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WINNER TAKE ALL
by
LARRY EVANS
Author of
Then I'll Come Back to You, Once to Every Man, Etc.
[Frontispiece: That, after all, was as much as anyone could ask.]
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers ------ New York
Copyright, 1920, by
The H. K. Fly Company
Copyright, 1920, by
The Metropolitan Magazine Company
TO
GEORGE C. TYLER
Some of these pages you have criticised,
some of them you have praised; and
all of them beg leave to recall herewith
the Author's esteem and affection.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. IS LUCK A LADY?
II. RIDE HIM, COWBOY!
III. LITTLE-TWEED-SUIT
IV. ALL ELSE IS HERESY
V. CHAMPION! CHAMPION!
VI. FELICITY CROSSES BROADWAY
VII. AS WILLOWS BUD IN SPRING
VIII. MY LAD
IX. DUNHAM TALKS BUSINESS
X. CECILLE PLAYS THE GAME
XI. POTS AND PANS!
XII. WINNER TAKE ALL
XIII. BLUE FOR A BOY
ILLUSTRATIONS
That, after all, was as much as anyone could ask . . _Frontispiece_
He tore at them, mad with rage.
Lucky interference.
"Come on, now--'fess up?"
WINNER TAKE ALL
CHAPTER I
IS LUCK A LADY?
By easy stages Blue Jeans had arrived at the water tanks.
That had not pleased him much, though the water which fell in a musical
drip from the stack nearest the rails into what impressed one as a
sensible, frugal tub, until it, too, filled and overflowed and betrayed
its trivial nature, was sweet on his tongue and grateful to his mare.
Arriving anywhere by easy stages had never appealed to him. Swift and
sudden, that was the better way. Rather would he have whirled into
Reservoir with zest and some commotion. But Girl o' Mine was in no
shape for that. She drooped. Events which had jostled him roughly in
the last few weeks had dealt with her unkindly as well. There had been
many weary miles and not much grain.
And yet his poverty had not been a thing of easy stages. It had seemed
both swift and sudden, and he liked it none the better for that. But
he would not enter Reservoir with ostentation. He'd ride in without
enthusiasm, and thus call no attention to the pass to which he'd come.
Nor was he in a hurry to get there, either. The town, a quarter of a
mile across the track, squat and squalid in the dust, held nothing for
his mood.
Reservoir was a poor town, anyway.
And Life was a poor thing, too.
He'd tried for hours and hours to think of one fair promise which it
still held for him--just one!--tried hard! And couldn't!
Blue Jeans was twenty-two.
And Luck had trifled with him over-long.
One brief month earlier he had been a man of ambition, a man of
promise. He'd even found his Dream. An Easterner had helped him to
that foolishness; an -ologist from a university who expected to find
prehistoric bones and relics entombed under the hills.
Cornered by that Easterner, who liked his face, and not having been
handy enough as a liar to get out of it neatly, Blue Jeans had admitted
under cross-examination that he was familiar with the country.
Was he doing anything at present?
No-o-o. But he was looking around.
Could he pack?
Yes.
Was he accustomed to horses?
He hoped so.
Could he cook?
Ye-s-s, some. Not good for delicate folks.
Well, then, he was the very man for the position.
And Blue Jeans hadn't been able to think offhand of an objection; not
one which he wanted to voice. He couldn't admit outright that the
prospect was dismaying to his young pride. That he was afraid of the
ridicule which certainly it would bring down upon him.
"I'm a cowpuncher, not a grave-robber," was the way it rose to his
mind. But that wouldn't serve. It sounded neither dignified nor
convincing.
Then if that was settled, what remuneration would he expect per month?
He had been of astonishing though dense persistence, that professor.
Blue Jeans had pounced upon the query with sensations of deliverance.
"Wel-l-l," and he named a figure which struck him as outrageous.
But it hadn't staggered the professor; it hadn't even made him
hesitate. The professor's expenses in the field were already
guaranteed, back home, by men who could afford it.
"Then it's settled," he had said.
And Blue Jeans, who forgot immediately that he had been dragged,
struggling, into this bargain and began to view it as a deal of his own
shrewd consummation, had scorned himself for two whole hours for not
having made it twice as outrageous at least.
Thus had it started.
By night he had figured out how great the sum he had mentioned would
be, multiplied by six. The professor planned to be out that long. By
morning he had spent some money, quite a little money, in anticipation
of it. But that was not cause for worry; prosperity was shining in his
eyes. He was going to be a man of substance. And he would save, for
the Dream was bright. And then the professor spoiled it all by
mistaking a mule for a horse.
The mule had not kicked him hard. If that had been the case, Blue
Jeans might have found it in his heart to be sorry for him. A less
frail man would have suffered less. As it was he spent his sympathy on
himself. And when directly the professor sent for him and intimated
that owing to the unavoidable postponement of the trip he was again out
of employment, he had not lingered to listen.
"Of course, if you care to hang about," the professor had suggested,
"until I can travel once more--"
He had not even found it in his heart to be polite.
"Hanging about is just what ails me," finished it. "The devil, he
finds mischief for my idle hands to do. You can wait till you're able,
but I'm going to travel _now_!"
And he made good his word without further loss of time, first paying
painfully the sums which he had spent in fond anticipation, and
enduring with a grin the ridicule which was double, because he had made
no trip at all.
Last of all, before departing he went around to the stable and fed the
mule some sugar.
He had found a new job hard to locate. And the Dream had lost
definition and grown dim and distant. It was late for looking around.
The outfits all were full. If he could have cooked--but he couldn't.
Not for a bunch of plain-spoken cowmen. Not without risking bodily
harm. He'd told almost the truth about that. And then he landed with
the Dee & Zee.
At any other time the Dee & Zee could not have hired him. He had heard
things. But he had lost at last his desire to pick and choose. And he
began to think, after he had started work there, that folks had been
mistaken. He liked the place, and it seemed permanent. He even went
back to the Dream and refurbished it a bit. And then he learned that
the superintendent didn't like him. The superintendent, it appeared,
could never bring himself to care much for any man whose scruples were
too flourishing. That's what Blue Jeans had heard and almost begun to
disbelieve. Everybody had heard it except the Dee & Zee syndicate
owners themselves. But that did him small good. He doubted no longer,
however. He quit. He resigned by request.
But when he thought to collect the little pay due him, he experienced
difficulty. He made a desperate effort and crowded the issue
perilously. When, however, in the face of superior numbers and their
eagerness for him to insist, he realized that he would be in no
condition to enjoy the money, even if he did succeed in collecting it,
he did the thing of indubitable valor. He gave it up gracefully. A
coward would have been ashamed to back down, and thus got himself
thoroughly killed. He laughed. And moved his right hand further from
his holster.
But this time he had waxed stubborn; he had refused to let his Dream
grow dim.
And the Box-A people--three weeks later they could have used him. And
would have. He knew it. A man had been badly hurt; so badly that he
would never know anything any more. They could have used him, only the
superintendent had just passed that way and outstripped him. They were
too busy, therefore, with sober work, too harmonious among themselves,
to risk a firebrand.
"A firebrand? Him!"
He had tried to laugh again, but he knew that his laughter was hollow.
It is hard to be blithe and all but broke. Nor had he pled this latter
state to urge himself upon them. Anybody could draw that conclusion
now, if he wanted to, just from the look of his clothes.
He'd tried Claiborne--town. Little jobs they had offered him
there--menial! And that had made him rebellious.
Thus by well-defined stages, and hugging now his Dream, to the
stud-poker game.
All that he possessed he'd sold and put it on this venture; all but his
saddle and bridle and gun, and Girl o' Mine. He played stud-poker
well; better than most men he knew; and that was no empty conceit,
either. He just did. Some men's judgment was quicker, surer than
others, that was all.
And he had played well last night. But he could not overcome with
nerve what he had lacked in capital. Five cards and many dollars oft
will beat a better hand. But his dollars had been few. So had he
tested again a time-tried truth, and proved it. A man should not
gamble at all; that is, not when he needs to win. For then he was sure
to lose. That was why they called luck a lady.
Clink your money in your pocket and not care whether you won or lost,
and she'd fair swarm upon you. She wouldn't _let_ you be! Nothing was
too good for you--you were a king! Two deuces and a lazy smile would
bluff a brace of aces.
But just you let her guess that your straits were desperate. Just you
let her guess that your last dollar was on the table! You couldn't
catch a pair back to back in forty-seven years. She'd quit you flat!
That was why they called luck a lady. Just like a woman!
And he had lost less composedly than they had suspected from his face
and comment. He had gone, then, still early, to bed to escape their
torment. It was not often that they had found him so completely at
their mercy, and they made the most of it.
And he'd risen and ridden out at dawn toward Reservoir. Reservoir
would offer nothing; but it was on the road he meant to travel, and
water was to be had there. He rode early because he did not choose
that any of his pitiless opponents of the night before should surmise
that the torn, worn jeans and old cracked boots and shirt with a rent
in the elbow was not merely his working garb, worn informally because
he had not wanted to waste time in changing and slicking up, but the
only garb he owned.
If they had believed his decent outfit to be rolled in the blanket
behind his saddle, let them. He'd not disillusion them. Then they'd
not come around, embarrassing him and themselves as well, with awkward
offers of a loan.
He rode at daybreak, and in the splendor of that desert dawn forgot for
a time to be desolate. Girl o' Mine stepped smartly in the early cool.
He had paid for her breakfast before he tried at poker. He forgot
himself, and presently he raised a light-hearted carol to the shuffle,
shuffle, shuffle of her hoofs.
"Daughters of Pleasure, one and all,
Of form and feature delicate,
Of bodies slim and bosoms small,
With feet and fingers white and straight,
Your eyes are bright, your grace is great,
To hold your lover's heart in thrall;
Use your red lips before too late,
Love ere love flies beyond recall."
He didn't know where he had learned that. Nor did he know that it was
the lay of another vagabond, a dreamer light-hearted in adversity. But
it was good--some folks might question its morality--but it was
good--good philosophy. Swift and sudden, that was the better way. And
sad, too, a little.
He sang it again and again.
But the sun rose higher and the sand grew hot. And the gorgeous sky
was gorgeous no longer, but a glimmer of savage heat.
Little by little Girl o' Mine's head drooped. Dust settled white upon
her, and she became streaked with sweat. And little by little the song
was stilled.
He remembered then, abruptly. He was disconsolate. He had no call to
sing. He had been a dreamer, too--but that was ages and ages ago, and
long, long gone for him. He was only the vagabond.
He'd been nearly broke? Well, he was all broke now. And better that
way! Half way was no good. It was better to be an out-and-out than a
neither-one-nor-the-other. He had had some large plans, until the
professor had started the run against him. He'd had a Vision, a vision
of prosperity and himself a settled man. And maybe some day--some day,
when he'd proved himself--when he'd found Her--
He wouldn't even tell himself how disappointed he was.
Noon came and they tarried a while. There was no hurry; they weren't
going anywhere,--not anywhere in particular. Presently they started on
again. And through the glare of afternoon they passed along the
horizon, a despondent scarecrow upon a dejected horse.