WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK.
They started up in astonishment.
“Mercy!” murmured Gentle Willie.
“Great Scott!” gasped South-paw.
“Thunder!” rasped Buzzsaw.
“Wow!” barked Clinker.
“Whoop!” cried old Joe Crowfoot.
“How in blazes did he get into this room?” snarled Stover.
“Heap easy,” declared the aged Indian sweetly. “Nice big hole in top
of little room. Old Joe climb up on shelves, wiggle through hole, come
right in. How, how. Much glad. You got ’nother seat, he take-um hand in
little game.”
“The nerve of it!” exploded Warwhoop.
“Kick him out!” roared Clinker. “Open the door, Willie. We’ll drop him
out on his neck.”
But when Clinker and Stover took a step toward the old Indian, the
latter silently produced a long, wicked-looking knife.
“Try to kick-um old Joe, he make nice mince meat of you,” said Crowfoot.
They stopped.
“The old buck is drunk,” said South-paw.
Shangowah’s beady eyes twinkled.
“Come to meet grandson, young Joe,” he said, in an explanatory manner.
“Meet other friends. Heap glad. Celebrate some. Old Joe so old he no
have time to celebrate much more, so he whoop it up now. ’Scuse-um me.”
The knife disappeared, and its place in Crowfoot’s hand was taken by
a large, flat bottle containing a brownish amber liquor. Removing the
cork, the redskin tipped the bottle and permitted two or three swallows
to slide gurglingly down his throat.
“Oh, murder!” muttered Warwhoop. “It’s whisky. I smell it.”
“Mebbe you have little drink?” invited Crowfoot cordially, as he
extended the bottle.
But Stover seized Clinker by the shoulder.
“Don’t you touch the stuff, Warwhoop,” he warned. “You know what it
will do to you. We’ve got to play to-morrow.”
“Got to play a bunch of college kids,” said Clinker. “We could beat
them if every man on the team was jagged.”
“You no take little drink?” asked Crowfoot. “Then old Joe he have to
drink-um it all. Grandson, Wind-that-roars-in-the-night, he think old
Joe jigged up now. He lock old Joe in room so he get no more joy juice.
Waugh! Shangowah have bottle hid under blanket. Grandson no know it.”
“He’s a sly old duck,” grinned Gentle Willie. “Really he’s a most
amusing specimen.”
“But he’s interfering with the game,” complained Clinker.
“No interfere,” said Crowfoot. “Play some--take hand.”
“You don’t know anything about draw poker,” said South-paw.
“Not much,” agreed the Indian. “Mebbe play little bit.”
“Why, you haven’t got any money,” sneered Buzzsaw.
“Guess some more,” invited the ancient chief, as he promptly dug up a
fistful of clinking coins. “Got heap much cash. Make heap good haul on
prize fight in Reno.”
Gentle Willie laughed aloud.
“Well, now, what do you know about that! Here’s an Injun loaded down
with real money.”
The deportment of the four Outlaws underwent a sudden change.
“Really,” said Buzzsaw, “he looks like a nice, decent old brave.
Perhaps we’d better let him into the game.”
The others agreed to this, and, a chair being placed, old Joe advanced
unsteadily and seated himself between Stover and Pope.
“The limit is fifty cents, chief,” explained South-paw.
“Let’s make it a dollar,” urged Gentle Willie, success having given him
confidence. “What do you say, Mr. Lo?”
“Make-um it anything,” grunted old Joe. “No limit suit me.”
“Well, he is a sport!” chuckled Clinker. “Tell you what, we’ll call it
a dollar limit and all Jack pots. Understand that, Tecumseh?”
“Lemme see. Mebbe so,” answered old Joe. “You make little explanation.”
“It will be like taking candy from the baby,” whispered Clinker in
Gentle Willie’s ear; while Buzzsaw explained to the Indian, who
listened in a dull, half-comprehending way.
But when the game was resumed old Joe seemed to catch onto the run of
it in a manner which surprised the others.
“No play much,” said the redskin. “Most forget how.”
He was permitted to win one or two small pots, which seemed so to elate
him that he took another long pull at the bottle. His tongue grew
thick and his eyes seemed to be glazy. At intervals he insisted on
singing, and always the tune was a doleful dirge.
“I’ve traveled about heap much in my time,
Of troubles I’ve sure seen a few;
I find it heap better in every clime
To paddle my own canoe.”
“You’re certainly a musical cuss,” said Clinker; “but music and draw
poker don’t go well together. Cut it out.”
“My cut?” grunted old Joe, reaching for the cards. “You no like-um
music, hey? Shangowah he no sing much; he too old. He got rheumatiz in
his voice. What you do ’round here?”
“We came here to play baseball,” explained Gentle Willie. “Know what
that is?”
Crowfoot scratched his head.
“Mebbe so,” he mumbled. “Old Joe see game once. See men throw balls
like bullet at ’nother man. ’Nother man hit it with big stick. Then
everybody run, crowd yell, one who hit ball make quick foot race round
in circle back to place where he start. There he scoot-um head first
on ground. Somebody throw ball to feller who grab it and hit-um man
on ground ’tween shoulders. Everybody yell: ‘Kill umpire.’ Old Joe he
get out knife and start to do it. Next thing everybody jump on old
Joe, kick him stiff. What make-um holler ‘kill umpire’ if no want him
killed?”
“Haw! haw! haw!” roared Buzzsaw. “You certainly was going to be
obliging.”
“No understand it,” sighed Crowfoot sadly. “Take-um knife from old
Joe, kick-um him, put-um bracelets on him, yank him to lockup. Next
day judge fine-um him twenty-five dol’ and costs--say ’cause he break
peace. He no break anything. He all broke up himself.”
“Well, just come out to the game to-morrow,” urged Stover, “and you’ll
see us eat a lot of kids up.”
“Eat um--eat um kids?”
“I mean the fellers on the opposite team.”
“You eat um?” repeated Crowfoot in a puzzled way. “You like-um baseball
players to eat?”
“He’s speaking figuratively, Powhatan,” exclaimed Gentle Willie. “He
means that we’ll beat the everlasting stuffing out of them. We can beat
anything that plays the game, and a chesty, conceited youngster by the
name of Dick Merriwell had the nerve to challenge us to play. What do
you think of that!”
“Heap much nerve,” nodded Crowfoot, swaying slightly on his chair. “Old
Joe come. He have great fun to watch you beat-um young fool Merriwell.
Mebbe you no beat.”
“It will be a cinch,” said South-paw. “I’m going to pitch.”
“You no got swelled head nor anything?” mumbled Crowfoot.
“Keep your eye on me,” advised Buzzsaw. “I’ve got it in for that feller
Merriwell. He hit me when I wasn’t looking, and I’ll hand him his pay
if he ever gets round to third base. That’s my position.”
“What you do to him?”
“Spike him if I get a chance. Watch me. See him come up to third, and
watch me if I get the ball. Will I tag him with it? Will I? I’ll bang
it onto his muzzle and send him to the dentist’s for new teeth.”
“You got heap bad grudge,” said Crowfoot. “Much fun to see you knock-um
teeth out of Merriwell feller. Old Joe he laugh when he see it. It give
him big fun.”
“Let’s play poker and cut out the talk,” urged Clinker.
Crowfoot took another drink, and the game continued, with the old
savage nodding and blinking over his cards. Apparently he was half
doped by the liquor; yet, strange to say, try as they might, they could
not seem to win a great deal of his money. He had most astonishing
luck. Repeatedly Stover, who could manipulate the cards, put up a hand
to win, only to have Crowfoot drop out or show down a better hand.
Gradually the third baseman of the Outlaws grew ugly and resentful.
“Rotten luck!” he growled.
“Ugh!” grunted Crowfoot. “Good luck for Shangowah.”
“The old sinner is a shark at the game,” muttered Warwhoop.
“Sharks should be harpooned,” said South-paw under his breath.
They arranged it without spoken words to sink the harpoon into old Joe.
Under cover Buzzsaw showed Warwhoop three aces in his hand, and Clinker
passed him the fourth.
Then old Joe dropped out, although he had already pushed eight dollars
into the pot. Gathering up the Indian’s cards, Pope managed to get a
look at them and gasped with amazement; for Crowfoot had put down three
queens and a pair of ten spots. Thenceforth for a time South-paw felt
certain it was sheer blundering luck which prevented the uninvited
guest from losing his last dollar.
Once, as Crowfoot seemed dozing, Stover attempted deftly to purloin a
stack of coins from the Indian’s pile. Joe lurched forward and put out
his hand as if to save himself; his fingers closed on Buzzsaw’s wrist,
and he woke up.
“Hello!” he muttered. “What you do? You make-um little mistake. You
think mebbe my dough belong to you.”
“I was just pushing it back from the edge of the table, so that you
wouldn’t knock it all over the floor,” said Buzzsaw sourly.
“Heap much oblige,” said Crowfoot. “Shangowah do as much for you
sometime, mebbe.”
Gradually they began to wonder and suspect. Finally there came a heavy
pot, in which, at the start, every one lingered. Gentle Willie and
Warwhoop were finally driven out; but, with Crowfoot between them,
Buzzsaw and South-paw continued to raise. Again Stover had made up a
hand, and this time, having discarded an ace, he felt confident that
his four kings must win. At last it seemed that the old redskin had
been lured into a trap.
When the show-down came Pope dropped his hand, and Stover triumphantly
displayed the four kings.
“Pretty good,” mumbled old Joe. “How you like-um these?”
He lay down four aces!
“Crooked work!” snarled Stover fiercely. “I discarded an ace myself.”
“Oh, you make little mistake,” protested old Joe. “You no have ace.”
“Wait! Don’t you touch that pot!” cried Buzzsaw, as he grabbed the
discards and turned them. “Look--look at this! Here’s the ace I
discarded.”
He picked the ace of diamonds out of the discards.
“Ugh!” gurgled old Joe. “Heap funny. Lemme see. Lemme look at back of
that card.”
Stover turned it over.
“Waugh!” exploded Shangowah, pointing a soiled finger at the
pasteboard. “That no belong in pack. Back of that card not like others.”
It was true, and before their eyes Crowfoot turned his own cards,
revealing that they belonged to the pack with which they were playing.
“You try to soak-um me,” he sneered. “You slip ’nother card in pack so
you can make bluff old Joe cheat.”
Stover was staggered for a moment, but, as Crowfoot reached out to
gather in the pot, Buzzsaw uttered a yell and sprang from his chair,
seizing the redskin. On the other side South-paw Pope did the same, and
Clinker, upsetting his own chair, came quickly to their assistance.
Crowfoot had started to rise. As he did this a pack of cards slipped
out of his clothes somewhere and fluttered over the floor. Gentle
Willie grabbed up several of them and looked at the backs.
“What do you think!” he cried. “These cards are like the odd one in the
pack we’ve been using! The Injun substituted that odd card!”
“Kill him!” raged Buzzsaw.