The Old-Timer Sits into a Big Game
The room into which Dingwell had stepped was as large as a public
dance-hall. Scattered in one part or another of it, singly or in
groups, were fifty or sixty men. In front, to the right, was the bar,
where some cowmen and prospectors were lined up before a counter upon
which were bottles and glasses. A bartender in a white linen jacket
was polishing the walnut top with a cloth.
Dave shook his head in answer to the invitation to drink that came to
him at once. Casually he chatted with acquaintances as he worked his
way toward the rear. This part of the room was a gambling resort.
Among the various methods of separating the prodigal from his money
were roulette, faro, keno, chuckaluck, and poker tables. Around these
a motley assemblage was gathered. Rich cattlemen brushed shoulders
with the outlaws who were rustling their calves. Mexicans without a
nickel stood side by side with Eastern consumptives out for their
health. Chinese laundrymen played the wheel beside miners and
cowpunchers. Stolid, wooden-faced Indians in blankets from the
reservation watched the turbid life of the Southwest as it eddied
around them. The new West was jostling the old West into the
background, but here the vivid life of the frontier was making its last
stand.
By the time that Dave had made a tour of two thirds of the room he knew
that Sheriff Sweeney was not among those present. His inquiries
brought out the fact that he must have just left. Dingwell sauntered
toward the door, intending to follow him, but what he saw there changed
his mind. Buck Rutherford and Slim Sanders were lounging together at
one end of the bar. It took no detective to understand that they were
watching the door. A glance to the rear showed Dave two more
Rutherfords at the back exit. That he would have company in case he
left was a safe guess.
The cattleman chuckled. The little devils of mischief already
mentioned danced in his eyes. If they were waiting for him to go, he
would see that they had a long session of it. Dave was in no hurry.
The night was young yet, and in any case the Legal Tender never closed.
The key had been thrown away ten years before. He could sit it out as
long as the Rutherfords could.
Dingwell was confident no move would be made against him in public.
The sentiment of the community had developed since that distant day
when the Rutherford gang had shot down Jack Beaudry in open daylight.
Deviltry had to be done under cover now. Moreover, Dave was in the
peculiar situation of advantage that the outlaws could not kill him
until they knew where he had hidden the gold. So far as the
Rutherfords went, he was just now the goose that laid the golden egg.
He stood chatting with another cattleman for a few moments, then
drifted back to the rear of the hall again. Underneath an elk's head
with magnificent antlers a party sat around a table playing draw poker
with a skinned deck. Two of them were wall-eyed strangers whom
Dingwell guessed to be professional tinhorns. Another ran a curio
store in town. The fourth was Dan Meldrum, one of the toughest crooks
in the county. Nineteen years ago Sheriff Beaudry had sent him to the
penitentiary for rustling calves. The fifth player sat next to the
wall. He was a large, broad-shouldered man close to fifty. His face
had the weather-beaten look of confidence that comes to an outdoor
Westerner used to leading others.
While Dave was moving past this table, he noticed that Chet Fox was
whispering in the ear of the man next the wall. The poker-player
nodded, and at the same moment his glance met that of Dingwell. The
gray eyes of the big fellow narrowed and grew chill. Fox, starting to
move away, recognized the cattleman from whom he had escaped half an
hour before. Taken by surprise, the little spy looked guilty as an
urchin caught stealing apples.
It took no clairvoyant to divine what the subject of that whispered
colloquy had been. The cheerful grin of Dave included impartially Fox,
Meldrum, and the player beneath the elk's head.
The ex-convict spoke first. "Come back to sit in our game, Dave?" he
jeered.
Dingwell understood that this was a challenge. It was impossible to
look on the ugly, lupine face of the man, marked by the ravages of
forty years of vice and unbridled passion, without knowing that he was
ready for trouble now. But Meldrum was a mere detail of a situation
piquant enough even for so light-hearted a son of the Rockies as this
cattleman. Dave had already invited himself into a far bigger game of
the Rutherford clan than this. Moreover, just now he was so far ahead
that he had cleared the table of all the stakes. Meldrum knew this.
So did Hal Rutherford, the big man sitting next the wall. What would
be their next move? Perhaps if he joined them he would find out. This
course held its dangers, but long experience had taught him that to
walk through besetting perils was less risk than to run from them.
"If that's an invitation, Dan, you're on," he answered gayly. "Just a
minute, and I'll join you. I want to send a message to Sweeney."
Without even looking at Meldrum to see the effect of this, Dave
beckoned a Mexican standing near. "Tell the sheriff I want to see him
here _pronto_. You win a dollar if he is back within an hour."
The Mexican disappeared. Fox followed him.
The cattleman drew in his chair and was introduced to the two
strangers. The quick, searching look he gave each confirmed his first
impression. These men were professional gamblers. It occurred to him
that they had made a singularly poor choice of victims in Dan Meldrum
and Hal Rutherford. Either of them would reach for his gun at the
first evidence of crooked play.
No man in Battle Butte was a better poker psychologist than Dingwell,
but to-night cards did not interest him. He was playing a bigger game.
His subconscious mind was alert for developments. Since only his
surface attention was given to poker he played close.
While Rutherford dealt the cards he talked at Dave. "So you're
expecting Sweeney, are you? Been having trouble with any one?"
"Or expect to have any?" interjected Meldrum, insolence in his shifty
pig eyes.
"No, not looking for any," answered Dingwell amiably. "Fact is, I was
prospecting around Lonesome Park and found a gold mine. Looks good, so
I thought I'd tell Sweeney about it. . . . Up to me? I've got
openers." He pushed chips to the center of the table.
Rutherford also pushed chips forward. "I'll trail along. . . . You
got an idea of taking in Sweeney as a partner? I'm looking for a good
investment. _It would pay you to take me in rather than Sweeney_."
Three of those at the table accepted this talk at its face value. They
did not sense the tension underneath the apparently casual
give-and-take. Two of them stayed and called for cards. But Dave
understood that he had been offered a compromise. Rutherford had
proposed to divide the gold stolen from the express car, and the
proffer carried with it a threat in case of refusal.
"Two when you get to me. . . . No, I reckon I'll stick to the sheriff.
I've kinda arranged the deal."
As Rutherford slid two cards across to him the eyes of the men met.
"Call it off. Sweeney is not the kind of a partner to stay with you to
the finish if your luck turns bad. When I give my word I go through."
Dingwell looked at his cards. "Check to the pat hand. . . . Point is,
Hal, that I don't expect my luck to turn bad."
"Hmp! Go in with Sweeney and you'll have bad luck all right. _I'll
promise you that_. Better talk this over with me and put a deal
through." He rapped on the table to show that he too passed without
betting.
The curio dealer checked and entered a mild protest. "Is this a poker
game or a conversazione, gentlemen? It's stuck with Meldrum. I reckon
he's off in Lonesome Park gold-mining the way he's been listening."
Meldrum brought his attention back to the game and bet his pat hand.
Dave called. After a moment's hesitation Rutherford threw down his
cards.
"There's such a thing as pushing your luck too far," he commented.
"Now, take old man Crawford. He was mightily tickled when his brother
Jim left him the Frying Pan Ranch. But that wasn't good enough as it
stood. He had to try to better it by marrying the Swede hash-slinger
from Los Angeles. Later she fed him arsenic in his coffee. A man's a
fool to overplay his luck."
At the showdown Meldrum disclosed a four-card flush and the cattleman
three jacks.
As Dave raked in the pot he answered Rutherford casually. "Still, he
hadn't ought to underplay it either. The other fellow may be out on a
limb."
"Say, is it any of your business how I play my cards?" demanded
Meldrum, thrusting his chin toward Dingwell.
"Absolutely none," replied Dave evenly.
"Cut that out, Dan," ordered Rutherford curtly.
The ex-convict mumbled something into his beard, but subsided.
Two hours had slipped away before Dingwell commented on the fact that
the sheriff had not arrived. He did not voice his suspicion that the
Mexican had been intercepted by the Rutherfords.
"Looks like Sweeney didn't get my message," he said lazily. "You never
can tell when a Mexican is going to get too tired to travel farther."
"Better hook up with me on that gold-mine proposition, Dave," Hal
Rutherford suggested again.
"No, I reckon not, Hal. Much obliged, just the same."
Dave began to watch the game more closely. There were points about it
worth noticing. For one thing, the two strangers had a habit of
getting the others into a pot and cross-raising them exasperatingly.
If Dave had kept even, it was only because he refused to be drawn into
inviting pots when either of the strangers was dealing. He observed
that though they claimed not to have met each other before there was
team work in their play. Moreover, the yellow and blue chips were
mostly piled up in front of them, while Meldrum, Rutherford, and the
curio dealer had all bought several times. Dave waited until his
doubts of crooked work became certainty before he moved.
"The game's framed. Blair has rung in a cold deck on us. He and Smith
are playing in cahoots."
Dingwell had risen. His hands rested on the table as an assurance that
he did not mean to back up his charge with a gunplay unless it became
necessary.
The man who called himself Blair wasted no words in denial. His right
hand slid toward his hip pocket. Simultaneously the fingers of Dave's
left hand knotted to a fist, his arm jolted forward, and the bony
knuckles collided with the jaw of the tinhorn. The body of the
cattleman had not moved. There seemed no special effort in the blow,
but Blair went backward in his chair heels over head. The man writhed
on the floor, turned over, and lay still.
From the moment that he had launched his blow Dave wasted no more
attention on Blair. His eyes fastened upon Smith. The man made a
motion to rise.
"Don't you," advised the cattleman gently. "Not till I say so, Mr.
Smith. There's no manner of hurry a-tall. Meldrum, see what he's got
in his right-hand pocket. Better not object, Smith, unless you want to
ride at your own funeral."
Meldrum drew from the man's pocket a pack of cards.
"I thought so. They've been switching decks on us. The one we're
playing with is marked. Run your finger over the ace of clubs there,
Hal. . . . How about it?"
"Pin-pricked," announced Rutherford. "And they've garnered in most of
the chips. What do you think?"
"That I'll beat both their heads off," cut in Meldrum, purple with rage.
"Not necessary, Dan," vetoed Dingwell. "We'll shear the wolves. Each
of you help yourself to chips equal to the amount you have lost. . . .
Now, Mr. Smith, you and your partner will dig up one hundred and
ninety-three dollars for these gentlemen."
"Why?" sputtered Smith. "It's all a frame-up. We've been playing a
straight game. But say we haven't. They have got their chips back.
Let them cash in to the house. What more do you want?"
"One hundred and ninety-three dollars. I thought I mentioned that
already. You tried to rob these men of that amount, but you didn't get
away with it. Now you'll rob yourself of just the same sum. Frisk
yourself, Mr. Smith."
"Not on your life I won't. It. . . it's an outrage. It's robbery.
I'll not stand for it." His words were brave, but the voice of the man
quavered. The bulbous, fishy eyes of the cheat wavered before the
implacable ones of the cattleman.
"Come through."
The gambler's gaze passed around the table and found no help from the
men he had been robbing. A crowd was beginning to gather. Swiftly he
decided to pay forfeit and get out while there was still time. He drew
a roll of bills from his pocket and with trembling fingers counted out
the sum named. He shoved it across the table and rose.
"Now, take your friend and both of you hit the trail out of town,"
ordered the cattleman.
Blair had by this time got to his feet and was leaning stupidly on a
chair. His companion helped him from the room. At the door he turned
and glared at Dingwell.
"You're going to pay for this--and pay big," he spat out, his voice
shaking with rage.
"Oh, that's all right," answered Dingwell easily.
The game broke up. Rutherford nodded a good-night to the cattleman and
left with Meldrum. Presently Dave noticed that Buck and the rest of
the clan had also gone. Only Slim Sanders was left, and he was playing
the wheel.
"Time to hit the hay," Dave yawned.
The bartender called "Good-night" as Dingwell went out of the swinging
doors. He said afterward that he thought he heard the sound of
scuffling and smothered voices outside. But his interest in the matter
did not take him as far as the door to find out if anything was wrong.