Читать книгу Stand Pat; Or, Poker Stories from the Mississippi - David A. Curtis - Страница 6

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After the river was frozen up and the boats could no longer ply the upper Mississippi, the only approach to Brownsville from the other river towns was by the stage-sleigh that came from La Crosse. This crossed three times a week each way, and occasionally brought some stranger to the town, though why a stranger should come, unless he arrived on a boat that would presently carry him farther along on his way, was a thing Brownsville could not readily understand.

It was therefore with mild surprise that the citizens of the place saw one Jack Britton jump out of the low box sleigh one evening in the middle of winter. Nothing was said to him when he alighted. It was not Brownsville’s way to greet newcomers with enthusiasm.

But such of the citizens as happened to be near lined up expectantly in front of Sam’s bar, when Mr. Britton, after stamping his feet a few times, and thrashing his arms across his chest to get his blood in circulation, entered the barroom and walked over to the stove to warm his fingers.

After he had stood there for a few minutes, and had, presumably, recovered from the chill of the long ride, he stepped up to the bar and called for some whiskey. His manner was that of a man who is immersed in thought, and for the moment he seemed not to observe that there were others present.

Sam produced a bottle and a glass and set them on the bar, and Mr. Britton poured out a drink for a grown man. He did not know it, or it seemed as if he did not, but the eyes of the community were fixed upon him.

That is, eyes belonging to some eight or nine representative citizens of Brownsville were so fixed, and for one critical moment there appeared to be a strong probability that Mr. Britton would fail to establish himself on any footing which would entitle him to favourable consideration.

In some mysterious way he became aware of this without anything being said. Being, as he was, the focus of eight distinct glares of surprise, he became aware that something was wrong, and, pausing in the very act of lifting his glass, he looked slowly around, and then said, heartily enough:

“Excuse me, gentlemen. Won’t you join me?”

They would and they did, and it remained possible for Mr. Britton to make a good impression. The mere fact that he was unusual would not, of itself, damn him hopelessly, but the curious behaviour of a man who would come so near a fatal breach of etiquette in apparent unconsciousness, was enough to raise a doubt, and while the doubt remained Brownsville was not likely to make overtures.

Jim Bixby, the stage-driver, had swallowed his liquor and gone outside to attend to his horses, and, after an interchange of glances among some of the others in the room, Larry Hennessy slouched out through the door and was lost to sight.

Making his way to the stable, where Bixby was rubbing his horses down, he stood for a few moments looking on. Presently he said:

“Thot mon inside, yonder. Is he a La Crosse man, I don’t know?”

Bixby finished with one horse and began on the other before he answered. Then he said:

“He’s on’y been around f’r about a week. Come f’m somewheres East. Been playin’ cards a good bit in Russell’s place. Left kind o’ sudden. Didn’t hear much about it, but they was some kind of a mix-up in a game last night. Didn’t have nothin’ to say comin’ over.”

This marvel of succinctness being duly absorbed by Hennessy and reported to the community in a much enlarged form, was sufficient to prepare Brownsville for the campaign which Mr. Jack Britton entered upon forthwith.

Having once shaken off the preoccupied and abstracted air which he wore when he arrived in town, he developed into a jovial, free-handed man of convivial tendencies, though sparing in his own consumption of Sam’s liquor, and was accepted readily enough as a nomad whose occupation was that of a professional gambler.

It might have been supposed, because of certain previous experiences, that Brownsville would be reluctant to afford Mr. Britton an opportunity to exercise his skill, but Brownsville, in some respects, was like the rest of the world, and Long Mike and McCarthy were both resident in the place.

“Sure, I do be thinkin’ that McCarthy can play more poker an’ win less money than any other mon in Iowa,” said Stumpy, when he came into the barroom that night and found a game in progress, as he had, indeed, shrewdly suspected would be the case.

Long Mike was also in the game, but Long Mike sometimes won, having remarkable streaks of luck, such as McCarthy never seemed to get. And the one-eyed man was playing, too, so that there was really no reason to suppose that the stranger was the only man at the table who understood all the tricks of the game.

Hennessy had bought a stack of chips, and even Stumpy, though he was a prudent man usually, was soon interested enough to ask for a hand. As there was no objection, he took the sixth seat.

It cost him only five dollars for a stack, and as the game was table stakes, there was a chance for him either to go broke speedily, or to win considerable money. At first, it seemed likely that he might do the latter, for the very first hand he picked up had three kings.

Long Mike was dealing and it was Hennessy’s age, so Stumpy had first say, he having sat down between Hennessy and McCarthy.

“I’ll play,” he said, throwing in his red chip with the two whites that Hennessy had put up for an ante.

McCarthy played also. It was to be expected that he would, for it was as hard for him to stay out as it was to win. The one-eyed man came in, Britton raised it, and Long Mike and Hennessy laid down.

“Sure I’ll raise that,” said Stumpy, making it one dollar more.

McCarthy swore, but even his optimism was not enough to induce him to see a double raise on two nines, and he threw down his cards. The one-eyed man and Britton both made good, however, and they called for cards.

Stumpy took two, which proved to be a small pair. The one-eyed man took one, and Britton stood pat.

Stumpy threw in a white chip, being sure of a raise, but the one-eyed man dropped. He had not bettered his two pairs. Britton raised it one dollar, and Stumpy pushed all his chips forward. A king full seemed worth backing, and, when Britton called, he showed them down triumphantly.

“Give me another stack,” was all that Britton said as he threw down his cards.

It may have been part of his plan to lose at first, and in any case the loss was not heavy enough to daunt him, but he smiled as cheerfully as if he had won.

There was no play on Hennessy’s deal, and a jack-pot was made. Stumpy dealt next and caught three kings again.

No one opened until it came to him and he put up the size of the pot, hardly expecting any stayers. Britton, however, came in, taking a chance on a red and a black eight, and Long Mike decided to speculate on a four flush.

Neither of them bettered, and Stumpy showed his kings and took the pot.

“Lucky cards,” said Britton, and no other comment was made.

Again there was no play and another jack-pot was made. It was not opened for two deals, but when the cards came to Long Mike in turn, Stumpy was fairly amazed to find that once more he had three kings.

It did not look right, and if it had been Britton’s deal he would have hesitated about playing them, but Long Mike was above suspicion, so he opened the pot with cheerful confidence.

Again Britton was among those who came in, McCarthy and Long Mike both finding enough to justify a play, but they all took three excepting Stumpy, and he was quite easy in his mind when he bet two dollars. Britton was the only one to call, and he said, with a laugh:

“I’ve a notion to raise you, but maybe you have them three kings again.”

“I have,” said Stumpy, and scooped the pot again.

They all stared, but Britton was the only one to speak.

“If I was you,” he said, in a nasty way, “I wouldn’t play them kings so frequent. You might get beat on ’em next.”

Now there are men to whom a remark of this sort may be made without immediate trouble, but such men are not Irishmen of the peculiar redness as to hair and beard that Stumpy had. He flared in an instant.

“Oi’ll play thim cards whiniver Oi do be gettin’ thim to play,” he said, with great heat. “An’ if ony gintleman i’ th’ room, f’m La Crosse or any other place, has anything to say, Oi’d loike t’ hear what it is.”

“Oh, well,” said Britton, “I said what I had to say. It don’t look well for any man to hold three kings all the time.”

“Av it’s a question o’ looks,” said Stumpy, very coolly, but with evident wrath, “Oi don’t loike th’ looks o’ that nose you do be carryin’ round wid youse.”

Britton looked around, but seeing that no one else at the table was likely to side with him in case of trouble, he controlled himself with an effort.

“ ‘Tain’t as good-lookin’ as I’d like to have it,” he said, with a forced laugh, “but it’s the only one—”

“An’ Oi do be thinkin’,” interrupted Stumpy, “it ud look a dom sight betther av it was longer.”

“Perhaps it would,” said Britton, still reluctant to accept the quarrel, “but—”

“But nothin’,” shouted Stumpy, reaching over and grasping the feature he had mentioned. “Maybe pullin’ it a little moight do it good.” And he gave it a mighty tweak.

Two things only were possible after that, in Brownsville, and unfortunately for Mr. Britton he chose the wrong one. A stand-up fight with nature’s weapons would have established him as a person worthy of consideration, even though he had been well licked, but he was not in the habit of fighting in that fashion, and he reached for his gun.

It was an unlucky movement. Long Mike sat next to him, and as they all rose to their feet in the excitement, the big man seized him by the wrist and the neck, and shaking him as a dog shakes a rat, he exclaimed:

“Ye’ll pull no gun in Brownsville, ye double-jointed spalpeen, ye. An’ ye’ll understhand that any gintlemon in this town that wants to play kings, can play as many as he loikes, an’ as often as he loikes. An’ the loikes o’ yez can get back to La Crosse whin ye loike.”

And after he had shaken Britton sufficiently, he threw him into the corner of the room.

When the stage-sleigh was well out on the frozen river surface next day, Jim Bixby turned to his passenger and said, briefly:

“Them fellers in Brownsville kind o’ stands by each other most generally.”

But the passenger made no reply.