"I don't know. Dad said that three things were true about every gray.
It's always a gelding; it's always one price, and it always has a flaw.
I looked the one over that ran to-day and couldn't see anything wrong,
though."
"Cow-hocked," said Connor, breathing hard. "Go on!"
"Dad made up his mind that the reason they didn't sell more horses was
because the owner only sold to weed out his stock."
"Wait," said Connor, tapping on the table to make his point. "Do I
gather that the only Eden Grays that are sold are the poorest of the
lot?"
"That was Dad's idea."
"Go on," said Connor.
"You're excited?"
But he answered quickly: "Well, one of those grays beat me out of a
hundred dollars. I can't help being interested."
He detached his watch-charm from its catch and began to finger it
carelessly; it was the head of an ape carved in ivory yellowed with age.
The girl watched, fascinated, but she made no mention of it, for the jaw
of the gambler was set in a hard line, and she felt, subconsciously, a
widening distance between them.
"Does the deaf-mute own the horses?" he was asking.
"I suppose so."
"This sounds like a regular catechism, doesn't it?"
"I don't mind. Come to think of it, everything about the grays is queer.
Well, I've never seen this man, but do you know what I think? That he
lives off there in the mountains by himself because he's a sort of
religious fanatic."
"Religion? Crazy, maybe."
"Maybe."
"What's his religion?"
"I don't know," said the girl coldly. "After you jerk lightning for a
while, you aren't interested much in religion."
He nodded, not quite sure of her position, but now her face darkened and
she went on, gathering interest in the subject.
"Oh, I've heard 'em rave about the God that made the earth and the stars
and all that stuff; the mountains, too. I've heard 'em die asking for
mercy and praising God. That's the way Dad went. It was drink that got
him. But I'm for facts only. Far as I can see, when people come up
against a thing they can't understand they just close their eyes and
say, God! And when they're due to die, sometimes they're afraid and they
say, God--because they think they're going out like a snuffed lantern
and never will be lighted again."
The gambler sat with his chin buried in his palm, and from beneath a
heavy frown he studied the girl.
"I don't hold malice more than the next one," said the girl, "but I saw
Dad; and I've been sick of religion ever since. Besides, how do you
explain the rotten things that happen in the world? Look at yesterday!
The King of the Sea goes down with all on board. Were they all crooks?
Were they all ready to die? They can tell me about God, but I say, 'Give
me the proofs!'"
She looked at Connor defiantly. "There's just one thing I believe in,"
she said, "that's luck!"
He did not stir, but still studied her, and she flushed under the
scrutiny.
"Not that I've had enough luck to make me fond of it. I've been stuck up
here on the edge of the world all my life. And how I've wanted to get
away! How I've wanted it! I've begged for a chance--to cut out the work.
If it doesn't make callouses on a girl's hands it will make them on her
heart. I've been waiting all my life for a chance, and the chance has
never come." Something flared in her.
"Sometimes I think," she whispered, "that I can't stand it! That I'd do
anything! Anything--just to get away."
She stopped, and as her passion ebbed she was afraid she had said too
much.
"Shake," he said, stretching his hand across the table, "I'm with you.
Luck! That's all there is running things!"
His fingers closed hard over hers and she winced, for he had forgotten
to remove the ivory image from his hand, and the ape-head cut into her
flesh.
_CHAPTER SEVEN_
That evening Ruth sent a boy over to the hotel with a telegram for
Connor. It announced that Trickster, at six to one, came home a winner
in the Murray. But Connor had time for only a grunt and a nod; he was
too busy composing a letter to Harry Slocum, which read as follows: