we found a small table, one of the several devoted to refreshments for the dancers, in a corner and unoccupied. the affair upon the floor was apparently past history—if it merited even that distinction. the place had resumed its program of dancing, playing and drinking as though after all a pistol shot was of no great moment in the big tent.
“you had a narrow shave,” my friend remarked as we seated ourselves—i with a sigh of gratitude for the opportunity. “if you can’t draw quicker you’d better keep your hands in your pockets. let’s have a dose of t’rant’lar juice to set you up.” whereupon he ordered whiskey from a waiter.
“but i couldn’t stand by and see him strike a woman,” i defended.
“wall, fists mean guns, in these diggin’s. where you from?”
“albany, new york state.”
“i sized you up as a pilgrim. you haven’t been long in camp, either, have you?”
“no. but plenty long enough,” i miserably replied.
“long enough to be plucked, eh?”
we had drunk the whiskey. under its warming influence my tongue loosened. moreover there was something strong and kindly in the hearty voice and the rough face of this rudely clad plainsman, black bearded to the piercing black eyes.
“yes; of my last cent.”
“all at gamblin’, mebbe?”
“no. only a little, but that strapped me. the hotel had robbed me of practically everything else.”
“had, had it? wall, what’s the story?”
i told him of the hotel part; and he nodded.
“shore. you can’t hold the hotel responsible. you can leave stuff loose in regular camp; nobody enters flaps without permission. but a room is a different proposition. i’d rather take chances among injuns than among white men. why, you could throw in with a sioux village for a year and not be robbed permanent if the chief thought you straight; but in a white man’s town—hell! now, how’d you get tangled up with this other outfit?”
“which?” i queried.
“that brace outfit i found you with.”
“the fellow is a stranger to me, sir,” said i. “i simply was foolish enough to stake what little i had on a sure thing—i was bamboozled into following the lead of the rest of you,” i reminded. “now i see that there was a trick, although i don’t yet understand. after that the fellow assaulted the lady, my 133companion, and you stepped in—for which, sir, i owe you more thanks than i can utter.”
“a trick, you think?” he opened his hairy mouth for a gust of short laughter. “my gawd, boy! we were nicely took in, and we desarved it. when you buck the tiger, look out for his claws. but i reckoned he’d postpone the turn till next time. he would have, if you fellers hadn’t come down so handsome with the dust. i stood pat, at that. so, you notice, did the capper, your other friend.”
“the capper? which was he, sir?”
“why, lord bless you, son. you’re the greenest thing this side of omyha. a capper touched him on the shoulder, a capper bent that there card, a capper tolled you all on with a dollar or two, and another capper fed the come-ons to his table. aye, she’s a purty piece. where’d you meet up with her?”
“with her?” i gasped.
“yes, yes. the woman; the main steerer. that purty piece who damn nigh lost you your life as well as losin’ you your money.”
“you mean the lady with the blue eyes, in black?”
“yes, the golden hair. lady! oh, pshaw! where’d she hook you? at the door?”
“you shall not speak of her in that fashion, sir,” i answered. “we were together on the train from omaha. she has been kindness itself. the only part she has played to-night, as far as i can see, was to chaperon me here in the big tent; and whatever small winnings i had made, for amusement, was due to her and the skill of an acquaintance named jim.”
“jim daily, yep. o’ course. and she befriended you. why, d’you suppose?”
“perhaps because i was of some assistance to her on the way out west. i had a little setto with mr. daily, when he annoyed her while he was drunk. but sobered up, he seemed to wish to make amends.”
“oh, lord!” my friend’s mouth gaped. “amends? yep. that’s his nature. might call it mendin’ his pocket and his lip. and you don’t yet savvy that your ’lady’ ’s montoyo’s wife—his woman, anyhow?”
“montoyo? who’s montoyo?”
“the monte thrower. that same spieler who trimmed us,” he rapped impatiently.
the light that broke upon me dazed. my heart pounded. i must have looked what i felt: a fool.
“no,” i stammered in my thin small voice of the hotel. “i imagined—i had reason to suspect that she might be married. but i didn’t know to whom.”
“married? wall, mebbe. anyhow, she’s bound to montoyo. he’s a breed, some spanish, some white, like as not some injun. a devil, and as slick as they make ’em. she’s a power too white for him, herself, but he uses her and some day he’ll kill her. you’re not the fust gudgeon she’s hooked, to feed to him. why, she’s known all back down the line. they two have been followin’ end o’ track from north platte, along with hell on wheels. had a layout in omyha, and in denver. they’re not the only double-harness outfit hyar, either. you can meet a friendly woman any time, but this one got hold you fust.”
i writhed to the words.
“and that fellow jim?” i asked.
“he’s jest a common roper. he alluz wins, to encourage suckers like you. ’tisn’t his money he plays with; he’s on commish. beginnin’ to understand, ain’t you?”
“but the bent card?” i insisted. “that is the mystery. it was the queen. what became of the queen?”
“ho ho!” and again he laughed. “a cute trick, shore. that’s what we got for bein’ so plumb crooked ourselves. why, o’ course it was the queen, once. you see ’twas this way. that she-male and the capper in cahoots with her tolled you on straight for montoyo’s table; teased you a leetle along the trail, no doubt, to keep you interested.” i nodded. “they promised you winnin’s, easy winnin’s. then at montoyo’s table the game was a leetle slack; so one capper touched him on the shoulder and another marked the card. o’ course a gambler like him wouldn’t be up to readin’ his own cards. oh, no! you sports were the smart ones.”
“how about yourself?” i retorted, nettled.
“me? i know them tricks, but i reckoned i was smart, too. then that capper jim led out and we all made a small winnin’, to prove the system. and montoyo, he gets tired o’ losin’—but still he’s blind to a card that everybody else can see, and he calls for real play so he can go broke or even up. i didn’t look for much of a deal on that throw myself. usu’ly it comes less promisc’yus, with the gudgeon stakin’ the big roll, and then i pull out. but you-all slapped down the stuff in a stampede, sartin you had him buffaloed. on his last shuffle he’d straightened the queen and turned down the eight, usin’ an extra finger or two. them card sharps have six fingers on each hand and several in their sleeve, and he was slicker’n i thought. he might have refused all bets and got your mad up for the next pass; but you’d come down as handsome as you would, he figgered. so he let go. ’twas fair and squar’, robber eat robber, and we none of us have any call to howl. but you mind my word: don’t aim to put something over on a professional gamblin’ sharp. it can’t be done. as for me, i broke even and i alluz expect to lose. when i look to be skinned i leave most my dust behind me where i can’t get at it.”
now i saw all, or enough. i had received no more than i deserved. such a wave of nausea surged into my mouth—but he was continuing.
“jest why he struck his woman i don’t know. do you?”
“yes. she had cautioned me and he must have heard her. and she showed which was the right card. i don’t understand that.”
“to save her face, and egg you on. shore! your twenty dollars was nothin’. she didn’t know you were busted. next time she’d have steered you to the tune of a hundred or two and cleaned you proper. you hadn’t been worked along, yet, to the right pitch o’ smartness. montoyo must ha’ mistook her. she encouraged you, didn’t she?”
“yes, she did.” i arose unsteadily, clutching the table. “if you’ll excuse me, sir, i think i’d better go. i—i—i thank you. i only wish i’d met you before. you are at liberty to regard me as a saphead. good-night, sir.”
“no! hold on. sit down, sit down, man. have another drink.”
“i have had enough. in fact, since arriving in benton i’ve had more than enough of everything.” but i sat down.
“where were you goin’?”
“to the hotel. i am privileged to stay there until to-morrow. thank heaven i was obliged to pay in advance.”
“alluz safer,” said he. “and then what?”
“to-morrow?”
“yes. to-morrow.”
“i don’t know. i must find employment, and earn enough to get home with.” to write for funds was now impossible through very shame. “home’s the only place for a person of my greenness.”
“why did you come out clear to end o’ track?” he inquired.
“i was ordered by my physician to find a locality in the far west, high and dry.” i gulped at his smile. “i’ve found it and shall go home to report.”
“with your tail between your legs?” he clapped me upon the shoulder. “stiffen your back. we all have to pay for eddication. you’re not wolf meat yet, by a long shot. you’ve still got your hair, and that’s more than some men i know of. you look purty healthy, too. don’t turn for home; stick it out.”
“i shall have to stick it out until i raise the transportation,” i reminded. “my revolver should tide me over, for a beginning.”
“sell it?” said he. “sell your breeches fust. either way you’d be only half dressed. no!”
“it would take me a little way. i’ll not stay in benton—not to be pointed at as a dupe.”
“oh, pshaw!” he laughed. “nobody’ll remember you, specially if you’re known to be broke. busted, you’re of no use to the camp. let me make you a proposition. i believe you’re straight goods. can’t believe anything else, after seein’ your play and sizin’ you up. let me make you a proposition. i’m on my way to salt lake with a bull outfit and i’m in need of another man. i’ll give you a dollar and a 139half a day and found, and it will be good honest work, too.”
“you are teaming west, you mean?” i asked.
“yes, sir. freightin’ across. mule-whackin’.”
“but i never drove spans in my life; and i’m not in shape to stand hardships,” i faltered. “i’m here for my health. i have——”
“stow all that, son,” he interrupted more tolerantly than was my due. “forget your lungs, lights and liver and stand up a full-size man. in my opinion you’ve had too much doctorin’. a month with a bull train, and a diet of beans and sowbelly will put a linin’ in your in’ards and a heart in your chest. when you’ve slept under a wagon to salt lake and l’arned to sling a bull whip and relish your beans burned, you can look anybody in the eye and tell him to go to hell, if you like. this roarin’ town life—it’s no life for you. it’s a bobtail, wide open in the middle. i’ll be only too glad to get away on the long trail myself. so you come with me,” and he smiled winningly. “i hate to see you ruined by women and likker. mule-skinnin’ ain’t all beer and skittles, as they say; but this job’ll tide you over, anyhow, and you’ll come out at the end with money in your pocket, if you choose, and no doctor’s bill to pay.”
“sir,” i said gratefully, “may i think it over to-night, and let you know in the morning? where will i find you?”
“the train’s camped near the wagon trail, back at 140the river. you can’t miss it. it’s mainly a mormon train, that some of us gentiles have thrown in with. ask for cap’n hyrum adams’ train. my name’s jenks—george jenks. you’ll find me there. i’ll hold open for you till ten o’clock—yes, till noon. i mean that you shall come. it’ll be the makin’ of you.”
i arose and gave him my hand; shook with him.
“and i hope to come,” i asserted with glow of energy. “you’ve set me upon my feet, mr. jenks, for i was desperate. you’re the first honest man i’ve met in benton.”
“tut, tut,” he reproved. “there are others. benton’s not so bad as you think it. but you were dead ripe; the buzzards scented you. now you go straight to your hotel, unless you’ll spend the night with me. no? then i’ll see you in the mornin’. i’ll risk your gettin’ through the street alone.”
“you may, sir,” i affirmed. “at present i’m not worth further robbing.”
“except for your gun and clothes,” he rejoined. “but if you’ll use the one you’ll keep the other.”
gazing neither right nor left i strode resolutely for the exit. now i had an anchor to windward. sometimes just one word will face a man about when for lack of that mere word he was drifting. of the games and the people i wished only to be rid forever; but at the exit i was halted by a hand laid upon my arm, and a quick utterance.
“not going? you will at least say good-night.”
i barely paused, replying to her.
“good-night.”
still she would have detained me.
“oh, no, no! not this way. it was a mistake. i swear to you i am not to be blamed. please let me help you. i don’t know what you’ve heard—i don’t know what has been said about me—you are angry——”
i twitched free, for she should not work upon me again. with such as she, a vampire and yet a woman, a man’s safety lay not in words but in unequivocal action.
“good-night,” i bade thickly, half choked by that same nausea, now hot. bearing with me a satisfying but somehow annoyingly persistent imprint of moist blue eyes under shimmering hair, and startled white face plashed on one cheek with vivid crimson, and small hand left extended empty, i roughly stalked on and out, free of her, free of the big tent, her lair.
all the way to the hotel, through the garish street, i nursed my wrath while it gnawed at me like the fox in the spartan boy’s bosom; and once in my room, which fortuitously had no other tenants at this hour, i had to lean out of the narrow window for sheer relief in the coolness. surely pride had had a fall this night.
there “roared” benton—the benton to which, as to prosperity, i had hopefully purchased my ticket 142ages ago. and here cowered i, holed up—pillaged, dishonored, worthless in even this community: a young fellow in jaunty frontier costume, new and brave, but really reduced to sackcloth and ashes; a young fellow only a husk, as false in appearance as the big tent itself and many another of those canvas shells.
the street noises—shouts, shots, music, songs, laughter, rattle of dice, whirr of wheel and clink of glasses—assailed me discordant. the scores of tents and shacks stretching on irregularly had become pocked with dark spots, where lights had been extinguished, but the street remained ablaze and the desert without winked at the stars. there were moving gleams at the railroad yards where switch engines puffed back and forth; up the grade and the new track, pointing westward, there were sparks of camp-fires; and still in other directions beyond the town other tokens redly flickered, where overland freighters were biding till the morning.
two or three miles in the east (mr. jenks had said) was his wagon train, camped at the north platte river; and peering between the high canopy of stars and the low stratum of spectrally glowing, earthy—yes, very earthy—benton, i tried to focus upon the haven, for comfort.
i had made up my mind to accept the berth. anything to get away. benton i certainly hated with the rage of the defeated. so in a fling i drew back, wrestled 143out of coat and boots and belt and pantaloons, tucked them in hiding against the wall at the head of my bed and my revolver underneath my stained pillow; and tried to forget benton, all of it, with the blanket to my ears and my face to the wall, for sleep.
when once or twice i wakened from restless dreaming the glow and the noise of the street seemed scarcely abated, as if down there sleep was despised. but when i finally aroused, and turned, gathering wits again, full daylight had paled everything else.
snores sounded from the other beds; i saw tumbled coverings, disheveled forms and shaggy heads. in my own corner nothing had been molested. the world outside was strangely quiet. the trail was open. so with no attention to my roommates i hastily washed and dressed, buckled on my armament, and stumped freely forth, down the somnolent hall, down the creaking stairs, and into the silent lobby.
even the bar was vacant. behind the office counter a clerk sat sunk into a doze. at my approach he unclosed blank, heavy eyes.
“i’m going out,” i said shortly. “number three bed in room six.”
“for long, sir?” he stammered. “you’ll be back, or are you leaving?”
“i’m leaving. you’ll find i’m paid up.”
“yes, sir. of course, sir.” he rallied to the problem. “just a moment. number three, room six, you say. pulling your freight, are you?” he scanned the register. “you’re the gentleman from new york who came in yesterday and met with misfortune?”
“i am,” said i.
“well, better luck next time. we’ll see you again?” he quickened. “here! one moment. think i have a message for you.” and reaching behind him into a pigeonhole he extracted an envelope, which he passed to me. “yours, sir?” i stared at the fine slanting script of the address:
please deliver to
frank r. beeson, esqr.,
at the queen hotel.
arrived from albany, n. y.
