and make applicationin court in the proper way, but I tell you now that I won’t do anything in the matter.”
Wheaton stared at him fixedly until the old man snapped out:
“You say they are certified copies. How do I know they are? The signatures may all be false. Maybe you signed them yourself.”
The lawyer grew very white at this and stammered until Glenister drew him out of the room.
“Come, come,” he said, “we’ll carry this thing through in open court. Maybe his nerve will go back on him then. McNamara has him hypnotized, but he won’t dare refuse to obey the orders of the Circuit Court of Appeals.”
“He won’t, eh? Well, what do you think he’s doing right now?” said Wheaton. “I must think. This is the boldest game I ever played in. They told me things while I was in ’Frisco which I couldn’t believe, but I guess they’re true. Judges don’t disobey the orders of their courts of appeal unless there is power back of them.”
They proceeded to the attorney’s office, but had not been there long before Slapjack Simms burst in upon them.
“Hell to pay!” he panted. “McNamara’s taking your dust out of the bank.”
“What’s that?” they cried.
“I goes into the bank just now for an assay on some quartz samples. The assayer is busy, and I walk back into his room, and while I’m there in trots McNamara in a hurry. He don’t see me, as I’m inside the private office, and I overhear him tell them to get his dust out of the vault quick.”
“We’ve got to stop that,” said Glenister. “If hetakes ours, he’ll take the Swedes’, too. Simms, you run up to the Pioneer Company and tell them about it. If he gets that gold out of there, nobody knows what’ll become of it. Come on, Bill.”
He snatched his hat and ran out of the room, followed by the others. That the loose-jointed Slapjack did his work with expedition was evidenced by the fact that the Swedes were close upon their heels as the two entered the bank. Others had followed, sensing something unusual, and the space within the doors filled rapidly. At the disturbance the clerks suspended their work, the barred doors of the safe-deposit vault clanged to, and the cashier laid hand upon the navy Colt’s at his elbow. “What’s the matter?” he cried.
“We want Alec McNamara,” said Glenister.
The manager of the bank appeared, and Glenister spoke to him through the heavy wire netting.
“Is McNamara in there?”
No one had ever known Morehouse to lie. “Yes, sir.” He spoke hesitatingly, in a voice full of the slow music of Virginia. “He is in here. What of it?”
“We hear he’s trying to move that dust of ours and we won’t stand for it. Tell him to come out and not hide in there like a dog.”
At these words the politician appeared beside the Southerner, and the two conversed softly an instant, while the impatience of the crowd grew to anger. Some one cried:
“Let’s go in and drag him out,” and the rumble at this was not pleasant. Morehouse raised his hand.
“Gentlemen, Mr. McNamara says he doesn’t intend to take any of the gold away.”
“Then he’s taken it already.”
“No, he hasn’t.”
The receiver’s course had been quickly chosen at the interruption. It was not wise to anger these men too much. Although he had planned to get the money into his own possession, he now thought it best to leave it here for the present. He could come back at any time when they were off guard and get it. Beyond the door against which he stood lay three hundred thousand dollars—weighed, sacked, sealed, and ready to move out of the custody of this Virginian whose confidence he had tried so fruitlessly to gain.
As McNamara looked into the angry eyes of the lean-faced men beyond the grating, he felt that the game was growing close, and his blood tingled at the thought. He had not planned on a resistance so strong and swift, but he would meet it. He knew that they hungered for his destruction and that Glenister was their leader. He saw further that the man’s hatred now stared at him openly for the first time. He knew that back of it was something more than love for the dull metal over which they wrangled, and then a thought came to him.
“Some of your work, eh, Glenister?” he mocked. “Were you afraid to come alone, or did you wait till you saw me with a lady?”
At the same instant he opened a door behind him, revealing Helen Chester. “You’d better not walk out with me, Miss Chester. This man might—well, you’re safer here, you know. You’ll pardon me for leaving you.” He hoped he could incite the young man to some rash act or word in the presence of the girl, and counted on the conspicuous heroism of his own position, facing the mob single-handed, one against fifty.
“Come out,” said his enemy, hoarsely, upon whom the insult and the sight of the girl in the receiver’s company had acted powerfully.
“Of course I’ll come out, but I don’t want this young lady to suffer any violence from your friends,” said McNamara. “I am not armed, but I have the right to leave here unmolested—the right of an American citizen.” With that he raised his arms above his head. “Out of my way!” he cried. Morehouse opened the gate, and McNamara strode through the mob.
It is a peculiar thing that although under fury of passion a man may fire even upon the back of a defenceless foe, yet no one can offer violence to a man whose arms are raised on high and in whose glance is the level light of fearlessness. Moreover, it is safer to face a crowd thus than a single adversary.
McNamara had seen this psychological trick tried before and now took advantage of it to walk through the press slowly, eye to eye. He did it theatrically, for the benefit of the girl, and, as he foresaw, the men fell away before him—all but Glenister, who blocked him, gun in hand. It was plain that the persecuted miner was beside himself with passion. McNamara came within an arm’s-length before pausing. Then he stopped and the two stared malignantly at each other, while the girl behind the railing heard her heart pounding in the stillness. Glenister raised his hand uncertainly, then let it fall. He shook his head, and stepped aside so that the other brushed past and out into the street.
Wheaton addressed the banker:
“Mr. Morehouse, we’ve got orders and writs of onekind or another from the Circuit Court of Appeals at ’Frisco directing that this money be turned over to us.” He shoved the papers towards the other. “We’re not in a mood to trifle. That gold belongs to us, and we want it.”
Morehouse looked carefully at the papers.
“I can’t help you,” he said. “These documents are not directed to me. They’re issued to Mr. McNamara and Judge Stillman. If the Circuit Court of Appeals commands me to deliver it to you I’ll do it, but otherwise I’ll have to keep this dust here till it’s drawn out by order of the court that gave it to me. That’s the way it was put in here, and that’s the way it’ll be taken out.”
“We want it now.”
“Well, I can’t let my sympathies influence me.”
“Then we’ll take it out, anyway,” cried Glenister. “We’ve had the worst of it everywhere else and we’re sick of it. Come on, men.”
“Stand back!—all of you!” cried Morehouse. “Don’t lay a hand on that gate. Boys, pick your men.”
He called this last to his clerks, at the same instant whipping from behind the counter a carbine, which he cocked. The assayer brought into view a shot-gun, while the cashier and clerks armed themselves. It was evident that the deposits of the Alaska Bank were abundantly safeguarded.
“I don’t aim to have any trouble with you-all,” continued the Southerner, “but that money stays here till it’s drawn out right.”
The crowd paused at this show of resistance, but Glenister railed at them:
“Come on—come on! What’s the matter with you?” And from the light in his eye it was evident that he would not be balked.
Helen felt that a crisis was come, and braced herself. These men were in deadly earnest: the white-haired banker, his pale helpers, and those grim, quiet ones outside. There stood brawny, sun-browned men, with set jaws and frowning faces, and yellow-haired Scandinavians in whose blue eyes danced the flame of battle. These had been baffled at every turn, goaded by repeated failure, and now stood shoulder to shoulder in their resistance to a cruel law. Suddenly Helen heard a command from the street and the quick tramp of men, while over the heads before her she saw the glint of rifle barrels. A file of soldiers with fixed bayonets thrust themselves roughly through the crowd at the entrance.
“Clear the room!” commanded the officer.
“What does this mean?” shouted Wheaton.
“It means that Judge Stillman has called upon the military to guard this gold, that’s all. Come, now, move quick.” The men hesitated, then sullenly obeyed, for resistance to the blue of Uncle Sam comes only at the cost of much consideration.
“They’re robbing us with our own soldiers,” said Wheaton, when they were outside.
“Ay,” said Glenister, darkly. “We’ve tried the law, but they’re forcing us back to first principles. There’s going to be murder here.”
GLENISTERhad said that the Judge would not dare to disobey the mandates of the Circuit Court of Appeals, but he was wrong. Application was made for orders directing the enforcement of the writs—steps which would have restored possession of the Midas to its owners, as well as possession of the treasure in bank—but Stillman refused to grant them.
Wheaton called a meeting of the Swedes and their attorneys, advising a junction of forces. Dextry, who had returned from the mountains, was present. When they had finished their discussion, he said:
“It seems like I can always fight better when I know what the other feller’s game is. I’m going to spy on that outfit.”
“We’ve had detectives at work for weeks,” said the lawyer for the Scandinavians; “but they can’t find out anything we don’t know already.”
Dextry said no more, but that night found him busied in the building adjoining the one wherein McNamara had his office. He had rented a back room on the top floor, and with the help of his partner sawed through the ceiling into the loft and found his way thence to the roof through a hatchway. Fortunately, there was but little space between the two buildings,and, furthermore, each boasted the square fronts common in mining-camps, which projected high enough to prevent observation from across the way. Thus he was enabled, without discovery, to gain the roof adjoining and to cut through into the loft. He crept cautiously in through the opening, and out upon a floor of joists sealed on the lower side, then lit a candle, and, locating McNamara’s office, cut a peep-hole so that by lying flat on the timbers he could command a considerable portion of the room beneath. Here, early the following morning, he camped with the patience of an Indian, emerging in the still of that night stiff, hungry, and atrociously cross. Meanwhile, there had been another meeting of the mine-owners, and it had been decided to send Wheaton, properly armed with affidavits and transcripts of certain court records, back to San Francisco on the return trip of theSanta Maria, which had arrived in port. He was to institute proceedings for contempt of court, and it was hoped that by extraordinary effort he could gain quick action.
At daybreak Dextry returned to his post, and it was midnight before he crawled from his hiding-place to see the lawyer and Glenister.
“They have had a spy on you all day, Wheaton,” he began, “and they know you’re going out to the States. You’ll be arrested to-morrow morning before breakfast.”
“Arrested! What for?”
“I don’t just remember what the crime is—bigamy, or mayhem, or attainder of treason, or something—anyway, they’ll get you in jail and that’s all they want. They think you’re the only lawyer that’s wise enough to cause trouble and the only one they can’t bribe.”
“Lord! What’ll I do? They’ll watch every lighter that leaves the beach, and if they don’t catch me that way, they’ll search the ship.”
“I’ve thought it all out,” said the old man, to whom obstruction acted as a stimulant.
“Yes—but how?”
“Leave it to me. Get your things together and be ready to duck in two hours.”
“I tell you they’ll search theSanta Mariafrom stem to stern,” protested the lawyer, but Dextry had gone.
“Better do as he says. His schemes are good ones,” recommended Glenister, and accordingly the lawyer made preparation.
In the mean time the old prospector had begun at the end of Front Street to make a systematic search of the gambling-houses. Although it was very late they were running noisily, and at last he found the man he wanted playing “Black Jack,” the smell of tar in his clothes, the lilt of the sea in his boisterous laughter. Dextry drew him aside.
“Mac, there’s only two things about you that’s any good—your silence and your seamanship. Otherwise, you’re a disreppitable, drunken insect.”
The sailor grinned.
“What is it you want now? If it’s concerning money, or business, or the growed-up side of life, run along and don’t disturb the carousals of a sailorman. If it’s a fight, lemme get my hat.”
“I want you to wake up your fireman and have steam on the tug in an hour, then wait for me below the bridge. You’re chartered for twenty-four hours, and—remember, not a word.”
“I’m on! Compared to me the Spinks of Egyp’ is as talkative as a phonograph.”
The old man next turned his steps to the Northern Theatre. The performance was still in progress, and he located the man he was hunting without difficulty.
Ascending the stairs, he knocked at the door of one of the boxes and called for Captain Stephens.
“I’m glad I found you, Cap,” said he. “It saved me a trip out to your ship in the dark.”
“What’s the matter?”
Dextry drew him to an isolated corner. “Me an’ my partner want to send a man to the States with you.”
“All right.”
“Well—er—here’s the point,” hesitated the miner, who rebelled at asking favors. “He’s our law sharp, an’ the McNamara outfit is tryin’ to put the steel on him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Why, they’ve swore out a warrant an’ aim to guard the shore to-morrow. We want you to—”
“Mr. Dextry, I’m not looking for trouble. I get enough in my own business.”
“But, see here,” argued the other, “we’ve got to send him out so he can make a pow-wow to the big legal smoke in ’Frisco. We’ve been cold-decked with a bum judge. They’ve got us into a corner an’ over the ropes.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you, Dextry, but I got mixed up in one of your scrapes and that’s plenty.”
“This ain’t no stowaway. There’s no danger to you,” began Dextry, but the officer interrupted him:
“There’s no need of arguing. I won’t do it.”
“Oh, youwon’t, eh?” said the old man, beginningto lose his temper. “Well, you listen tomefor a minute. Everybody in camp knows that me an’ the kid is on the square an’ that we’re gettin’ the bunk passed to us. Now, this lawyer party must get away to-night or these grafters will hitch the horses to him on some phony charge so he can’t get to the upper court. It’ll be him to the bird-cage for ninety days. He’s goin’ to the States, though, an’ he’s goin’—in—your—wagon! I’m talkin’ to you—man to man. If you don’t take him, I’ll go to the health inspector—he’s a friend of mine—an’ I’ll put a crimp in you an’ your steamboat. I don’t want to do that—it ain’t my reg’lar graft by no means—but this bet goes through as she lays. I never belched up a secret before. No, sir; I am the human huntin’-case watch, an’ I won’t open my face unless you press me. But if I should, you’ll see that it’s time for you to hunt a new job. Now, here’s my scheme.” He outlined his directions to the sailor, who had fallen silent during the warning. When he had done, Stephens said:
“I never had a man talk to me like that before, sir—never. You’ve taken advantage of me, and under the circumstances I can’t refuse. I’ll do this thing—not because of your threat, but because I heard about your trouble over the Midas—and because I can’t help admiring your blamed insolence.” He went back into his stall.
Dextry returned to Wheaton’s office. As he neared it, he passed a lounging figure in an adjacent doorway.
“The place is watched,” he announced as he entered. “Have you got a back door? Good! Leave your light burning and we’ll go out that way.” They slippedquietly into an inky, tortuous passage which led back towards Second Street. Floundering through alleys and over garbage heaps, by circuitous routes, they reached the bridge, where, in the swift stream beneath, they saw the lights from Mac’s tug.
Steam was up, and when the Captain had let them aboard Dextry gave him instructions, to which he nodded acquiescence. They bade the lawyer adieu, and the little craft slipped its moorings, danced down the current, across the bar, and was swallowed up in the darkness to seaward.
“I’ll put out Wheaton’s light so they’ll think he’s gone to bed.”
“Yes, and at daylight I’ll take your place in McNamara’s loft,” said Glenister. “There will be doings to-morrow when they don’t find him.”
They returned by the way they had come to the lawyer’s room, extinguished his light, went to their own cabin and to bed. At dawn Glenister arose and sought his place above McNamara’s office.
To lie stretched at length on a single plank with eye glued to a crack is not a comfortable position, and the watcher thought the hours of the next day would never end. As they dragged wearily past, his bones began to ache beyond endurance, yet owing to the flimsy structure of the building he dared not move while the room below was tenanted. In fact, he would not have stirred had he dared, so intense was his interest in the scenes being enacted beneath him.
First had come the marshal, who reported his failure to find Wheaton.
“He left his room some time last night. My men followed him in and saw a light in his window untiltwo o’clock this morning. At seven o’clock we broke in and he was gone.”
“He must have got wind of our plan. Send deputies aboard theSanta Maria; search her from keel to top-mast, and have them watch the beach close or he’ll put off in a small boat. You look over the passengers that go aboard yourself. Don’t trust any of your men for that, because he may try to slip through disguised. He’s liable to make up like a woman. You understand—there’s only one ship in port, and—he mustn’t get away.”
“He won’t,” said Voorhees, with conviction, and the listener overhead smiled grimly to himself, for at that moment, twenty miles offshore, lay Mac’s little tug, hove to in the track of the outgoing steamship, and in her tiny cabin sat Bill Wheaton eating breakfast.
As the morning wore by with no news of the lawyer, McNamara’s uneasiness grew. At noon the marshal returned with a report that the passengers were all aboard and the ship about to clear.
“By Heavens! He’s slipped through you,” stormed the politician.
“No, he hasn’t. He may be hidden aboard somewhere among the coal-bunkers, but I think he’s still ashore and aiming to make a quick run just before she sails. He hasn’t left the beach since daylight, that’s sure. I’m going out to the ship now with four men and search her again. If we don’t bring him off you can bet he’s lying out somewhere in town and we’ll get him later. I’ve stationed men along the shore for two miles.”
“I won’t have him get away. If he should reach ’Frisco—Tell your men I’ll give five hundred dollars to the one that finds him.”
Three hours later Voorhees returned.
“She sailed without him.”
The politician cursed. “I don’t believe it. He tricked you. I know he did.”
Glenister grinned into a half-eaten sandwich, then turned upon his back and lay thus on the plank, identifying the speakers below by their voices.
He kept his post all day. Later in the evening he heard Struve enter. The man had been drinking.
“So he got away, eh?” he began. “I was afraid he would. Smart fellow, that Wheaton.”
“He didn’t get away,” said McNamara. “He’s in town yet. Just let me land him in jail on some excuse! I’ll hold him till snow flies.” Struve sank into a chair and lit a cigarette with wavering hand.
“This ’s a hell of a game, ain’t it, Mac? D’you s’pose we’ll win?”
The man overhead pricked up his ears.
“Win? Aren’t we winning? What do you call this? I only hope we can lay hands on Wheaton. He knows things. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, but more is worse. Lord! If only I had amanfor judge in place of Stillman! I don’t know why I brought him.”
“That’s right. Too weak. He hasn’t got the backbone of an angleworm. He ain’t half the man that his niece is.There’sa girl for you! Say! What’d we do without her, eh? She’s a pippin!” Glenister felt a sudden tightening of every muscle. What right had that man’s liquor-sodden lips to speak so of her?
“She’s a brave little woman all right. Just look how she worked Glenister and his fool partner. It took nerve to bring in those instructions of yours alone; andif it hadn’t been for her we’d never have won like this. It makes me laugh to think of those two men stowing her away in their state-room while they slept between decks with the sheep, and her with the papers in her bosom all the time. Then, when we got ready to do business, why, she up and talks them into giving us possession of their mine without a fight. That’s what I call reciprocating a man’s affection.”
Glenister’s nails cut into his flesh, while his face went livid at the words. He could not grasp it at once. It made him sick—physically sick—and for many moments he strove blindly to beat back the hideous suspicion, the horror that the lawyer had aroused. His was not a doubting disposition, and to him the girl had seemed as one pure, mysterious, apart, angelically incapable of deceit. He had loved her, feeling that some day she would return his affection without fail. In her great, unclouded eyes he had found no lurking-place for double-dealing. Now—God! It couldn’t be that all the time she hadknown!
He had lost a part of the lawyer’s speech, but peered through his observation-hole again.
McNamara was at the window gazing out into the dark street, his back towards the lawyer, who lolled in the chair, babbling garrulously of the girl. Glenister ground his teeth—a frenzy possessed him to loose his anger, to rip through the frail ceiling with naked hands and fall vindictively upon the two men.
“She looked good to me the first time I saw her,” continued Struve. He paused, and when he spoke again a change had coarsened his features. “Say, I’m crazy about her, Mac. I tell you, I’m crazy—and she likes me—I know she does—or, anyway, she would—”
“Do you mean that you’re in love with her?” asked the man at the window, without shifting his position. It seemed that utter indifference was in his question, although where the light shone on his hands, tight-clinched behind his back, they were bloodless.
“Love her? Well—that depends—ha! You know how it is—” he chuckled, coarsely. His face was gross and bestial. “I’ve got the Judge where I want him, and I’ll have her—”
His miserable words died with a gurgle, for McNamara had silently leaped and throttled him where he sat, pinning him to the wall. Glenister saw the big politician shift his fingers slightly on Struve’s throat and then drop his left hand to his side, holding his victim writhing and helpless with his right despite the man’s frantic struggles. McNamara’s head was thrust forward from his shoulders, peering into the lawyer’s face. Struve tore ineffectually at the iron arm which was squeezing his life out, while for endless minutes the other leaned his weight against him, his idle hand behind his back, his legs braced like stone columns, as he watched his victim’s struggles abate.
Struve fought and wrenched while his breath caught in his throat with horrid, sickening sounds, but gradually his eyes rolled farther and farther back till they stared out of his blackened visage, straight up towards the ceiling, towards the hole through which Glenister peered. His struggles lessened, his chin sagged, and his tongue protruded, then he sat loose and still. The politician flung him out into the room so that he fell limply upon his face, then stood watching him. Finally, McNamara passed out of the watcher’s vision, returning with a water-bucket. With his foot he rolled theunconscious wretch upon his back, then drenched him. Replacing the pail, he seated himself, lit a cigar, and watched the return of life into his victim. He made no move, even to drag him from the pool in which he lay.
Struve groaned and shuddered, twisted to his side, and at last sat up weakly. In his eyes there was now a great terror, while in place of his drunkenness was only fear and faintness—abject fear of the great bulk that sat and smoked and stared at him so fishily. He felt uncertainly of his throat, and groaned again.
“Why did you do that?” he whispered; but the other made no sign. He tried to rise, but his knees relaxed; he staggered and fell. At last he gained his feet and made for the door; then, when his hand was on the knob, McNamara spoke through his teeth, without removing his cigar.
“Don’t ever talk about her again. She is going to marry me.”
When he was alone he looked curiously up at the ceiling over his head. “The rats are thick in this shack,” he mused. “Seems to me I heard a whole swarm of them.”
A few moments later a figure crept through the hole in the roof of the house next door and thence down into the street. A block ahead was the slow-moving form of Attorney Struve. Had a stranger met them both he would not have known which of the two had felt at his throat the clutch of a strangler, for each was drawn and haggard and swayed as he went.
Glenister unconsciously turned towards his cabin, but at leaving the lighted streets the thought of its darkness and silence made him shudder. Not now!He could not bear that stillness and the company of his thoughts. He dared not be alone. Dextry would be down-town, undoubtedly, and he, too, must get into the light and turmoil. He licked his lips and found that they were cracked and dry.
At rare intervals during the past years he had staggered in from a long march where, for hours, he had waged a bitter war with cold and hunger, his limbs clumsy with fatigue, his garments wet and stiff, his mind slack and sullen. At such extreme seasons he had felt a consuming thirst, a thirst which burned and scorched until his very bones cried out feverishly. Not a thirst for water, nor a thirst which eaten snow could quench, but a savage yearning of his whole exhausted system for some stimulant, for some coursing fiery fluid that would burn and strangle. A thirst for whiskey—for brandy! Remembering these occasional ferocious desires, he had become charitable to such unfortunates as were too weak to withstand similar temptations.
Now with a shock he caught himself in the grip of a thirst as insistent as though the cold bore down and the weariness of endless heavy miles wrapped him about. It was no foolish wish to drown his thoughts nor to banish the grief that preyed upon him, but only thirst! Thirst!—a crying, trembling, physical lust to quench the fires that burned inside. He remembered that it had been more than a year since he had tasted whiskey. Now the fever of the past few hours had parched his every tissue.
As he elbowed in through the crowd at the Northern, those next him made room at the bar, for they recognized the hunger that peers thus from men’s faces.Their manner recalled Glenister to his senses, and he wrenched himself away. This was not some solitary, snow-banked road-house. He would not stand and soak himself, shoulder to shoulder with stevedores and longshoremen. This was something to be done in secret. He had no pride in it. The man on his right raised a glass, and the young man strangled a madness to tear it from his hands. Instead, he hurried back to the theatre and up to a box, where he drew the curtains.
“Whiskey!” he said, thickly, to the waiter. “Bring it to me fast. Don’t you hear? Whiskey!”
Across the theatre Cherry Malotte had seen him enter and jerk the curtains together. She arose and went to him, entering without ceremony.
“What’s the matter, boy?” she questioned.
“Ah! I am glad you came. Talk to me.”
“Thank you for your few well-chosen remarks,” she laughed. “Why don’t you ask me to spring some good, original jokes? You look like the finish to a six-day go-as-you-please. What’s up?”
She talked to him for a moment until the waiter entered; then, when she saw what he bore, she snatched the glass from the tray and poured the whiskey on the floor. Glenister was on his feet and had her by the wrist.
“What do you mean?” he said, roughly.
“It’s whiskey, boy,” she cried, “and you don’t drink.”
“Of course it’s whiskey. Bring me another,” he shouted at the attendant.
“What’s the matter?” Cherry insisted. “I never saw you act so. You know you don’t drink. I won’tlet you. It’s booze—booze, I tell you, fit for fools and brawlers. Don’t drink it, Roy. Are you in trouble?”
“I say I’m thirsty—and I will have it! How do you know what it is to smoulder inside, and feel your veins burn dry?”
“It’s something about that girl,” the woman said, with quiet conviction. “She’s double-crossed you.”
“Well, so she has—but what of it? I’m thirsty. She’s going to marry McNamara. I’ve been a fool.” He ground his teeth and reached for the drink with which the boy had returned.
“McNamara is a crook, but he’s a man, and he never drank a drop in his life.” The girl said it, casually, evenly, but the other stopped the glass half-way to his lips.
“Well, what of it? Go on. You’re good at W. C. T. U. talk. Virtue becomes you.”
She flushed, but continued, “It simply occurred to me that if you aren’t strong enough to handle your own throat, you’re not strong enough to beat a man who has mastered his.”
Glenister looked at the whiskey a moment, then set it back on the tray.
“Bring two lemonades,” he said, and with a laugh which was half a sob Cherry Malotte leaned forward and kissed him.
“You’re too good a man to drink. Now, tell me all about it.”
“Oh, it’s too long! I’ve just learned that the girl is in, hand and glove, with the Judge and McNamara—that’s all. She’s an advance agent—their lookout. She brought in their instructions to Struve and persuaded Dex and me to let them jump our claim. Shegot us to trust in the law and in her uncle. Yes, she hypnotized my property out of me and gave it to her lover, this ward politician. Oh, she’s smooth, with all her innocence! Why, when she smiles she makes you glad and good and warm, and her eyes are as honest and clear as a mountain pool, but she’s wrong—she’s wrong—and—great God! how I love her!” He dropped his face into his hands.
When she had pled with him for himself a moment before Cherry Malotte was genuine and girlish but now as he spoke thus of the other woman a change came over her which he was too disturbed to note. She took on the subtleness that masked her as a rule, and her eyes were not pleasant.
“I could have told you all that and more.”
“More! What more?” he questioned.
“Do you remember when I warned you and Dextry that they were coming to search your cabin for the gold? Well, that girl put them on to you. I found it out afterwards. She keeps the keys to McNamara’s safety vault where your dust lies, and she’s the one who handles the Judge. It isn’t McNamara at all.” The woman lied easily, fluently, and the man believed her.
“Do you remember when they broke into your safe and took that money?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what made them think you had ten thousand in there?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do. Dextry told her.”
Glenister arose. “That’s all I want to hear now. I’m going crazy. My mind aches, for I’ve never had a fight like this before and it hurts. You see, I’ve beenan animal all these years. When I wanted to drink, I drank, and what I wanted, I got, because I’ve been strong enough to take it. This is new to me. I’m going down-stairs now and try to think of something else—then I’m going home.”
When he had gone she pulled back the curtains, and, leaning her chin in her hands, with elbows on the ledge, gazed down upon the crowd. The show was over and the dance had begun, but she did not see it, for she was thinking rapidly with the eagerness of one who sees the end of a long and weary search. She did not notice the Bronco Kid beckoning to her nor the man with him, so the gambler brought his friend along and invaded her box. He introduced the man as Mr. Champian.
“Do you feel like dancing?” the new-comer inquired.
“No; I’d rather look on. I feel sociable. You’re a society man, Mr. Champian. Don’t you know anything of interest? Scandal or the like?”
“Can’t say that I do. My wife attends to all that for the family. But I know there’s lots of it. It’s funny to me, the airs some of these people assume up here, just as though we weren’t all equal, north of Fifty-three. I never heard the like.”
“Anything new and exciting?” inquired Bronco, mildly interested.
“The last I heard was about the Judge’s niece, Miss Chester.”
Cherry Malotte turned abruptly, while the Kid slowly lowered the front legs of his chair to the floor.
“What was it?” she inquired.
“Why, it seems she compromised herself pretty badly with this fellow Glenister coming up on the steamer last spring. Mighty brazen, according to my wife. Mrs.Champian was on the same ship and says she was horribly shocked.”
Ah! Glenister had told her only half the tale, thought the girl. The truth was baring itself. At that moment Champian thought she looked the typical creature of the dance-halls, the crafty, jealous, malevolent adventuress.
“And the hussy masquerades as a lady,” she sneered.
“Sheisa lady,” said the Kid. He sat bolt upright and rigid, and the knuckles of his clinched hands were very white. In the shadow they did not note that his dark face was ghastly, nor did he say more except to bid Champian good-bye when he left, later on. After the door had closed, however, the Kid arose and stretched his muscles, not languidly, but as though to take out the cramp of long tension. He wet his lips, and his mouth was so dry that the sound caused the girl to look up.
“What are you grinning at?” Then, as the light struck his face, she started. “My! How you look! What ails you? Are you sick?” No one, from Dawson down, had seen the Bronco Kid as he looked to-night.
“No. I’m not sick,” he answered, in a cracked voice.
Then the girl laughed harshly.
“Doyoulove that girl, too? Why, she’s got every man in town crazy.”
She wrung her hands, which is a bad sign in a capable person, and as Glenister crossed the floor below in her sight she said, “Ah-h—I could kill him for that!”
“So could I,” said the Kid, and left her without adieu.
FORa long time Cherry Malotte sat quietly thinking, removed by her mental stress to such an infinite distance from the music and turmoil beneath that she was conscious of it only as a formless clamor. She had tipped a chair back against the door, wedging it beneath the knob so that she might be saved from interruption, then flung herself into another seat and stared unseeingly. As she sat thus, and thought, and schemed, harsh and hateful lines seemed to eat into her face. Now and then she moaned impatiently, as though fearing lest the strategy she was plotting might prove futile; then she would rise and pace her narrow quarters. She was unconscious of time, and had spent perhaps two hours thus, when amid the buzz of talk in the next compartment she heard a name which caused her to start, listen, then drop her preoccupation like a mantle. A man was speaking of Glenister. Excitement thrilled his voice.
“I never saw anything like it since McMaster’s Night in Virginia City, thirteen years ago. He’sright.”
“Well, perhaps so,” the other replied, doubtfully, “but I don’t care to back you. I never ‘staked’ a man in my life.”
“Thenlendme the money. I’ll pay it back in anhour, but for Heaven’s sake be quick. I tell you he’s as right as a golden guinea. It’s the lucky night of his life. Why, he turned over the Black Jack game in four bets. In fifteen minutes more we can’t get close enough to a table to send in our money with a messenger-boy—every sport in camp will be here.”
“I’ll stake you to fifty,” the second man replied, in a tone that showed a trace of his companion’s excitement.
So Glenister was gambling, the girl learned, and with such luck as to break the Black Jack game and excite the greed of every gambler in camp. News of his winnings had gone out into the street, and the sporting men were coming to share his fortune, to fatten like vultures on the adversity of their fellows. Those who had no money to stake were borrowing, like the man next door.
She left her retreat, and, descending the stairs, was greeted by a strange sight. The dance-hall was empty of all but the musicians, who blew and fiddled lustily in vain endeavor to draw from the rapidly swelling crowd that thronged the gambling-room and stretched to the door. The press was thickest about a table midway down the hall. Cherry could see nothing of what went on there, for men and women stood ten deep about it and others perched on chairs and tables along the walls. A roar arose suddenly, followed by utter silence; then came the clink and rattle of silver. A moment, and the crowd resumed its laughter and talk.
“All down, boys,” sounded the level voice of the dealer. “The field or the favorite. He’s made eighteen straight passes. Get your money on the line.” There ensued another breathless instant wherein sheheard the thud of dice, then followed the shout of triumph that told what the spots revealed. The dealer payed off. Glenister reared himself head and shoulders above the others and pushed out through the ring to the roulette-wheel. The rest followed. Behind the circular table they had quitted, the dealer was putting away his dice, and there was not a coin in his rack. Mexico Mullins approached Cherry, and she questioned him.
“He just broke the crap game,” Mullins told her; “nineteen passes without losing the bones.”
“How much did he win?”
“Oh, he didn’t win much himself, but it’s the people betting with him that does the damage! They’re gamblers, most of them, and they play the limit. He took out the Black Jack bank-roll first, $4,000, then cleaned the ‘Tub.’ By that time the tin horns began to come in. It’s the greatest run I ever see.”
“Did you get in?”
“Now, don’t you know that I never play anything but ‘bank’? If he lasts long enough to reach the faro lay-out, I’ll get mine.”
The excitement of the crowd began to infect the girl, even though she looked on from the outside. The exultant voices, the sudden hush, the tensity of nerve it all betokened, set her a-thrill. A stranger left the throng and rushed to the spot where Cherry and Mexico stood talking. He was small and sandy, with shifting glance and chinless jaw. His eyes glittered, his teeth shone ratlike through his dry lips, and his voice was shrill. He darted towards them like some furtive, frightened little animal, unnaturally excited.
“I guess that isn’t so bad for three bets!” He shook a sheaf of bank-notes at them.
“Why don’t you stick?” inquired Mullins.
“I am too wise. Ha! I know when to quit. He can’t win steady—he don’t play any system.”
“Then he has a good chance,” said the girl.
“There he goes now,” the little man cried as the uproar arose. “I told you he’d lose.” At the voice of the multitude he wavered as though affected by some powerful magnet.
“But he won again,” said Mexico.
“No! Did he? Lord! I quit too soon!”
He scampered back into the other room, only to return, hesitating, his money tightly clutched.
“Do you s’pose it’s safe? I never saw a man bet so reckless. I guess I’d better quit, eh?” He noted the sneer on the woman’s face, and without waiting a reply dashed off again. They saw him clamorously fight his way in towards a post at the roulette-table. “Let me through! I’ve got money and I want to play it!”
“Pah!” said Mullins, disgustedly. “He’s one of them Vermont desperadoes that never laid a bet till he was thirty. If Glenister loses he’ll hate him for life.”
“There are plenty of his sort here,” the girl remarked; “his soul would fit in a flea-track.” She spied the Bronco Kid sauntering back towards her and joined him. He leaned against the wall, watching the gossamer thread of smoke twist upward from his cigarette, seemingly oblivious to the surroundings, and showing no hint of the emotion he had displayed two hours before.
“This is a big killing, isn’t it?” said the girl.
The gambler nodded, murmuring indifferently.
“Why aren’t you dealing bank? Isn’t this your shift?”
“I quit last night.”
“Just in time to miss this affair. Lucky for you.”
“Yes; I own the place now. Bought it yesterday.”
“Good Heavens! Then it’syourmoney he’s winning.”
“Sure, at the rate of a thousand a minute.”
She glanced at the long trail of devastated tables behind Glenister and his followers. At that instant the sound told that the miner had won again, and it dawned upon Cherry that the gambler beside her stood too quietly, that his hand and voice were too steady, his glance too cold to be natural. The next moment approved her instinct.
The musicians, grown tired of their endeavors to lure back the dancers, determined to join the excitement, and ceased playing. The leader laid down his violin, the pianist trailed up the key-board with a departing twitter and quit his stool. They all crossed the hall, headed for the crowd, some of them making ready to bet. As they approached the Bronco Kid, his lips thinned and slid apart slightly, while out of his heavy-lidded eyes there flared unreasoning rage. Stepping forward, he seized the foremost man and spun him about violently.
“Where are you going?”
“Why, nobody wants to dance, so we thought we’d go out front for a bit.”
“Get back, damn you!” It was his first chance to vent the passion within him. A glance at his maddened features was sufficient for the musicians, and they did not delay. By the time they had resumed their duties, however, the curtains of composure had closed upon the Kid, masking his emotion again; butfrom her brief glimpse Cherry Malotte knew that this man was not of ice, as some supposed. He turned to her and said, “Do you mean what you said up-stairs?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You said you could kill Glenister.”
“I could.”
“Don’t you love—”
“Ihatehim,” she interrupted, hoarsely. He gave her a mirthless smile, and spying the crap-dealer leaving his bankrupt table, called him over and said:
“Toby, I want you to ‘drive the hearse’ when Glenister begins to play faro. I’ll deal. Understand?”
“Sure! Going to give him a little ‘work,’ eh?”
“I never dealt a crooked card in this camp,” exclaimed the Kid, “but I’ll ‘lay’ that man to-night or I’ll kill him! I’ll use a ‘sand-tell,’ see! And I want to explain my signals to you. If you miss the signs you’ll queer us both and put the house on the blink.”
He rapidly rehearsed his signals in a jargon which to a layman would have been unintelligible, illustrating them by certain almost imperceptible shiftings of the fingers or changes in the position of his hand, so slight as to thwart discovery. Through it all the girl stood by and followed his every word and motion with eager attention. She needed no explanation of the terms they used. She knew them all, knew that the “hearse-driver” was the man who kept the cases, knew all the code of the “inside life.” To her it was all as an open page, and she memorized more quickly than did Toby the signs by which the Bronco Kid proposed to signal what card he had smuggled from the box or held back.
In faro it is customary for the case-keeper to sit on the opposite side of the table from the dealer, with adevice before him resembling an abacus, or Chinese adding-machine. When a card is removed from the faro-box by the dealer, the “hearse-driver” moves a button opposite a corresponding card on his little machine, in order that the players, at a glance, may tell what spots have been played or are still in the box. His duties, though simple, are important, for should he make an error, and should the position of his counters not tally with the cards in the box on the “last turn,” all bets on the table are declared void. When honestly dealt, faro is the fairest of all gambling games, but it is intricate, and may hide much knavery. When the game is crooked, it is fatal, for out of the ingenuity of generations of card sharks there have been evolved a multitude of devices with which to fleece the unsuspecting. These are so carefully masked that none but the initiated may know them, while the freemasonry of the craft is strong and discovery unusual.
Instead of using a familiar arrangement like the “needle-tell,” wherein an invisible needle pricks the dealer’s thumb, thus signalling the presence of certain cards, the Bronco Kid had determined to use the “sand-tell.” In other words, he would employ a “straight box,” but a deck of cards, certain ones of which had been roughened or sand-papered slightly, so that, by pressing more heavily on the top or exposed card, the one beneath would stick to its neighbor above, and thus enable him to deal two with one motion if the occasion demanded. This roughness would likewise enable him to detect the hidden presence of a marked card by the faintest scratching sound when he dealt. In this manipulation it would be necessary, also, to shave the edges of some of the pasteboards a trifle, sothat, when the deck was forced firmly against one side of the box, there would be exposed a fraction of the small figure in the left-hand corner of the concealed cards. Long practice in the art of jugglery lends such proficiency as to baffle discovery and rob the game of its uncertainty as surely as the player is robbed of his money. It is, of course, vital that the confederate case-keeper be able to interpret the dealer’s signs perfectly in order to move the sliding ebony disks to correspond, else trouble will accrue at the completion of the hand when the cases come out wrong.
Having completed his instructions, the proprietor went forward, and Cherry wormed her way towards the roulette-wheel. She wished to watch Glenister, but could not get near him because of the crowd. The men would not make room for her. Every eye was glued upon the table as though salvation lurked in its rows of red and black. They were packed behind it until the croupier had barely room to spin the ball, and although he forced them back, they pressed forward again inch by inch, drawn by the song of the ivory, drunk with its worship, maddened by the breath of Chance.
Cherry gathered that Glenister was still winning, for a glimpse of the wheel-rack between the shoulders of those ahead showed that the checks were nearly out of it.
Plainly it was but a question of minutes, so she backed out and took her station beside the faro-table where the Bronco Kid was dealing. His face wore its colorless mask of indifference; his long white hands moved slowly with the certainty that betokened absolute mastery of his art. He was waiting. The ex-crap dealer was keeping cases.
The group left the roulette-table in a few moments and surrounded her, Glenister among the others. He was not the man she knew. In place of the dreary hopelessness with which he had left her, his face was flushed and reckless, his collar was open, showing the base of his great, corded neck, while the lust of the game had coarsened him till he was again the violent, untamed, primitive man of the frontier. His self-restraint and dignity were gone. He had tried the new ways, and they were not for him. He slipped back, and the past swallowed him.
After leaving Cherry he had sought some mental relief by idly risking the silver in his pocket. He had let the coins lie and double, then double again and again. He had been indifferent whether he won or lost, so assumed a reckless disregard for the laws of probability, thinking that he would shortly lose the money he had won and then go home. He did not want it. When his luck remained the same, he raised the stakes, but it did not change—he could not lose. Before he realized it, other men were betting with him, animated purely by greed and craze of the sport. First one, then another joined till game after game was closed, and each moment the crowd had grown in size and enthusiasm so that its fever crept into him, imperceptibly at first, but ever increasing, till the mania mastered him.
He paid no attention to Cherry as he took his seat. He had eyes for nothing but the “lay-out.” She clenched her hands and prayed for his ruin.
“What’s your limit, Kid?” he inquired.
“One hundred, and two,” the Kid answered, which in the vernacular means that any sum up to $200 maybe laid on one card save only on the last turn, when the amount is lessened by half.
Without more ado they commenced. The Kid handled his cards smoothly, surely, paying and taking bets with machine-like calm. The on-lookers ceased talking and prepared to watch, for now came the crucial test of the evening. Faro is to other games as war is to jackstraws.
For a time Glenister won steadily till there came a moment when many stacks of chips lay on the deuce. Cherry saw the Kid “flash” to the case-keeper, and the next moment he had “pulled two.” The deuce lost. It was his first substantial gain, and the players paid no attention. At the end of half an hour the winnings were slightly in favor of the “house.” Then Glenister said, “This is too slow. I want action.”
“All right,” smiled the proprietor. “We’ll double the limit.”
Thus it became possible to wager $400 on a card, and the Kid began really to play. Glenister now lost steadily, not in large amounts, but with tantalizing regularity. Cherry had never seen cards played like this. The gambler was a revelation to her—his work was wonderful. Ill luck seemed to fan the crowd’s eagerness, while, to add to its impatience, the cases came wrong twice in succession, so that those who would have bet heavily upon the last turn had their money given back. Cherry saw the confusion of the “hearse-driver” even quicker than did Bronco. Toby was growing rattled. The dealer’s work was too fast for him, and yet he could offer no signal of distress for fear of annihilation at the hands of those crowded close to his shoulder. In the same way the owner of thegame could make no objection to his helper’s incompetence for fear that some by-stander would volunteer to fill the man’s part—there were many present capable of the trick. He could only glare balefully across the table at his unfortunate confederate.
They had not gone far on the next game before Cherry’s quick eye detected a sign which the man misinterpreted. She addressed him, quietly, “You’d better brush up your plumes.”
In spite of his anger the Bronco Kid smiled. Humor in him was strangely withered and distorted, yet here was a thrust he would always remember and recount with glee in years to come. He feared there were other faro-dealers present who might understand the hint, but there was none save Mexico Mullins, whose face was a study—mirth seemed to be strangling him. A moment later the girl spoke to the case-keeper again.
“Let me take your place; your reins are unbuckled.”
Toby glanced inquiringly at the Kid, who caught Cherry’s reassuring look and nodded, so he arose and the girl slid into the vacant chair. This woman would make no errors—the dealer knew that; her keen wits were sharpened by hate—it showed in her face. If Glenister escaped destruction to-night it would be because human means could not accomplish his downfall.