jim had disappeared; until when we had made way to another monte table there he was, his hands in his pockets, his cigar half smoked.
more of a crowd was here; the voice of the spieler more insistent, yet low-pitched and businesslike. he was a study—a square-shouldered, well set-up, wiry man of olive complexion, finely chiseled features save for nose somewhat cruelly beaked, of short black moustache, dead black long wavy hair, and, placed boldly wide, contrastive hard gray eyes that lent atmosphere of coldness to his face. his hat was pulled down over his forehead, he held an unlighted cigar between his teeth while he mechanically spoke and shifted the three cards (a diamond flashing from a finger) upon the baize-covered little table.
money had been wagered. he had just raked in a few notes, adding them to his pile. his monotone droned on.
“next, ladies and gentlemen. sometimes i win, sometimes i lose. that is my business. the play is yours. you may think i have two chances to your 119one; that is not so. you make the choice. always the queen, always the queen. you have only to watch the queen, one card. i have to watch three cards. you have your two eyes, i have my two hands. you spot the card only when you think you can. i meet all comers. it is an even gamble.”
jim remarked us as we joined.
“how you comin’ now?” he greeted of me.
“we won a dollar,” my lady responded.
“not i. she did the choosing,” i corrected.
“but you would have chosen the same card, you said,” she prompted. “you saw how easy it was.”
“easy if you know how,” jim asserted. “think to stake a leetle here? i’ve been keepin’ cases and luck’s breaking ag’in the bank to-night, by gosh. made several turns, myself, already.”
“we’ll wait a minute till we get his system,” she answered.
“are you watching, ladies and gentlemen?” bade the dealer, in that even tone. “you see the eight of clubs, the eight of spades, the queen of hearts. the queen is your card. my hand against your eyes, then. you are set? there you are. pick the queen, some one of you. put your money on the queen of hearts. you can turn the card yourself. what? nobody? don’t be pikers. let us have a little sport. stake a dollar. why, you’d toss a dollar down your throat—you’d lay a dollar on a cockroach race—you’d bet that much on a yellow dog if you owned him, just to show 120your spirit. and here i’m offering you a straight proposition.”
with a muttered “i’ll go you another turn, mister,” jim stepped closer and planked down a dollar. the dealer cast a look up at him as with pleased surprise.
“you, sir? very good. you have spirit. money talks. here is my dollar. now, to prove to these other people what a good guesser you are, which is the queen?”
“here,” jim said confidently; and sure enough he faced up the queen of hearts.
“the money’s yours. you never earned a dollar quicker, i’ll wager, friend,” the dealer acknowledged, imperturbable—for he evidently was one who never evinced the least emotion, whether he won or lost. “very good. now——”
from behind him a man—a newcomer to the spot, who looked like any respectable eastern merchant, being well dressed and grave of face—touched him upon the shoulder. he turned ear; while he inclined farther they whispered together, and i witnessed an arm steal swiftly forward at my side, and a thumb and finger slightly bend up the extreme corner of the queen. the hand and arm vanished; when the dealer fronted us again the queen was apparently just as before. only we who had seen would have marked the bent corner.
the act had been so clever and so audacious that i fairly held my breath. but the gambler resumed his flow of talk, while he fingered the cards as if totally unaware that they had been tampered with.
“now, again, ladies and gentlemen. you see how it is done. you back your eyes, and you win. i find that i shall have to close early to-night. make your hay while the sun shines. who’ll be in on this turn? watch the queen of hearts. i place her here. i coax the three cards a little——” he gave a swift flourish. “there they are.”
his audience hesitated, as if fearful of a trick, for the bent corner of the queen, raising this end a little, was plain to us who knew. it was absurdly plain.
“i’ll go you another, mister,” jim responded. “i’ll pick out the queen ag’in for a dollar.”
the gambler smiled grimly and shrugged his shoulders.
“oh, pshaw, sir. these are small stakes. you’ll never get rich at that rate and neither shall i.”
“i reckon i can set my own limit,” jim grumbled.
“yes, sir. but let’s have action. who’ll join this gentleman in his guess? who’ll back his luck? he’s a winner, i admit that.”
the gray eyes dwelt upon face and face of our half circle; and still i, too, hesitated, although my dollar was burning a hole in my pocket.
my lady whispered to me.
“all’s fair in love and war. here—put this on, with yours, for me.” she slipped a dollar of her own into my hand.
another man stepped forward. he was, i judged, a teamster. his clothes, of flannel shirt, belted trousers and six-shooter and dusty boots, so indicated. and his beard was shaggy and unkempt, almost covering his face underneath his drooping slouch hat.
“i’ll stake you a dollar,” he said.
“two from me,” i heard myself saying, and i saw my hand depositing them.
“you’re all on this gentleman’s card, remember?”
we nodded. the bearded man tipped me a wink.
“you, sir, then, turn the queen if you can,” the gambler challenged of jim.
with quick movement jim flopped the bent-corner card, and the queen herself seemed to wink jovially at us.
the gambler exclaimed.
“by god, gentlemen, but you’ve skinned me again. i’m clumsy to-night. i’d better quit.” and he scarcely varied his level tone despite the chuckles of the crowd. “you must let me try once more. but i warn you, i want action. i’m willing to meet any sum you stack up against me, if it’s large enough to spell action. shall we go another round or two before i close up?” he gathered the three cards. “you see the queen—my unlucky queen of hearts. here she is.” he stowed the card between thumb and finger. “here are the other two.” he held them up in his left hand—the eight of clubs, the eight of spades. he transferred them—with his rapid motion he strewed the three. “choose the queen. i put the game to you fair and square. there are the cards. maybe you can read their backs. that’s your privilege.” he fixed his eyes upon the teamster. “you, sir; where’s your money, half of which was mine?” he glanced at jim. “and you, sir? you’ll follow your luck?” lastly he surveyed me with a flash of steely bravado. “and you, young gentleman. you came in before. i dare you.”
the bent corner was more pronounced than ever, as if aggravated by the manipulations. it could not possibly be mistaken by the knowing. and a sudden shame possessed me—a glut of this crafty advantage to which i was stooping; an advantage gained not through my own wit, either, but through the dishonorable trick of another.
“there’s your half from me, if you want it,” said jim, slapping down two dollars. “this is my night to howl.”
the teamster backed him.
“i’m on the same card,” said he.
and not to be outdone—urged, i thought, by a pluck at my sleeve—i boldly followed with my own two dollars, reasoning that i was warranted in partially recouping, for benton owed me much.
the gambler laughed shortly. his gaze, cool and impertinent, enveloped our front. he leaned back, defiant.
“give me a chance, gentlemen. i shall not proceed with the play for that picayune sum before me. this is my last deal and i’ve been loser. it’s make or break. who else will back that gentleman’s luck? i’ve placed the cards the best i know how. but six or eight dollars is no money to me. it doesn’t pay for floor space. is nobody else in? what? come, come; let’s have some sport. i dare you. this time is my revenge or your good fortune. play up, gentlemen. don’t be crabbers.” he smiled sarcastically; his words stung. “this isn’t pussy-in-a-corner. it’s a game of wits. you wouldn’t bet unless you felt cock-sure of winning. i’ll give you one minute, gentlemen, before calling all bets off unless you make the pot worth while.”
the threat had effect. nobody wished to let the marked card get away. that was not human nature. bets rained in upon the table—bank notes, silver half dollars, the rarer dollar coins, and the common greenbacks. he met each wager, while he sat negligent and half smiled and chewed his unlighted cigar.
“this is the last round, gentlemen,” he reminded. “are you all in? don’t leave with regrets. you,” he said, direct to me. “are you in such short circumstances that you have no spunk? why did you come here, sir, if not to win? why, the stakes you play would not buy refreshment for the lady!”
that was too much. i threw scruples aside. he had badgered me—he was there to win if he could; i now was hot with the same design. i extracted my twenty-dollar note, and deaf to a quickly breathed “wait the turn” from my lady i planked it down before him. she should know me for a man of decision.
“there, sir,” said i. “i am betting twenty-two dollars in all, which is my limit to-night, on the same right-end card as i stand.”
i thought that i had him. forthwith he straightened alertly, spoke tartly.
“the game is closed, gentlemen. remember, you are wagering on the first turn. there are no splits in monte. not at this table. our friend says the right-end card. you, sir,” and he addressed jim. “they are backing you. which do you say is the queen? lay your finger on her.”
jim so did, with a finger stubby, and dirty under the nail.
“that is the card, is it? you are agreed?” he queried us, sweeping his cold gray eyes from face to face. “we’ll have no crabbing.”
we nodded, intently eying the card, fearful yet, some of us, that it might be denied us.
“you, sir, then.” and he addressed me. “you are the heaviest better. suppose you turn the card for yourself and those other gentlemen.”
i obediently reached for it. my hand trembled. there were sixty or seventy dollars upon the table, and my own contribution was my last cent. as i fumbled i felt the strain of bodies pressing against mine, and heard the hiss of feverish breaths, and a foolish laugh or two. nevertheless the silence seemed overpowering.
i turned the card—the card with the bent corner, of which i was as certain as of my own name; i faced it up, confidently, my capital already doubled; and amidst a burst of astonished cries i stared dumbfounded.
it was the eight of clubs! my fingers left it as though it were a snake. it was the eight of clubs! where i had seen, in fancy, the queen of hearts, there lay like a changeling the eight of clubs, with corner bent as only token of the transformation.
the crowd elbowed about me. with rapid movement the gambler raked in the bets—a slender hand flashed by me—turned the next card. the queen that was, after all.
the gambler darkened, gathering the pasteboards.
“we can’t both win, gentlemen,” he said, tone passionless. “but i am willing to give you one more chance, from a new deck.”
what the response was i did not know, nor care. my ears drummed confusedly, and seeing nothing i pushed through into the open, painfully conscious that i was flat penniless and that instead of having 127played the knave i had played the fool, for the queen of hearts.
the loss of some twenty dollars might have been a trivial matter to me once—i had at times cast that sum away as vainly as washington had cast a dollar across the potomac; but here i had lost my all, whether large or small; and not only had i been bilked out of it—i had bilked myself out of it by sinking, in pretended smartness, below the level of a more artful dodger.
i heard my lady speaking beside me.
“i’m so sorry.” she laid hand upon my sleeve. “you should have been content with small sums, or followed my lead. next time——”
“there’ll be no next time,” i blurted. “i am cleaned out.”
“you don’t mean——?”
“i was first robbed at the hotel. now here.”
“no, no!” she opposed. jim sidled to us. “that was a bungle, jim.”
he ruefully scratched his head.
“a wrong steer for once, i reckon. i warn’t slick enough. too much money on the table. but it looked like the card; i never took my eyes off’n it. we’ll try ag’in, and switch to another layout. by thunder, i want revenge on this joint and i mean to get it. so do you, don’t you, pardner?” he appealed to me.
as with mute, sickly denial i turned away it seemed to me that i sensed a shifting of forms at the monte table—caught the words “you watch here a moment”; and close following, a slim white hand fell heavily upon my lady’s shoulder. it whirled her about, to face the gambler. his smooth olive countenance was dark with a venom of rage incarnate that poisoned the air; his syllables crackled.
“you devil! i heard you, at the table. you meddle with my come-ons, will you?” and he slapped her with open palm, so that the impact smacked. “now get out o’ here or i’ll kill you.”
she flamed red, all in a single rush of blood.
“oh!” she breathed. her hand darted for the pocket in her skirt, but i sprang between the two. forgetful of my revolver, remembering only what i had witnessed—a woman struck by a man—with a blow i sent him reeling backward.
he recovered; every vestige of color had left his face, except for the spot where i had landed; his hat had sprung aside from the shock—his gray eyes, contrasted with his black hair, fastened upon my eyes almost deliberately and his upper lip lifted over set white teeth. with lightning movement he thrust the fingers of his right hand into his waistcoat pocket.
i heard a rush of feet, a clamor of voices; and all the while, which seemed interminable, i was tugging, awkward with deadly peril, at my revolver. his fingers had whipped free of the pocket, i glimpsed as with second sight (for my eyes were held strongly by his) the twin little black muzzles of a derringer concealed in his palm; a spasm of fear pinched me; they spurted, with ringing report, but just at the instant a flanneled arm knocked his arm up, the ball had sped ceiling-ward and the teamster of the gaming table stood against him, revolver barrel boring into his very stomach.
“stand pat, mister. i call you.”
in a trice all entry of any unpleasant emotion vanished from my antagonist’s handsome face, leaving it olive tinted, cameo, inert. he steadied a little, and smiled, surveying the teamster’s visage, close to his.
“you have me covered, sir. my hand is in the discard.” he composedly tucked the derringer into his waistcoat pocket again. “that gentleman struck me; he was about to draw on me, and by rights i might have killed him. my apologies for this little disturbance.”
he bestowed a challenging look upon me, a hard unforgiving look upon the lady; with a bow he turned for his hat, and stepping swiftly went back to his table.
now in the reaction i fought desperately against a trembling of the knees; there were congratulations, a hubbub of voices assailing me—and the arm of the teamster through mine and his bluff invitation:
“come and have a drink.”
“but you’ll return. you must. i want to speak with you.”130
it was my lady, pleading earnestly. i still could scarcely utter a word; my brain was in a smother. my new friend moved me away from her. he answered for me.
“not until we’ve had a little confab, lady. we’ve got matters of importance jest at present.”
i saw her bite her lips, as she helplessly flushed; her blue eyes implored me, but i had no will of my own and i certainly owed a measure of courtesy to this man who had saved my life.
