HUN SHANKLIN'S COAT
Several sheep-herders, who had arrived late to dip into the vanishing
diversions of Comanche, and a few railroad men to whom pay-day had just
supplied a little more fuel to waste in its fires, were in Hun
Shanklin's tent when Dr. Slavens and his backer arrived.
Shanklin was running off about the same old line of talk, for he was
more voluble than inventive, and never varied it much. It served just as
well as a new lecture for every occasion, for the memory of suckers is
even shorter than their judgment.
Gents were invited to step up and weigh the honesty of those dice,
and gaze on the folly of an old one-eyed feller who had no more sense
than to take such long chances. If anybody doubted that he took long
chances, let that man step up and put down his money. Could he throw
twenty-seven, or couldn't he? That was the question, gents, and the
odds were five to one that he could.
"I ain't in this business for my health, gents," he declared, pouring
the dice out on his table, shaking them, and pouring them again. "I'm a
gambler, and I'm here to make money, and make it as easy as I can; but
if I'd been takin' my pay in sheepskins since I've been in this man's
town I wouldn't have enough of them to make me a coat. Live and let live
is my motto, and if you can't let 'em live let 'em die.
"Five times one dollar is five dollars, and five times five is
twenty-five. Did any of you fellers ever make that much in a minute?
Look at them dice. Take 'em in your hand; roll 'em on the table. Don't
they run true and straight? Twenty-seven comes up for you sometimes, and
it comes up for me. But it comes up oftener for me than it does for you,
because I've got it charmed. That's m' lucky number. I was borned on the
27th of Jannewarry, in Range 27, Township 27, twenty-seven mile from
Turkey Trail, Montaney, where the wind blows circles and the water runs
up-hill.
"You win, friend," pushing stake and winnings to a sheep-herder who had
ventured a dollar. "Five times one is five."
Interest in the game began to show rising temperature; the infection of
easy money was working through the bystanders' sluggish blood. Shanklin
kept the score of loss and gain a little in his own favor, as he was
able to do from his years of practice, while still leaving the
impression among the players that collectively they were cleaning him
out. Some who felt sudden and sharp drains dropped out, but others took
their places, eyes distended, cheeks flushed, money in hand.
Dr. Slavens and his backer made their way to the front. Slavens noted
that Shanklin was making an extraordinary spread of money, which he had
beside his hand in a little valise. It was craftily disposed in the
mouth of the half-open bag, which seemed crammed to the hinges with it,
making an alluring bait. The long, black revolver of Shanklin's other
days and nights lay there beside the bag asserting its large-caliber
office of protection with a drowsy alligator look about it.
Slavens was as dirty and unwashed as the foulest in that crowd. His
khaki coat bore a varnish of grease, his hat was without band or
binding, and the growth of beard which covered his face like the
bristles of a brush gave him the aspect of one who had long been the
companion and warder of sheep upon the hills. With the added disguise of
the smoked-glass goggles, common to travelers in that glaring, dusty
land, it would have required one with a longer and more intimate
acquaintance with him than Hun Shanklin could claim to pick him out of a
crowd.
Slavens pulled out his roll and stood against the table, holding it in
his hand with a loutish display of excitement and caution, as if unable
to make up his mind whether to risk it on the game or not. When Shanklin
saw it he began to direct his talk with a view to charming it out of the
supposed sheep-herder's hand.
With nervous fingers Slavens untied the strip of handkerchief, turned
his back, and slipped off a dollar bill. This he put on the table with a
cautious leaning forward and a suspicious hovering over it with the
hand, playing the part so well that Shanklin's sharp old eye was
entirely deceived.
"You win, friend," said Shanklin, pushing five dollars across the table.
"This is like takin' money away from a child."
There was some tolling to be done on both sides in that game. Slavens
turned his back again, with a true pastoral show of secrecy concerning
his money, although he bungled it so that Shanklin could see him pulling
the five-dollar note from the middle of his roll, as if searching for
the next smallest bill. This he put on the table.
There was too much under his eye that throw for old Hun to let it get
away. So the magic twenty-seven came rattling out of the box, and Hun
raked over his winnings with doleful face and solemn shaking of the
head, according to his way. He predicted feelingly that his luck could
not last, and that the next time his number came up there would be only
two dollars on the table.
From the little pile of one-dollar bills under his hand--the five which
he had won and the one that he had first staked--the doctor counted five
slowly, and then counted it over again, to make sure. He won.
The others were watching him as he pushed the twenty-five dollars out in
the middle of the table with a defiant snort. He crouched over his stake
with guarding mien as old Hun took up the box and shook the dice. They
fell near his hand, scattering a little, rolling over to the edge of his
money as they settled down. He had won again.
This extraordinary luck seemed to turn the bettor's head. He spread out
his fingers, leaning lower over his stake, as if to prevent its being
swept away by violence or mistake.
"I won, I tell you! I won!" said he.
"You won, friend," said Hun, counting out the money to him, a look of
triumph in his greedy little eye. For, according to all the signs, the
poison was so deep in the supposed sheep-herder's blood that nothing but
the loss of all his hoard would cool it again.
Slavens nervously counted down twenty-five dollars again, keeping the
remainder of his winnings in his hand, as if ready to take chance on the
jump.
A man must have it given to him both ways in order to key him up to the
right place, Hun Shanklin knew. All winning would no more do than all
loss. So this time the loaded dice were switched into the box, and the
charmed number came out again.
"Hold on! Hold on!" protested the bettor as Shanklin started to sweep
the money away with one hand and gather in his tricky dice with the
other. For Hun never left those dice any longer on the board than
necessary.
Slavens threw himself forward on the table, his elbows spread,
scrutinizing the dice as if he had not yet figured the total.
"Yes; you win this time," said he grudgingly, removing his hand from his
stake, but dropping the money which he clutched in his fist at the same
time.
With fatherly kindness Shanklin admonished him to hold on to his money,
and helped him pick it up. And, sharp as his old eye was, he did not see
that one of his precious dice, hidden under a bill, had changed places
with another, which had waited that moment in the doctor's hand.
The others around the table had given the game over to the amazing
sheep-herder who seemed to have so much cash. They stood by, gaping and
exclaiming, growing hotter and hotter with the fever all the time
themselves, licking their dry lips, feeling of their money, getting
ready to pitch into it as soon as the film of chance had thickened a
little on their eyes, shutting out reason entirely.
Slavens straightened up and gave his backer two gentle prods in the
ribs, which was the signal agreed upon to let the other know that the
scheme was in working order, and that something was due to happen. He
counted down one hundred dollars and stood expectant, while Shanklin
held his hand over the mouth of the dicebox and looked at him with
contemptuous reproach.
"No, you don't! No, you don't!" said Hun. "If you want to play this
man's game you got to shove up some money of your own. That money's my
money, and you've been shovin' it on and draggin' it off so much I'm
afraid you'll wear it out if you keep on.
"It's mine, I tell you! Every cent of it's mine! If you got any of your
own put it up, and then I'll roll 'em. If you got a hundred to pile on
top of that, or five hundred, or ten hundred, come on and pile it up.
Then I'll roll 'em. But I ain't a goin' to stand here and speculate in
my own money all night!"
So there they were, caught in a blind cañon when they thought they were
coming into the clear. That was an unlooked-for and unprepared-for turn
that Shanklin had given to their plans. Right when they had him
unsuspectingly loaded up so he could no more throw twenty-seven than he
could fly, except by the tremendously long chance that the good die
would fall right to make up the count, he sat down on his hind legs and
balked.
Slavens was at the end of his rope. There appeared nothing for it but to
withdraw the stake and sneak off with only half of his backer's loss of
the afternoon retrieved. He was reaching out his hand to pull the money
away, when the little fellow with whiskers caught his arm.
Slavens thought he read a signal in the touch, and turned as if to
consult his roll again. As he did so the little man thrust a comfortable
wad of bills into his hand, and Slavens faced the table, counting down
five one-hundred-dollar bills.
Hun Shanklin's eye was burning the backs of those aristocrats of the
currency as he lifted his box.
"That's more like it," he commended. "I can play with a _gentleman_ that
carries them things around with him all night, even if I lose at every
throw."
"Hold on!" said the doctor as Hun was tilting the box to throw. "Cover
that money before you throw. I've got six hundred dollars down there,
and I want you to count out three thousand by the side of it."
"Well, I've got the money, friend, if that's what you doubt," said
Shanklin, with a lofty air of the injured gentleman.
He drew a sheaf of bills from the valise and, in the stillness of awe
which had come over the crowd, counted down the required amount.
"I've won fortunes, gentlemen, and I've lost 'em," said Shanklin, taking
up the box again. "Keep your eye on the dice."
He was so certain of what would come out of the box that he reached for
the money before the dice had settled, ready to sweep it away. But a
change came over his face, as of sudden pain, when he saw the result of
the throw, and with a little dry snort his hand shot out toward the
revolver which lay beside his valise.
The little man with whiskers, admirably cool, got there first. Hun
Shanklin was looking into the end of his own gun, and unloading, through
the vent of his ugly, flat mouth, the accumulated venom of his life. He
was caught in his own trap by a sharper man than himself, a being that
up to that minute he had believed the world could not produce.
Dr. Slavens quickly gathered the money. The others around the table,
blazing now in their desire to get a division of fortune's favors, put
down their bets and called loudly for the gamekeeper to cover them.
"Game's closed," Shanklin announced, shutting up his valise, into which
he had tossed both dice and box.
He made a move as if to part the tent-wall behind him.
"Hold on!" said the doctor, snatching off his goggles and pushing up the
brim of his hat. "I've got another score to settle with you, Shanklin.
Do you know me now?"
Shanklin didn't wait to reply. He dropped to his knees just as Slavens
reached for him, catching the collar of his coat. In an instant the
gambler was gone, but his coat was in Dr. Slavens' hand, a circumstance
from which the assembled men drew a great deal of merriment.
The chief of police, remiss in his high duty, should have been there to
sustain Shanklin's hand, according to their gentlemanly agreement when
the partnership was formed. He arrived too late. Shanklin was gone, and
from the turmoil in the tent the chief concluded that he had trimmed
somebody in his old-fashioned, comfortable way. So his duty, as he saw
it in that moment, lay in clearing them out and dispersing them, and
turning deaf ears to all squeals from the shorn and skinned.
Dr. Slavens and his friend had nothing to linger for. They were the
first to leave, the doctor carrying Shanklin's coat under his arm, the
pockets of his own greasy makeshift bulging with more money than he ever
had felt the touch of before. As they hurried along the dark street away
from the scene of their triumph, the little man with fiery whiskers did
the talking.
"Mackenzie is my name," said he, all of the suspicion gone out of him,
deep, feeling admiration in its place, "and if you was to happen up to
southern Montana you'd find me pretty well known. I've got fifty
thousand sheep on the range up there, average four dollars a head, and
I'd hand half of 'em over to you right now if you'd show me how you
turned that trick. That was the slickest thing I ever saw!"
"It wouldn't do you any good at all to know how it was done," said
Slavens, "for it was a trick for the occasion and the man we worked it
on. The thing for us to do is to go to some decent, quiet place and
divide this money."
"Give me my two hundred and the stake," said Mackenzie, "and keep the
rest. I don't need money; I've got two national banks full of it up
there in Montana now."
"Lord knows I need it!" said the doctor, beginning to sweat over the
nearness to visions which he once believed he should never overhaul.
He stepped along so fast in his eagerness to come up with and lay hands
on them that Mackenzie was thrown into a trot to keep up.
"I don't know who you are or where you came from," said Mackenzie, "but
you're not a crook, anyhow. That money's yours; you got it out of him as
beautiful as I ever saw a man skinned in my day. But if you don't want
to tip it off, that's your business."
"It was a chance," said the doctor, recalling a night beside the river
and the words of Agnes when she spoke of that theme, "and I had the
sense and the courage for once to take it."
In the café-tent where they had taken their supper they sat with a stew
of canned oysters between them, and made the division of the money which
the lost die had won. Mackenzie would accept no more than the two
hundred dollars which he had lost on Shanklin's game, together with the
five hundred and ten advanced in the hope of regaining it.
It was near midnight when they parted, Mackenzie to seek his
lodging-place, Dr. Slavens to make the rounds of the stores in the
hope of finding one open in which he could buy a new outfit of
clothing. They were all closed and dark. The best that he could do
toward improving his outcast appearance was to get shaved. This done,
he found lodging in a place where he could have an apartment to
himself, and even an oil-lamp to light him to his rest.
Sitting there on the side of his bed, he explored the pockets of Hun
Shanklin's coat. There were a number of business cards, advertising
various concerns in Comanche, which Shanklin had used for recording his
memoranda; two telegrams, and a printed page of paper, folded into small
space. There was nothing more.
The paper was an extra edition of _The Chieftain_, such as the doctor
had grown sadly familiar with on the day of the drawing. With a return
of the heartsickness which he had felt that day, he unfolded it far
enough to see the date. It was the day of the drawing. He dropped the
half-folded sheet to the floor and took up the telegrams.
One, dated the day before, was from Meander. The other was evidently
Shanklin's reply, which perhaps had not been filed, or perhaps was a
copy. The first read:
Can close with Peterson if you are sure he will be Number One.
Be certain on numbers N. W. quar. 6-12-33. Repeat.
Jerry.
The reply which Shanklin had written and perhaps sent, preserving a copy
in his crafty, cautious way, was:
Peterson is Number One. N. W. quarter 6-12-33 is right.
There was neither name nor address on the telegram, but it was easy to
see that it was for "Jerry" at Meander. Some deal was on foot, a crooked
deal, no doubt, between Shanklin and somebody for something in which
Peterson and Number One----
Hold on! Slavens sat up with a quickening of interest in those two words
which he thought he never should feel again. Peterson! That was the name
of the winner of Number One. Certainly! Queer that he didn't put two and
two together at the first glance, thought he. He wondered how much they
were paying Peterson for his relinquishment, and what there was in the
northwest quarter of Section Six, Township Twelve, Range Thirty-three,
that Hun Shanklin wanted to get his hands on.
Well, it was interesting, at any rate, even though he didn't draw
himself. In a flash he thought of Agnes and of her hopes, and her high
number, and wondered whether she had gone to Meander to file. Slavens
held up Shanklin's coat by the collar and ran through the pockets in the
hope of finding something that would yield further particulars.
There was nothing else in the coat. It didn't matter, he reflected; his
interest in Claim Number One was gone forever. He didn't care who had
it, or what was done with it, or whether Hun Shanklin and the man called
Jerry gave ten thousand dollars for it or ten cents.
But that was a pretty good coat. It was a great deal better and more
respectable than the one he had on, and it looked as if it might come
nearer fitting. True, Shanklin was a thin man; but he was wide.
The doctor put on the garment. It was a very comfortable fit; the
sleeves were a little long, but there was room enough in the shoulders.
Surprising, said he, how wide that old rascal was in the chest. He
transferred his money to Hun Shanklin's pockets, chuckling at the
thought that he was returning it whence it came. In conscience, said he,
if conscience required such a palliative, he had made restitution.
On the floor at his foot lay the extra. In falling it had presented to
his view the other side of the fold. The ruled, double-column box, with
the surrounding type lifted irregularly around it, attracted his
attention. He picked it up, sat again on the edge of the bed, and read
his own name printed there as the winner of Number One.
He couldn't make it out. He turned the paper, looking again at the date.
"Owing to a mistake in transmitting the news," he read. He got up and
walked the length of his compartment, the paper in his hand. How was
that? Number One--he was the winner of Number One! How was that? How
_was_ that?
There was fortune's caper for you! Number One! And the time past--or but
a few hours between then and the limit--for stepping up and claiming it!
And Hun Shanklin had a hand in it. Wait a minute--wait!
Hun Shanklin, and a man called Jerry, and Peterson, the Swede. But
Shanklin, who sent telegrams assuring somebody that Peterson was Number
One--Shanklin most of all. Slavens passed his hand with tentative
pressure over the soiled bandage which bound his brow, feeling with
finger and thumb along the dark stain which traced what it hid from
sight. Shanklin! That would explain some things, many things. Perhaps
all things.
He stood there, counting on his fingers like a schoolboy, frowning as he
counted. One--two--three. The third day--that was the third day. And he
was Number One. And he had lost!
* * * * *
Out in the office of the lodging-place a lamp burned smokily at the
elbow of an old man who read a paper by its light.
"This should be the twenty-eighth, according to my reckoning," said
Slavens, appearing before him and speaking without prelude.
The old man looked up, unfriendly, severe.
"You're purty good at figures," said he.
He bumped his bony shoulders over his paper again.
Undaunted, Slavens asked him the hour. The old clerk drew out a cheap
watch and held it close to his grizzled face.
"Time for all honest men but me and you to be in bed, I reckon. It's a
quarter to one."
A quarter to one! Next morning--no; that very morning at nine o'clock,
Peterson would step up to the window of the land-office in Meander and
file on Claim Number One--_his_ claim--Dr. Warren Slavens' claim, the
seed of his dead hope. That is, if the long chance that lay between him
and that hour should be allowed to pass unimproved.
"Do you want to sell that watch?" asked the doctor suddenly.
The old man looked up at him sharply, the shadow of his nose falling
long upon his slanting paper.
"You go to thunder!" said he.
"No," said Slavens without showing offense. "I want that watch for a few
hours, and I'll pay you for it if you want to let me have it."
He drew out a roll of money as thick as the old man's thin neck, and
stood with it in his hand. The old man slipped the leather thong from
his buttonhole and laid the watch on the board in front of him.
"It cost me a dollar two or three years ago"--what was a year to him in
his fruitless life, anyway?--"and if you want to give me a dollar for it
now you can take it."
Slavens took up the timepiece after putting down the required price.
"I paid for my bed in advance, you remember?" said he.
The old clerk nodded, his dull eye on the pocket into which all that
money had disappeared.
"Well, I'm going out for a while, and I may not be back. That's all."
With that the doctor passed out into the street.
Eight hours between him and the last chance at Claim Number One--eight
hours, and sixty miles. That was not such a mighty stretch for a good
horse to cover in eight hours--nothing heroic; very ordinary in truth,
for that country.
With a clearly defined purpose, Slavens headed for the corral opposite
the Hotel Metropole, beside which the man camped who had horses for
hire. A lantern burned at the closed flap of the tent. After a little
shaking of the pole and rough shouting, the man himself appeared,
overalled and booted and ready for business.
"You must weigh a hundred and seventy?" said he, eying his customer over
after he had been told what a horse was wanted for. "What's your hurry
to git to Meander?"
"A hundred and eighty," corrected the doctor, "and none of your
business! If you want to hire me a horse, bring him out. If you don't,
talk fast."
"I ain't got one I'd hire you for that ride, heavy as you are," said the
man; "but I've got one a feller left here for me to sell that I'd sell
you."
"Let me see him," said the doctor.
The man came out of the straw-covered shed presently, leading a pretty
fair-looking creature. He carried a saddle under his arm. While the
doctor looked the beast over with the lantern the man saddled it.
"Well, how much?" demanded the doctor.
"Hundred and fifty," said the man.
"I'll give you a hundred, and that's fifty more than he's worth," the
doctor offered.
"Oh, well, seein' you're in such a rush," the man sighed.
As he pocketed the price he gave the directions asked.
"They's two roads to Meander," he explained; "one the freighters use
that runs over the hills and's solid in most all kinds of weather, and
the stage-road, that follows the river purty much. It's shorter by a few
miles and easier to foller; but it's got some purty loose ground here
and there."
"Much obliged," said the doctor, striking his heels to his horse's sides
and galloping off, following the road which he had seen the stages take
to Meander, in the days when Claim Number One was farther off even than
eight hours and sixty miles.