Читать книгу Painted Ponies - Alan Le May - Страница 5

To the cowboy the Happy Chance was a blaze of gayety, after the silences of the prairies and the dim twilight of the street. Nearly two score of cowmen, of all ages and states of attire, thronged the great square room. Hanging kerosene lamps, many of them elaborate with colored glass pendants, so filled the bar with an almost brilliant light that no shadow remained. Two long counters on each side of the room were of polished wood, battle-scarred, but retaining an air of elegance; behind each was a long mirror, crowned with rows of horns, and embuttressed with ranks of bottles at its base.

An upright piano, a little jangling in key, sang tinnily at the back, drummed upon with energetic abandon by a dissolute old man with a goatee. Above the swift, clattering chords of this old instrument rose the living hum of male voices, cut through by shouted words, strident laughter, or whoops from the crowd in the corner about the roulette wheel. There was a smell of horses and leather from the riders, a familiar reek of alcoholic spirits; and overlaying these smells with a genial, enticing warmth was the odor of roast beef from a steaming barbecue at the end of the right-hand bar.

Slide Morgan’s eyes savored the rich brown crust of the roast wistfully, but he passed it by. Securing a single silver dollar in exchange for his pocketful of small coin, he pushed his way into the packed throng about the roulette wheel.

The cowboys were jammed against the layout four deep; necks craned as the croupier spun the wheel, all eyes following the little white pellet that raced about the sides of the spinning bowl; and as the ball came to rest in a numbered socket a grunting “Oh!” came spontaneously from the crowd. Morgan wedged his way into the second rank.

For several minutes he watched the play, clutching his lone dollar in his palms. It was not easy to find an open number to his liking; as fast as the croupier’s rake cleaned the board, lean brown hands reached in from all sides to litter the numbered squares with gold pieces and stacks of silver dollars. But presently he wormed his arm through the packed front rank, and laid his own single silver disc upon the seven.

A corded hand thrust down beside his from another direction as his dollar rang against the wood. Morgan sensed, rather than heard a scorching oath. Then his eyes kindled furiously as he saw the hand flick his dollar out of the way, and place a flat stack of four gold pieces in its place. His own coin came to rest upon the six.

Morgan peered savagely between the surrounding heads to see who had executed this inexcusable affront. A cold eye, curiously expressionless and light in color, met his insolently.

“Get off that number,” said Morgan in a grating voice.

There was no reply. The curiously light eyes of the offender suddenly flashed to the wheel; the forward sway of the crowd told both that the galloping white ball of fortune was on its way.

“I’ll even that up,” Morgan said distinctly, and turned his own eyes to the game.

Rattling and skimming, the little white marble caromed about the speeding bowl; tried to settle; bounced twice; and came to rest. For a moment no one could discern the number on which the ball had stopped; then, as the wheel revolved more slowly, there came that growling “Oh!” from the crowd.

“It’s the six,” a voice said.

Into Morgan’s hand were counted two gold pieces and a heavy stack of silver dollars, as the croupier raked the board and the game went on.

Exultantly Slide backed out of the crowd. A few moments later he sunk his teeth into the grateful warmth of roast beef.