Читать книгу Claim Number One - George W. Ogden - Страница 7

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The noises of the tented town swelled in picturesque chorus as Dr. Slavens walked toward them, rising and trailing off into the night until they wore themselves out in the echoless plain.

He heard the far-away roll and rumble of voices coming from the gambling-tents; the high-tenor invitation of the barkers outside questionable shows; the bawl of street-gamblers, who had all manner of devices, from ring-pitching to shell-games on folding tables, which they could pick up in a twinkling and run away with when their dupes began to threaten and rough them up; the clear soprano of the singer, who wore long skirts and sang chaste songs, in the vaudeville tent down by the station.

And above all, mingled with all–always, everywhere–the brattle of cornet and trombone, the whang of piano, the wail of violin, the tinkle of the noble harp, an aristocrat in base company, weeping its own downfall.

All of the flaring scene appeared to the doctor to be extremely artificial. It was a stage set for the allurement of the unsophisticated, who saw in this strained and overdone imitation of the old West the romance of their expectations. If they hadn’t found 47 it there thousands of them would have been disappointed, perhaps disillusioned with a healthful jolt. All the reality about it was its viciousness, and that was unquestionable.

It looked as if gambling crooks from everywhere had collected at Comanche, and as if the most openly and notoriously crooked of them all was the bony, dry-faced man with a white spot over the sight of his left eye, who conducted a dice-game in the front part of the chief amusement-place of the town. This was a combination variety theater and saloon, where free “living pictures” were posed for the entertainment of those who drank beer at the tables at twenty-five cents a glass.

Of the living pictures there were three, all of them in green garments, which hung loosely upon flaccid thighs. Sometimes they posed alone, as representations of more or less clothed statuary; sometimes they grouped, with feet thrust out, heads thrown back, arms lifted in stiff postures, as gladiators, martyrs, and spring songs. Always, whether living or dead, they were most sad and tattered, famished and lean pictures, and their efforts were received with small applause. They were too thin to be very wicked; so it appeared, at least.

Dr. Slavens stopped in the wide-spreading door of this place to watch the shifting life within. Near him sat a young Comanche Indian, his hair done up in two braids, which he wore over his shoulders in front. He 48 had an eagle feather in his hat and a new red handkerchief around his neck, and he looked as wistful as a young Indian ever did outside a poem or a picture-film. He was the unwelcome guest, whom no one might treat, to whom no one might sell.

That was one of the first things strangers in Comanche learned: one must not give an Indian a drink of liquor, no matter how thirsty he looked. And, although there was not a saloon-keeper in the place who would have considered a moment before stooping to rob a dead man, there was not one who would have sold an Indian a bottle of beer. Such is the fear, if not respect, that brave old Uncle Sam is able to inspire.

But brave old Sam had left the bars down between his wards and the gamblers’ tables. It is so everywhere. The Indian may not drink, but he may play “army game” and all the others where crooked dice, crooked cards, and crooked men are to be found. Perhaps, thought the doctor, the young man with the eagle feather–which did not make him at all invisible, whatever his own faith in its virtues might have been–had played his money on the one-eyed man’s game, and was hanging around to see whether retributive justice, in the form of some more fortunate player, would, in the end, clean the old rascal out.

The one-eyed man was assisted by a large gang of cappers, a gang which appeared to be in the employ of the gamblers’ trust of Comanche. The doctor had seen them night after night first at one game, then at 49 another, betting with freedom and carelessness which were the envy of the suckers packed forty deep around them. At the one-eyed man’s game just then they were coming and going in a variety which gave a color of genuine patronage. That was an admirable arrangement, doubtless due to the one-eyed man’s sagacity, which the doctor had noted the night before. For the game had its fascination for him, not because the fire of it was in his veins, but because it was such an out-and-out skin game that it was marvelous how fools enough could be found, even in a gathering like that, to keep it going.

The living pictures had just passed off the stage, and it was the one-eyed man’s inning. He rattled his dice in the box, throwing his quick glance over the crowd, which seemed reluctant to quit the beer-tables for his board. Art was the subject which the gambler took up as he poured out his dice and left them lying on the board. He seemed so absorbed in art for the moment that he did not see a few small bets which were laid down. He leaned over confidentially and talked into the eyes of the crowd.

“Art, gentlemen, is a fine thing for the human race,” said he. “You have just saw an elegant exhibition of art, and who is there in this crowd that don’t feel a better man for what he saw?”

He looked around, as if inviting a challenge. None came. He resumed:

“Art in all its branches is a elegant fine thing, 50 gentlemen. It raises a man up, and it elevates him, and it makes him feel like a millionaire. If I only had a dime, as the man said, I’d spend it for a box of cigareets just to git the chromo-card. That’s what I think of art, gentlemen, and that’s how crazy I am over it.

“Now, if anybody here wants to bet me I ain’t got two eyes, I ain’t a goin’ to take him up, for I know I ain’t, gentlemen, and I’ve knowed it for thirty years. But if anybody wants to bet me I can’t throw twenty-seven––”

This was the one-eyed man’s game. He stood inside the curve of a crescent-shaped table, which struck him almost under the arms, his back to the wall of the tent. Players could surround him, almost; still, nobody could get behind him. In that direction there always was a way out. He stood there offering odds of five to one to anybody who wanted to bet him that he couldn’t himself, with his own hand and his own dice, throw twenty-seven. Any other number coming out of the box, the one-eyed man lost.

Examine the dice, gents; examine the box. If any gent had any doubts at all about the dice being straight, all he had to do was to examine them. There they lay, gents, honestly and openly on the table before the one-eyed man, his bony hand hovering over them caressingly.

Gents examined them freely. Nearly every player who put money down–secure in that egotistical valuation of one’s own shrewdness which is the sure-thing-man’s 51 bank and goldmine and mint–rolled the dice, weighed them, eyed them sharply. Then they bet against the one-eyed man–and lost.

That is, they lost if he wanted them to lose. There were victims who looked promising for a fat sacrifice who had to be tolled and primed and led on gently up to the block. At the right time the one-eyed man trimmed them, and he trimmed them down to the short bones.

His little boost for art finished–for the living pictures were art in which he had a proprietary interest, and he could afford to talk for it once in a while–the one-eyed man cast his glance over his table and saw the small bets. By some singular fortune all of the bettors won. They pocketed their winnings with grins as they pushed out among the gathering crowd.

Men began to pack thickly around the gambler’s crescent table, craning over shoulders to see what was going on. He was making a great Wild-West show of money, with a large revolver lying beside it at his elbow. Seeing that the young man who had carried June Reed off to the dance so intrepidly had made his way forward and was betting on the game, Dr. Slavens pushed up to the table and stood near.

The young fellow did not bear himself with the air of a capper, but rather with that of one who had licked a little poison and was drunk on the taste. He had won two small bets, and he was out for more.

There were no chips, no counters except cash. Of 52 that the young man appeared to have plenty. He held a cheerful little wad of it in his hand, so that no time might be lost in taking advantage of the great opportunity to beat a man at his own game.

The display of so much money on both sides held the crowd in silent charm. The young man was the only player, although the one-eyed man urged others to come on and share the fortunes of his sweating patron, whose face was afire with the excitement of easy money, and whose reason had evaporated under the heat.

“At every roll of the dice my young friend adds to his pile,” said the gambler. “He’s got a head, gents, and he knows how to use it. Look at ’im, gents, gittin’ richer at every roll of the dice! You might as well have a share in all this here money and wealth, and you would be sharin’ it if you had the nerve of my young friend.”

The one-eyed man turned the dice out and lost again. There was a little movement of the crowd, a little audible intaking of breath, a little crowding forward, like that of cattle massed in a pen.

The suckers never did seem to get it through their heads, thought the doctor as he beheld their dumb excitement with growing contempt, that the one-eyed man switched the dice on them just as often as he pleased between the table and the box, by a trick which was his one accomplishment and sole capital. Without that deftness of hand the one-eyed man might have 53 remained a bartender, and a very sloppy and indifferent one at that; but with it he was the king-pin of the gamblers’ trust in Comanche, and his graft was the best in the town.

“There it goes, gents!” he said, shaking his long, hound-shaped head with doleful expression of face. “The tide of luck’s turned ag’in’ me. You can see that as plain as water in a pan, but they ain’t one of you got the nerve to step up and help my young friend trim me.

“You fellers know what you make me think of? Well, you make me think of a lot of little boys with ten cents to spend on Fourth of July. You stand around with your fingers in your mouth, afraid you’ll see somethin’ you like better if you let loose of your little old dime, and you hang on to it till the fun’s all over and the ice-cream’s all gone.

“But my young friend here–Now, now!” he remonstrated as the highly excited young man took up his winnings, added them to the money which he held in reserve in his left hand, and placed the whole amount upon the table. “Now you’re a comin’ it purty strong! Go easy, young feller, and give a old man with only one eye and a game leg a chance. But you won’t do it; I can see that in the cast of your eye; you’re bound to clean me out at one smack; that’s what you’re bound to do.”

The one-eyed man shook the dicebox very carefully, as if mixing some rare prescription. Then he stopped 54 shaking and held his hand over the mouth of the box, as if he expected the cubes might jump up and join in his ruination while his head was turned.

“Now, look-a here!” said he, addressing them generally. “I’ve traveled this wide world over ever since I was a tender child, as the man said, and I never seen a chance like this to skin a feller slide by without more’n one lone man havin’ sense enough and nerve enough to git in on it.

“Do I see any more of your money, gents, before I roll the dice? Do I see any more of your money of the ream and dominion of Uncle Sam, with the eagle a spreadin’ his legs, with his toes full of arrers, and his mouth wide open a hollerin’ de-fiance and destruction ag’in’ his innimies on land and sea, wheresomever they may be, as the feller said?

“Do I see any more of your money, gents? Do I git sight of any more? Lowest bet’s one dollar, gents, and you might as well git in on the finish and let the old man go up with a whoop. I’m game, gents; I go the limit. Do I see any more of your money? Do I see any more?”

He did. He saw considerably more than he had seen at one time since he opened the game in Comanche. He seemed greatly affected by the sight, shaking his head with solemnity and casting his eye around with reproach.

“That’s right! That’s right!” said he. “Sock it to a old feller when you’ve got him down! That’s the 55 way of this cold world. Well, all I ask of you, gents”–he paused in his request to shake the box again, holding it poised for the throw–“is this: When you clean me I ask you to stake me, between you, to twenty-seven dollars. Twenty-seven’s my lucky number; I was borned on the 27th day of Jannewarry, and I always bet on twenty-seven.”

He poured the dice upon the table, reaching for his pile of bills and gold as if to cash in on the winnings as he set the box down, even while the dice were rolling and settling. But at that point the one-eyed man stayed his hand, bending over the dice as if he could not believe his eye.

“Well, bust me!” said he, sighing as if honestly disappointed in the throw. “M’ luck’s turned! Dang me, fellers, if I didn’t win!”

Without enthusiasm, still shaking his head sadly, he drew the winnings over the table, sorting the bills, shuffling them into neat heaps, adding them to his enticing pile, which lay heaped upon a green cloth at his hand.

“I don’t know why I stick to this game, gents,” said he, “for it’s all ag’in’ me. I don’t win once in nine hundred times. This here’s more money than I’ve took in at any one time since I come to Comanche, and it’s more’n I ever expect to take in ag’in if I stay here forty-nine years.

“But it’s in m’ blood to bet on twenty-seven. I can’t help it, boys. It’ll be the ruination of me ag’in, like it’s ruined me many a time before; but I got to roll ’em! 56 I got to roll ’em! And if anybody wants to git in, let him put his money down!”

The young man seemed a little dazed by the quick change of the gambler’s luck, but his reason had no voice to speak against the clamor of his desires. He produced more money, bills of large denomination, and counted out a thousand dollars, defiantly flourishing every bill. He whacked the pile down on the table with a foolishly arrogant thump of his fist.

“I’m with you to the finish,” he said, his boyish face bright with the destructive fire of chance. “Roll ’em out!”

Other players crowded forward, believing perhaps that the queer freak of fortune which had turned the gambler’s luck would not hold. In a few minutes there was more money on the table than the one-eyed man had stood before in many a day.

Sorry for the foolish young man, and moved by the sacrifice which he saw in preparation, Dr. Slavens pressed against the table, trying to flash the youth a warning with his eyes. But the physician could not get a look into the young man’s flushed face; his eyes were on the stake.

The one-eyed man was gabbing again, running out a continual stream of cheap and pointless talk, and offering the dice as usual for inspection. Some looked at the cubes, among the number the young man, who weighed them in his palm and rolled them on the table several times. Doubtless they were as straight as dice 57 ever were made. This test satisfied the rest. The one-eyed man swept the cubes into his hand and, still talking, held that long, bony member hovering over the mouth of the box.

At that moment Dr. Slavens, lurching as if shoved violently from behind, set his shoulder against the table and pushed it, hard and suddenly, against the one-eyed man’s chest, all but throwing him backward against the wall of the tent. The gambler’s elbows flew up in his struggle to keep to his feet, and the hand that hovered over the dicebox dropped the dice upon the board.

Instantly a shout went up; instantly half a hundred hands clawed at the table to retrieve their stakes. For the one-eyed man had dropped not five dice, but ten.

He waited for no further developments. The tent-wall parted behind him as he dived through into the outer darkness, taking with him his former winnings and his “bank,” which had been cunningly arranged on the green cloth for no other purpose; his revolver and his dice, leaving nothing but the box behind.

The young man gathered up his stake with nervous hands and turned his flushed face to the doctor, smiling foolishly.

“Thank you, old man,” he said. “Oh, yes! I know you now,” he added, offering his hand with great warmth. “You were with her people at the dance.”

“Of course,” smiled the doctor. “How much did you lose?”

“Say, I ought to have a nurse!” said the young man 58 abjectly. “If you hadn’t heaved that table into the old devil’s ribs just then he’d ’a’ skinned me right! Oh, about six hundred, I guess; but in ten minutes more he’d ’a’ cleaned me out. Walker’s my name,” he confided; “Joe Walker. I’m from Cheyenne.”

Dr. Slavens introduced himself.

“And I’m from Missouri,” said he.

Joe Walker chuckled a little.

“Yes; the old man’s from there, too,” said he, with the warmth of one relative claiming kinship with another from far-away parts; “from a place called Saint Joe. Did you ever hear of it?”

“I’ve heard of it,” the doctor admitted, smiling to himself over the ingenuous unfolding of the victim whom he had snatched from the sacrifice.

“They don’t only have to show you fellers from Missouri,” pursued Walker; “but you show them! That’s the old man’s way, from the boot-heels up.”

They were walking away from the gambling-tent, taking the middle of the road, as was the custom in Comanche after dark, sinking instep deep in dust at every step.

“What are you doing with all that money in a place like this?” the doctor questioned.

“Well, it’s this way,” explained Walker with boyish confidence. “The old man’s going to set me up in a sheep-ranch between here and Casper. We’ve got a ranch bargained for with six miles of river-front, he sent me over here with five thousand dollars to cinch 59 the business before the feller changed his mind.”

“Why didn’t you bring a draft?” the doctor wondered.

“Some of these sheepmen wouldn’t take government bonds. Nothing but plain cash goes with them.”

“Oh, I didn’t think you had any particular use for even that, the way you’re slinging it around!” said the doctor, with no attempt to hide the feeling he held for any such recklessness.

“Looked that way,” admitted Walker thoughtfully. “But I’ve got to meet that sheepman here at the bank in the morning, where he can have somebody that he’s got confidence in feel of the money and tell him it’s genuine, and I’ll have to put up some kind of a stall to cover the money I lost. Guess I can get away with it, somehow. Cripes! I sweat needles every time I think of what’d ’a’ happened to me if you hadn’t showed us suckers that one-eyed feller’s hand!”

“Well, the important thing now, it seems to me, is to hang on to what’s left till you meet that rancher.”

“Don’t you worry!” rejoined Walker warmly. “I’m going to sit on the edge of that little old bunk all night with my six-shooter in one hand and that money in the other! And any time in future that you see me bettin’ on any man’s game, you send for the fool-killer, will you?”

“Yes, if I happen to be around,” promised the doctor.

“I ought to know ’em; I was raised right here in 60 Wyoming among ’em;” said Walker. “I thought that feller was square, or maybe off a little, because he talked so much. He was the first talkin’ gambler I ever met.”

“Talk is his trick,” Slavens enlightened him. “That was old Hun Shanklin, the flat-game man. I’ve looked him up since I got here. He plays suckers, and nothing but suckers. No gambler ever bets on Hun Shanklin’s game. He talks to keep their eyes on his face while he switches the dice.”

Walker was gravely silent a little while, like a man who has just arrived at the proper appreciation of some grave danger which he has escaped.

“I’ve heard of Hun Shanklin a long time, but I never saw him before,” he said. “He’s killed several men in his time. Do you suppose he knows you shoved his table, or does he think somebody back of you pushed you against it?”

“I don’t suppose he needs anybody to tell him how it happened,” replied the doctor a little crabbedly.

“Of course I’ve got my own notion of it, old feller,” prattled Walker; “but they were purty thick around there just then, and shovin’ a good deal. I hope he thinks it happened that way. But I know nobody shoved you, and I’m much obliged.”

“Oh, forget it!” snapped Slavens, thinking of the six hundred dollars which had flown out of the young fellow’s hand so lightly. Once he could have bought a very good used automobile for four hundred. 61

“But don’t you suppose–” Walker lowered his voice to a whisper, looking cautiously around in the dark as he spoke–“that you stand a chance to hear from Hun Shanklin again?”

“Maybe,” answered Slavens shortly. “Well, here’s where I turn off. I’m stopping at the Metropole down here.”

“Say!”

Walker caught his arm appealingly.

“Between you and me I don’t like the looks of that dump where I’ve got a bed. You’ve been here longer than I have; do you know of any place where a man with all this blamed money burnin’ his hide might pull through till morning with it if he happened to slip a cog and go to sleep?”

“There’s a spare cot in our tent,” said the doctor, “and you’re welcome to it if you feel that you can trust yourself in our company. We mess together in a sort of communistic fashion.”

Walker was profuse in his gratitude.

“I’ll feel easy among decent people!” he declared. “I’m mostly decent myself, and my family’s one of the best in this state. Don’t you size me up by what you saw me do tonight, will you?”

“The best of us slip up once in a while,” Slavens said.

Walker had some business of clearing his throat. And then:

“Are you–that is–is she, related to you?” 62

“Oh, no,” laughed the doctor. “I’m sorry she isn’t.”

“She’s a peach; don’t you think so?”

“Undoubtedly,” admitted the doctor. “Well, here we are–at home.”

They stood outside a little while, their faces turned toward the town. It was quieting down now. Here and there a voice was raised in drunken song or drunken yelp; here and there a pistol-shot marked the location of some silly fellow who believed that he was living and experiencing all the recklessness of the untamed West. Now and then the dry, shrill laughter of a woman sounded, without lightness, without mirth, as if it came from the lips of one who long, long ago, in the fever of pain and despair, had wept her heart empty of its tears. Now and again, also, a wailing cornet lifted its lone voice, dying away dimly like a disappearing light.

“The wolves are satisfied for one night; they’ve stopped howling,” the doctor said.

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