Читать книгу The Gambler - Frederick Schiller Faust - Страница 10

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It was the golden moment of the day when he reentered the streets of San Pablo. The sun was newly dropped behind the southern shoulder of Comanche Mountain, and all the western sky was aflood with a yellow furnace flare which piled up high and then ran away like water until it had girdled all the horizon with brilliant light, and the mountains rose vast and black within that circle. He passed a group of half a dozen strong-legged gold seekers who were tramping toward San Pablo. He only needed a glance to write them down correctly in his mind. The raw force of the sun had scorched their faces. Their cheeks were red, their noses were blistered, their marching song had once served for a drinking tune in a college party. They had come up here to see “life” during their vacation, and perhaps—who knows—to find wealth. But, whatever they found, they would be repaid for their long journey afoot.

Corcoran felt suddenly aged and gray with time as he went past them into the town. He had not intended to remain long in the place. It was only at the most a single stage in his journey south and east, but now he began to change his mind. It might be that the reputation which he had made too soon for comfort in Eugene would soon follow after him like an overtaking wave and reach him immediately in San Pablo. But in the meantime, there might be a few pleasant days. And in San Pablo, even his repute might seem not too black among so many shadows.

Such thoughts as these made him realize that even the vast West could eventually become small. He went to the hotel and asked for a room.

“Full up!” said the contented proprietor.

“Look at the register again,” said Corcoran, and shoved a yellow-backed bill across the counter.

The proprietor squinted at him over the edges of his glasses. Then he began to turn the leaves of his register.

“Why,” said he with surprise, “dog-gone me if there ain’ a bed after all. Right up in the—”

“Look again,” said Corcoran, passing another bill across the counter. “See if that room isn’t about to be emptied. I’m sure you can give me a room to myself.”

The proprietor stared at him again. This was a time when a tent rented in San Pablo for more than a double room and bath in Manhattan’s most luxurious hotels. A whole room! Corcoran could see the word “millionaire” forming in the eyes of the other.

“A whole room?” said the proprietor. “Well—maybe it can be arranged. Kind of steep though, mister!”

“I’ll stand the charge,” said Corcoran. “Send out a boy to take my horse to the stable.”

“How’ll the boy know the horse?”

“Tell him to take the finest horse he sees,” said Corcoran, and strolled out and up the stairs behind the puffing proprietor.

He rather enjoyed an indulgence in overbearing manners from time to time. When the room was showed to him, nothing suited. It was not clean enough; the extra bed must be removed at once. Fresh water must be placed in the pitcher. The proprietor was bewildered.

“I’ve seen some gardens in the town,” remarked Corcoran from the door. “Have some flowers placed in the room.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Corcoran,” said the proprietor. “For man an’ wife the rates are double—”

He went out for a stroll through the town and found it all that he could have wished, and more. The rich old Spanish flavor was still strong in it. All was noise and stir, now, with the main street thronging with cow-punchers, prospectors, adventurers of a hundred kinds. They were hunting for gold all day; they were hunting for pleasure all night. But when Corcoran turned from this confusion onto the side streets, he found a wonderful quiet. The children played in the dust of the street; through the open doors he saw the hearth fires, glimmering over the hard-packed, clean-swept floors. He was five minutes away from the roaring gold-camp town. And here he was in the drowsy midst of old Mexico!

Little alleys wandered blindly through the dark except where a lantern glowed above a gate or a door. He passed others sauntering in the cool of the evening—señoritas under their white mantillas and black, old men and their wives strolling slowly—all with the faces turning up, now and again, to the beauty of the stars. Sometimes he passed the sound of water falling crisply on hidden lawns from revolving sprinklers. Sometimes the delicate and peppery fragrance of a rose garden blew to him. The very roar of the main street in the distance melted into the silence and made it seem more strong. It was infinitely soothing to Corcoran. He told himself what he had told himself many a time before: He must make his “stake” soon and retire from his stormy life. He had had enough of main currents; he must find the shallows and the quiet waters.

He went back to the hotel. The room was transformed, and on the table by the window a great mass of yellow bloom and red overflowed the edge of a brown earthenware bowl. He sat beside it, breathing its perfume, and looking through the open window down the street. The great gasoline lamp in front of the hotel cast a broad circle of light that included the front of the house across the street and made its white walls stare back at him. Into that circle, too, curled the dust stirred by wheels that rumbled up and down the main thoroughfare or tossed into the air by the hoofs of a galloping horse. And on the sidewalks a veritable metropolitan crowd hurried and scurried through the gray film of the dust.

They were all there, the faces he had seen so often; the chinless, talkative men; the pig-faced rooters after money; the thin, restless fellows designed to follow rainbows for the pots of gold; the lounging, bold-eyed miscreants, who were here searching for trouble in the first place and gold in the second; the stern, square-jawed men of might who talked little and acted greatly; the complacent men who were never without their smile for good luck or bad.

Corcoran pored over them as over the pages of a fascinating book. He forgot the mild resolution of the side alleys; he was in the main street again. He was a hawk hovering over his prey. When should he stoop, and where?

He opened his folding portmanteau which could be carried so comfortably behind his saddle. It contained more necessities than an average man—or woman, even—could have compacted in the large proportions of a trunk. An actor doing one-night stands hither and yon across the face of the map might have sat down to study and learn from this master of condensation. An old campaigner who can all but furnish a house from his knapsack might have marveled over this completeness. There were not only necessities; there were luxuries also. One could learn from this example how to tuck a whole suit of clothes into a corner, and, having supplied all the material necessities in small compass, have room in so small a space to fit in writing paper, a gold-backed brush and comb, a razor case and strop, and even—a tiny manicuring set!

Who else in San Pablo paid heed to the grooming of finger nails? But, as Corcoran was fond as saying: “A thousand little things make up the man; one little thing gone wrong is a man spoiled.” And he did more than coin a saying—he lived up to it.

It took him fifty minutes of hard work even though he moved at lightning speed. But at the end of that labor, he was contented. When he stood before the mirror brushing back his hair, he knew that all would be well with him that evening. Then, slipping on his coat, he selected a final touch—a little yellow rosebud which he fitted into his buttonhole.

He gave a final glance—what man can resist it?—at the shining toes of his shoes. Then, as all men will do, he shrugged back his shoulders and prepared to sally forth to be looked at and admired.

That was a main item in his life. He must be noticed. The instant he stepped into a room, if his strange thin face with the colorless hair and eyebrows, almost white, did not attract all eyes, there must be other things about him which would enforce attention. That rose, for instance, should be enough. If there were need for something more, perhaps eyes that traveled downward along his neatly pressed suit would be arrested by the light gray spats which he wore!

Spats in San Pablo! He smiled to himself. And when he stepped down into the lobby of the hotel among the unshaven, rough-voiced men, he had his reward. A silence and then a whisper passed before him. He had achieved his purpose. All eyes were upon him. Men, young and old, were grinning openly at him. There were sneers of contempt. There were gaping mouths of astonishment. It was what he wished.

He lingered a moment in the room and then walked toward the outer door, slowly. How difficult it is to walk easily when many eyes are upon one! How large the feet became—how awkwardly the hands hung! Up and down the length of Broadway, in all the scores of theaters, among all the hundreds of well-schooled actors and actresses, how many are there who walk easily onto a stage? How few, how very few can leave the stage with grace? Some stride, some scamper, some lounge, some bustle, some stamp, some glide—but how few are those who walk quietly, sure of themselves? The few are the real actors, the great ones. And Corcoran might have been on Broadway!

For he knew himself and his power, and like an actor, he lingered in the center of the stage, filling the eye of his audience. He saw, about him, lips parting in an insulting remark, but another whisper, started somewhere in a corner, began and washed with a sudden ripple around the room. Smiles began to disappear. Sneering voices were checked in mid-utterance. What had happened?

Then, as he neared the outer door, he heard the answer, spoken more loudly: “That’s the man who busted Jeff Toomey!”

Ah, well, how quickly the fame of a small action traveled before one! He hung an instant longer on the edge of the veranda and delayed so long that, just as he was stepping into the outer dimness of the night he heard another voice which said: “That’s Corcoran, the crooked gambler!”