Snowdrift Part 10

Just till spring when the weather lets up a little. You can't tell what you're staking under ten foot of snow anyhow."

"I never dealt faro."

"It won't take you long to learn. I only run one big game now because I can't trust no one to deal another--but I could get plenty of play on one if I had it goin'. I figure that the boys all like you, an' you'd be a good card. They all know you're square an' I'd get a good play on your layout. What do you say? It's a d.a.m.n sight better than mus.h.i.+n' out there in the cold."

"What will you pay?"

"Well, how would five hundred a month, an' five percent of the winnings of the layout do? You wouldn't need to come on till around nine in the evening, and stay till the play was through. I'll throw in your supper, and dinner at midnight, and we won't keep any bar tab. You're welcome to what drinks you want--only you've got to keep sober when you're on s.h.i.+ft."

Brent did not answer immediately. A couple of men came through the door in a whirl of flying snow, and he s.h.i.+vered slightly, as the blast of cold air struck him. Stoell was right, there would be a h.e.l.l of a lot of grief out there on the long snow trail. "I guess I'll take you up on that," he said, "When do I start?"

"It'll take me a day or so to get rigged up. Let's make it day after tomorrow night. Meantime you can do your eating and drinking here--just make yourself at home. The boys'll be tickled when they hear the news--it'll spread around the camp pretty lively that you're dealing faro at Stoell's, and we'll get good play--see."

During the next two days Brent spent much time in Stoell's, drinking at the bar, and watching the preparation of the new layout over which he was to preside. And to him there, at different times came eight or ten of the sourdoughs of the Yukon, each with a gruff offer of a.s.sistance, but carefully couched in words that could give no offense. "You'll be on yer feet agin, 'fore long. If you need any change in the meantime, just holler," imparted one. Said another: "Here, jest slip this poke in yer jeans. I ain't needin' it. Somethin'll turn up d'rectly, an' you can slip it back then." But Brent declined all offers, with thanks. And to each he explained that he had a job, and each, when he learned the nature of the job, either answered rather evasively, or congratulated him in terms that somehow seemed lacking in enthusiasm. Old Bettles was the only man to voice open disapproval: "h.e.l.l," he blurted, "Anyone c'n deal faro. Anyone c'n gamble with another man's money, an' eat another man's grub, an' drink another man's hooch. But, it's along the cricks an' the gulches you find the reg'lar he-man sourdoughs."

At the words of this oldest settler on the Yukon, Brent strangely took no offense. Rather he sought to excuse his choice of profession: "I'm only doing it till spring, then I'm going to hit into the hills, and when I come back we'll play them higher than ever," he explained. "I'm a little soft now and don't feel quite up to tackling the winter trail."

"Humph," grunted Bettles, "You won't be comin' back--because you ain't never goin' to go. If yer soft now, you'll be a d.a.m.n sight softer agin spring. Dealin' from a box an' lappin' up hooch ain't a-goin' to put you in shape for to chaw moose-meat an' wrestle a hundred pound pack. It'll sap yer guts." But Brent laughed at the old man's warning, and the next evening took his place behind the layout with the cards spread before him.

As Stoell had predicted, Brent proved to be a great drawing card for the gambling house. Play at his layout ran high, and the table was always crowded. But nearly all the players were _chechakos_--men new to the country, who had struck it lucky and were intent upon making a big splash. Among these tin-horns and four-flushers, Ace-In-The-Hole was a deity. For among petty gamblers he was a prince of gamblers. Rumors and fantastic lies were rife at all the bars concerning his deeds. "He had cleaned up ten million in a summer on a claim." "He killed three men with three blows of his fist." "The Queen of the Yukon was all caked in on him, and he wouldn't have her. He tossed her a slip for half a million that he had won on a single bet at the wheel, and because she was sore at him, she ground it into the floor with her foot." "He had bet a million on an ace in the hole--hence his name. He had gambled away twenty million in a week." And so it went. Men fell over themselves to make his acquaintance that they might ostentatiously boast of that acquaintance at the bars. One would casually mention that "Ace-In-The-Hole says to me, the other day, he says--" Or, "I was tellin' Ace-In-The-Hole about one time I an' a couple of tarts down in 'Frisco--" Or, "Me an' Ace-In-The-Hole was eatin' supper the other night, an' he says to me--" When he was off duty, men crowded to stand next to him at the bar, they plied him with drinks, and invited him to dine. All of which meant increased business for Stoell. So that upon several occasions when Brent was too drunk to attend to business, Stoell himself dealt his game and said nothing.

It was inevitable that this sudden popularity should in a measure turn Brent's head. Personally, he detested the loud-mouthed fawning _chechakos_, but as his a.s.sociation with them grew, his comradery with the real sourdoughs diminished. They did not openly or purposely cut him. They still greeted him as an equal, they drank with him, and occasionally they took a fling at his game. But there was a difference that Brent was quick to notice, and quick to resent, but powerless to dispel. He was a professional gambler, now--and they were mining men--that was all.

Only once since he had taken up his new vocation had he seen Kitty. She had come into Stoell's one evening, and slipping behind the table stood at his elbow until the end of the deal. As he shuffled the cards preparatory to returning them into the box, she placed her lips close to his ear: "Who are all your friends?" she whispered indicating the tin-horns and _chechakos_ that rimmed the table. Brent flushed, slightly, and answered nothing. "So this is what you meant by hitting the trail when they broke you, is it? Well, take it from me, it's a short trail, and a steep grade slanting down, and when you're on the toboggan it ain't going to take long to hit the bottom--with a b.u.mp."

And before Brent could reply she had slipped away and lost herself in the crowd.

Night after night, although his eyes sought the crowd, he never saw her again, nor did he find her upon his excursions to "The Nugget," or to Cuter Malone's "Klondike Palace." If she were purposely avoiding him, she was succeeding admirably.

Along in February, Brent was surprised one day to receive, in his own cabin, a visit from Johnny Claw. "What do you want?" he asked as the man stood in the doorway.

Claw entered, closing the door behind him. He removed his cap and mittens, and fumbling beneath his parka, produced a sealed bottle of whiskey which he set upon the table: "Oh, jest dropped in fer a little visit. Been 'outside.' Try a shot of this hooch--better'n anything Stoell's got."

Brent sat down upon the edge of his bunk and motioned the man to a chair: "Didn't know you were so d.a.m.ned friendly with me that you would lug me in a bottle of hooch from the outside," he said, "What's on your chest?"

Claw produced a corkscrew and opened the bottle, then he poured a half-tumbler into each of two gla.s.ses. "Le's liquor," he said, offering one to Brent. "Good stuff, ain't it?"

Brent nodded: "d.a.m.ned good. But what's the idea?"

"Idee is jest this," announced Claw, eyeing him shrewdly, "You d.a.m.n near busted me, but I ain't holdin' that agin' you." He paused and Brent, who knew that he was lying, waited for him to proceed. "You told me right plain out that you didn't like the business I was in! That's all right, too. I s'pose it ain't no h.e.l.l of a good business, but someone's got to bring 'em in or you bucks wouldn't have n.o.body to dance with. But, layin' all that aside, you're dealin' the big game for Stoell."

"Yup."

"Well, listen: You're hittin' the hooch too hard fer to suit Stoell. At the end of the month you're out of a job--see? He's goin' to let you out, 'cause yer showin' up too reg'lar with a bun on. Says it's got to where yer crocked so often he might's well be dealin' the game hisself."

"Who did he tell this to--you?"

The other leered: "Naw, not to me. He don't like me no more'n what you do. But, I happened to hear him tellin' it to Old Bettles an' Camillo Bill. 'That's right,' says Bettles, 'fire him, an' maybe we kin git him into the hills.' 'I'm 'fraid not,' says Camillo Bill. 'Leastways not till spring. An' at the rate he's goin', by that time he'll be countin'

bees.' 'It's a shame,' says Bettles, 'There's a d.a.m.n good man gone wrong.' 'He is a d.a.m.n good man,' says Stoell, 'They ain't many I'd trust to deal that big game. He's square as h.e.l.l--but, the hooch has got him.'"

"The h.e.l.l it has," said Brent, with a short laugh. "They're d.a.m.ned fools! I don't drink enough to hurt me any. I'm as good a man as I ever was!"

"Sure you be," a.s.sented Claw. "What little you drink wouldn't hurt no one. What's it any of their business? You don't need no guardeen to tell you when to take a drink," he paused and refilled Brent's gla.s.s. "'Yer square as h.e.l.l,'" says Stoell--"but what's it gittin' you? He's goin' to fire you, ain't he?"

"Well?"

"Well--why not git even with him, an' at the same time clean up big fer yerself? They ain't no chanct to git caught."

"What do you mean?" Brent's voice rasped a trifle harshly, but Claw did not notice.

"I got it all doped out. Cold deck him--an' I'll play agin the fixed deck an' make a cleanin'--an' we'll split."

"You mean----"

"I mean this. Me an' you will fix up a deck, an' I'll copy off how the cards lays. Then you slip 'em into the box an' start the deal, an' I'll lay the bets. Of course, knowin' how they'll fall, I kin win whenever I want to. No one'll ever b'lieve it's a frame-up, 'cause they know you're square, an' likewise they know you hate me, an' they wouldn't figger we'd git together. I'll make the play strong by comin' in fer a night er two before we spring it an' braggin' that I've got a system. Then I'll have my slip of paper an' I'll look at it, an' make bets, an' of course I'll lose--'cause they ain't no system. An' the next night I'll do the same an' the third night we'll slip in the fixed deck--an' then my system'll win. An' all the time I'll be sneerin' at you, like I hated yer guts----"

The sentence was never finished. In a blind rage Brent hurled himself upon the man, and both crashed to the floor together. The fight was fast and furious while it lasted. But, flabby, and with his brain befuddled with liquor, Brent was no match for the other, who a year before, he could have killed with his bare hands. He got in several good blows at the start, which slowed up his antagonist, and rendered him incapable of inflicting serious damage later, when Brent winded and gasping, was completely at his mercy. A referee would unhesitatingly have declared it Claw's fight, for when he slipped from the cabin it was to leave Brent nursing two half-closed and rapidly purpling eyes, with nose and lips to match.

When, four days later he showed up at Stoell's, the latter called him aside and weighing out what was coming to him in dust, informed him that his services were no longer required.

CHAPTER VII

"WHERE DO I GO FROM HERE?"

From Stoell's Brent drifted to "The Nugget," where for a month, he dealt faro on percentage in a "limit" game--for with the tin-horns and the _chechakos_ had come also "limits" and "table stakes."

Here, "The Queen of the Yukon" pa.s.sed and repa.s.sed his layout a dozen times in an evening on her way to and from the dance-hall in the rear, but never by even so much as a look did she admit that she recognized him.

On the afternoon of his first payday, he sat in a "table stakes" game of stud and a run of luck netted him seven hundred dollars. Whereupon he promptly went on a spree that lasted three days and when he again showed up for duty another dealer was presiding over his layout.

The next day Cuter Malone called him into a little back room and sounded him out. "Hear how yer out of a job," quoth Cuter, as he set two gla.s.ses and a bottle upon the little table between them. Brent nodded, and the other continued: "Want to keep on dealin'?"

"Why yes, I guess so. I'm going to hit the trail right after the break-up, but until that comes I might as well be doing something."

"Sure. Well I got a good percent proposition fer you. You'll draw quite a little trade--you done it at Stoell's, an' then swung the heft of it over to 'The Nugget.'"

"Is it a limit game?" asked Brent. "What percentage will you pay?"

Malone filled the gla.s.ses from the bottle, and having drank combed at his black beard with his fingers: "W-e-e-l, that's accordin'. This here game I'm figgerin' on is a sure thing--that is, o' course, lots o' turns has got to lose, but in the long run she wins big."

"What do you mean--a sure thing?"

Cuter grinned craftily: "D'ye ever hear tell of a double-slotted box?

Well, I've got one, an'----"

Brent interrupted him with a short laugh: "What you mean is that because I've got the reputation for being square, you want to use me for a decoy, and when they come in, rob them on a percentage."