The meaning of my attitude dawned upon him as I swung from my horse.
“Say, what’d yuh do with my bronc?”
I walked close to him, took in the unpleasant reek of his dirty body,
the odor of stale tobacco on his breath, the sudden enmity of his
snarling face.
“I left him where you left mine—at the Half Box, and if you want him
real bad, you’re at liberty to walk out for him—and let me tell you
another thing. The next man to lay a hand on this horse passes in his
chips. Get that?”
His face paled somewhat. He was a blusterer, this man, a fourflusher who
sought to save his face, but who struck through other hands and in the
dark. Yet he tried to bluster, to avoid the appearance of being
mastered.
“Say, where d’yuh get that stuff? I’m good-natured, but yuh can’t pull
no blazer like that on me. I’m Carstairs, an’ I’m the manager of the
whole blamed Half Box an’ I got half a hundred cowpunchers at my back.
I’m tellin’ yuh....”
He never finished what he had to say. I stepped forward and thrust my
empty glove between his yellow teeth, thrust it well back, down his
throat.
“Chew on that for a while,” I said, and walked casually toward the
pool-room.
His hands seemed undecided whether to reach for the glove or his gun,
and hovered in the air, doing neither. In the meantime the glove refused
to be spat out, and wiggled and flopped in his mouth as his chin
quivered and his vocal organs vainly tried to formulate words.
The crowd on the porch of the pool-hall grinned silently, watching me
with a new respect, a certain touch of awe. I made no salutation and
acknowledged none, but strode into the pool-hall.
There I instantly became aware that something unusual was in progress. A
crowd was beginning to pack about a card table, and I could hear the
tones of a woman’s voice.
I stepped forward, raised my head, the better to see, and recognized the
features of the girl of the restaurant. Her hair was singed in places,
but, aside from that, she was unchanged, in as perfect control of
herself as though she had not been burned out of house and home, as
though she were sitting in a drawing room, sipping weak tea.
“I’m offering to cut the cards for myself against your claim to the
homestead,” she said. “Surely you can’t misunderstand me. If you win you
have—me. If you lose you give me a quitclaim to the ranch.”
A couple of the men in front, feeling the pressure of my elbows, turned
around with a scowl, and, as soon as they saw who it was, melted to one
side, leaving the way open for me to approach the table.
Then, for the first time, I noticed that there must be a faint trace of
Indian blood in the girl. There was that about the corners of her eyes,
now that she was excited, that spoke of Indian ancestry somewhere in the
family, and that expressionless set to the lips I had seen on the face
of an Indian chieftain as he was being led to the gallows for the
shooting of a white man who had defrauded him.
The man at the other end of the table was handsome in a selfish sort of
way, and there were devils of passion in his eyes.
“Mattie, you can’t do a thing like this; you simply _can’t_!” he said.
“It cheapens you.”
Her eyes bored into his with a tinge of scorn.
“You with your talk of cheapening myself. You didn’t hesitate to try and
steal the homestead from Uncle. You didn’t hesitate to plunge the
property into a lawsuit, to prevent him from borrowing any money with
the notice you filed in the recorder’s office. You did all this to force
me to give in—to marry you. Well and good. Here’s your chance, and it’s
the only one you’ll ever have. If you cut high, you may have me. If you
cut low, you lose the homestead and give me a quitclaim for it.”
His tongue caressed his lips.
“And if I win, you’ll come, you’ll deliver the merchandise.”
In the flush which came to her skin I could catch the faint tinge of
coppery color.
“You have my word for that,” she said.
A crowd had gathered. The word had passed with lightning rapidity, and
men jostled and shoved about the card table.
“You’ll have to take care of the other outfit—the Half Box, if you win,”
he said. “I won’t guarantee to deliver possession. Just a quitclaim to
all of my interest is all I’m offering if I lose.”
She nodded.
“Go ahead and shuffle the cards. You talk too easily, and it makes you
talk too damned much.”
He shuffled the cards, attempting to ignore the snicker which ran
through the crowd that ringed the table.
“Go ahead and cut,” he said. “The ace is low.”
With a hand that trembled not in the slightest, the girl cut the pack,
looked at her card and flipped it over on the table. It was the deuce of
hearts.
With a bound he was up from his chair.
“Mattie! Mattie! You’re mine, _mine_!”
She waved him back, her face cast into a mould of impersonal
impassivity. “You haven’t cut yet,” she said in an expressionless tone.
Carelessly he leaned back and flipped over the first card, hardly
pausing to look at it. And then a laugh struck his attention. He paused
at that laugh and at something he saw in the eyes of the girl, and
looked at the card. It was the ace of spades.
The man stood rooted to the spot, the color draining from his handsome,
sensuous face. The girl had drawn herself proudly erect, a barrier
between them that had become as permanent as death.
“I’m waiting for the deed,” she remarked.
He dashed a hand across his eyes.
“That wasn’t a fair cut. I turned my back on the deck for a second, and
someone slipped that ace on top. You’ll have to cut again—to give me one
more chance. Anyway, it was the best two out of three. You didn’t
specify, and that’s the way it always goes. Horse and horse, anyhow.”
Bah! The fourflusher. I dropped my hand to my hip and leaned forward.
She spared me the trouble. Her hand came from a fold of her shawl, and
an ugly automatic peeped forth.
“That’s the reason I never could care very much for you,” she said. “You
always were such a grandstander, such a fourflusher. Make out that deed,
and if you lay a hand on me, I’ll shoot you.”
He sighed, glanced helplessly around him, then sank at the table and
began to scribble out a deed. I made for the open air. Nine times out of
ten a handsome man is yellow underneath, and this bird had the features
of a statue.... Bah!
And, as I made for the door, I caught a glimpse of a furtive movement at
my side. Wing Lee, the Chink of the restaurant was slipping a long knife
up his sleeve. Evidently the girl had another string to her bow, even if
she hadn’t known it. I had not seen the Chinaman in the circle of
spectators, but I recognized the gesture with which that knife was
sheathed.
I laughed, and he glanced up at the laugh, but his face was as
expressionless as the countenance of an idol.
“You come supper?” he inquired.
“Sure, Wing Lee, I come supper,” I told him. I was beginning to have a
great liking for this Chink.
The girl took her quitclaim, walked past the crowd of men that hung
around the pool-room, with head up and eyes flashing, climbed on her
horse and galloped away. I knew that the homestead was in the actual
possession of the Half Box outfit, and wondered whether she was headed
for an interview with the fat bird.
* * * * *
I strolled into Wing Lee’s for an early supper. He glittered his beady
eyes at me and crooked his finger, leading the way into that back
corridor where the booths were located. Pausing before the entrance to
one of them he flipped back the curtain and bowed.
Watching him, I stepped inside, and then a rustle of motion told me that
the booth was occupied. In an instant I was on the defensive, my hands
racing to my guns.
A feminine laugh interrupted the motion.
“Wing Lee insists that you are a friend.”
It was the girl of the homestead, the war dance, the cut cards, and
there was a lazy amusement in her voice, almost a note of superiority.