A BIG GAME OF POKER
"What about cards?" said Lablache, as the four men sat down to the
table.
"Doc will oblige, no doubt," Bunning-Ford replied quietly. "He generally
carries the 'pernicious pasteboards' about with him."
"The man who travels in the West without them," said Dr. Abbot,
producing a couple of new packs from his pocket, "either does not know
his country or is a victim of superstition."
No one seemed inclined to refuse the doctor's statement, or enter into a
discussion upon the matter. Instead, each drew out a small memorandum
block and pencil--a sure indication of a "big game."
"Limit?" asked the doctor.
Lablache shrugged his shoulders, affectionately shuffling the cards the
while. He kept his eyes averted.
"What do the others say?"
There was a challenge in Lablache's tone. Bunning-Ford flushed slightly
at the cheek-bones. That peculiar pursing was at his lips.
"Anything goes with me. The higher the game the greater the excitement,"
he said, shooting a keen glance at the pasty face of the money-lender.
Old John was irritated. His ruddy face gleamed in the light of the lamp.
The nervous twitching of the cheek indicated his frame of mind. Lablache
smiled to himself behind the wood expression of his face.
"Twenty dollars call for fifty. Limit the bet to three thousand
dollars. Is that big enough for you, Lablache? Let us have a regulation
'ante.' No 'straddling.'"
There was a moment's silence. "Poker" John had proposed the biggest game
they had yet played. He would have suggested no limit, but this he knew
would be all in favor of Lablache, whose resources were vast.
John glanced over from the money-lender to the doctor. The doctor and
Bunning-Ford were the most to be considered. Their resources were very
limited. The old man knew that the doctor was one of those careful
players who was not likely to allow himself to suffer by the height of
the stakes. There was no bluffing the doctor. "Lord" Bill was able to
take care of himself.
"That's good enough for me," said Bunning-Ford. "Let it go at that."
Outwardly Lablache was indifferent; inwardly he experienced a sense of
supreme satisfaction at the height of the stakes.
The four men relapsed into silence as they cut for the deal. It was an
education in the game to observe each man as he, metaphorically
speaking, donned his mask of impassive reserve. As the game progressed
any one of those four men might have been a graven image as far as the
expression of countenance went. No word was spoken beyond "Raise you so
and so"--"See you that." So keen, so ardent was the game that the stake
might have been one of life and death. No money passed. Just slips of
paper; and yet any one of those fragments represented a small fortune.
The first few hands resulted in but desultory betting. Sums of money
changed hands but there was very little in it. Lablache was the
principal loser. Three "pots" in succession were taken by John
Allandale, but their aggregate did not amount to half the limit. A
little luck fell to Bunning-Ford. He once raised Lablache to the limit.
The money-lender "saw" him and lost. Bill promptly scooped in three
thousand dollars. The doctor was cautious. He had lost and won nothing.
Then a change came over the game. To use a card-player's expression, the
cards were beginning to "run."
"Lord" Bill dealt. Lablache was upon his right and next to him the
doctor.
The money-lender picked up his cards, and partially opening them glanced
keenly at the index numerals. His stolid face remained unchanged. The
doctor glanced at his and "came in." "Poker" John "came in." The dealer
remained out. The doctor drew two cards; "Poker" John, one; Lablache
drew one. The veteran rancher held four nines. "Lord" Bill gathered up
the "deadwood," and, propping his face upon his hands, watched the
betting.
It was the doctor's bet; he cautiously dropped out. He had an inkling of
the way things were going. "Poker" John opened the ball with five
hundred dollars. He had a good thing and he did not want to frighten his
opponent by a plunge. He would leave it to Lablache to start raising.
The money-lender raised him one thousand. Old John sniffed with the
appreciation of an old war-horse at the scent of battle. The nervous,
twitching cheek remained unmoved. The old gambler in him rose uppermost.
He leisurely saw the thousand, and raised another five hundred. Lablache
allowed his fishy eyes to flash in the direction of his opponent. A
moment after he raised another thousand. The gamble was becoming
interesting. The two onlookers were consumed with the lust of play. They
forgot that in the result they would not be participants. Old John's
face lost something of its impassivity as he in turn raised to the
limit. Lablache eased his great body in his chair. His little mouth was
very tightly clenched. His breathing, at times stertorous, was like the
breathing of an asthmatical pig. He saw, and again raised to the limit.
There was now over twelve thousand dollars in the pool.
It was old John's turn. The doctor and "Lord" Bill waited anxiously. The
old rancher was reputed very wealthy. They felt assured that he would
not back down after having gone so far. In their hearts they both wished
to see him relieve Lablache of a lot of money.
They need have had no fears. Whatever his faults "Poker" John was a
"dead game sport." He dashed a slip of paper into the pool. The keen
eyes watching read "four thousand dollars" scrawled upon it. He had
again raised to the limit. It was now Lablache's turn to accept or
refuse the challenge. The onlookers were not so sure of the
money-lender. Would he accept or not?
A curious thought was in the mind of that monument of flesh. He knew for
certain that he held the winning cards. How he knew it would be
impossible to say. And yet he hesitated. Perhaps he knew the limits of
John Allandale's resources, perhaps he felt, for the present, there was
sufficient in the pool; perhaps, even, he had ulterior motives. Whatever
the cause, as he passed a slip of paper into the pool merely seeing his
opponent, his face gave no outward sign of what was passing in the brain
behind it.
Old John laid down his hand.
"Four nines," he said quietly.
"Not good enough," retorted Lablache; "four kings." And he spread his
cards out upon the table before him and swept up the pile of papers
which represented his win.
A sigh, as of relief to pent-up feelings, escaped the two men who had
watched the gamble. Old John said not a word and his face betrayed no
thought or regret that might have been in his mind at the loss of such a
large amount of money. He merely glanced over at the money-lender.
"Your deal, Lablache," he said quietly.
Lablache took the cards and a fresh deal went round. Now the game became
one-sided. With that one large pull the money-lender's luck seemed to
have set in. Seemingly he could do no wrong. If he drew to "three of a
kind," he invariably filled; if to a "pair," he generally secured a
third; once, indeed, he drew to jack, queen, king of a suit and
completed a "royal flush." His luck was phenomenal. The other men's
luck seemed "dead out." Bunning-Ford and the doctor could get no hands
at all, and thus they were saved heavy losses. Occasionally, even, the
doctor raked in a few "antes." But John Allandale could do nothing
right. He was always drawing tolerable cards--just good enough to lose
with. Until, by the time daylight came, he had lost so heavily that his
two friends were eagerly seeking an excuse to break up the game.
At last "Lord" Bill effected this purpose, but at considerable loss to
himself. He had a fairly good hand, but not, as he knew, sufficiently
good to win with. Lablache and he were left in. The money-lender had in
one plunge raised the bet to the "limit." Bill knew that he ought to
drop out, but, instead of so doing, he saw his opponent. He lost the
"pot."
"Thank you, gentlemen," he said, quietly rising from the table, "my
losses are sufficient for one night. I have finished. It is daylight and
the storm is 'letting up' somewhat."
He turned as he spoke, and, glancing at the staircase, saw Jacky
standing at the top of it. How long she had been standing there he did
not know. He felt certain, although she gave no sign, that she had heard
what he had just said.
"Poker" John saw her too.
"Why, Jacky, what means this early rising?" said the old man kindly.
"Too tired last night to sleep?"
"No, uncle. Guess I slept all right. The wind's dropping fast. I take it
it'll be blowing great guns again before long. This is our chance to
make the ranch." She had been an observer of the finish of the game. She
had heard Bill's remarks on his loss, and yet not by a single word did
she betray her knowledge. Inwardly she railed at herself for having gone
to bed. She wondered how it had fared with her uncle.
Bunning-Ford left the room. Somehow he felt that he must get away from
the steady gaze of those gray eyes. He knew how Jacky dreaded, for her
uncle's sake, the game they had just been playing. He wondered, as he
went to test the weather, what she would have thought had she known the
stakes, or the extent of her uncle's losses. He hoped she was not aware
of these facts.
"You look tired, Uncle John," said the girl, solicitously, as she came
down the stairs. She purposely ignored Lablache. "Have you had no
sleep?"
"Poker" John laughed a little uneasily.
"Sleep, child? We old birds of the prairie can do with very little of
that. It's only pretty faces that want sleep, and I'm thinking you ought
still to be in your bed."
"Miss Jacky is ever on the alert to take advantage of the elements," put
in Lablache, heavily. "She seems to understand these things better than
any of us."
The girl was forced to notice the money-lender. She did so reluctantly,
however.
"So you, too, sought shelter from the storm beneath old man Norton's
hospitable roof. You are dead right, Mr. Lablache; we who live on the
prairie need to be ever on the alert. One never knows what each hour may
bring forth."
The girl was still in her ball-dress. Lablache's fishy eyes noticed her
charming appearance. The strong, beautiful face sent a thrill of delight
over him as he watched it--the delicate rounded shoulders made him suck
in his heavy breath like one who anticipates a delicate dish. Jacky
turned from him in plainly-expressed disgust.
Her uncle was watching her with a gaze half uneasy and wholly tender.
She was the delight of his old age, the center of all his affections,
this motherless child of his dead brother. His cheek twitched painfully
as he thought of the huge amount of his losings to Lablache. He shivered
perceptibly as he rose from his seat and went over to the cooking stove.
"I believe you people have let the stove out," the girl exclaimed, as
she noted her uncle's movement. She had no intention of mentioning the
game they had been playing. She feared to hear the facts. Instinct told
her that her uncle had lost again. "Yes, I declare you have," as she
knelt before the grate and raked away at the ashes.
Suddenly she turned to the money-lender.
"Here, you, fetch me some wood and coal-oil. Men can never be trusted."
Jacky was no respecter of persons. When she ordered there were few men
on the prairie who would refuse to obey. Lablache heaved his great bulk
from before the table and got on to his feet. His bilious eyes were
struggling to smile. The effect was horrible. Then he moved across the
room to where a stack of kindling stood.
"Hurry up. I guess if we depended much on you we'd freeze."
And Lablache, the hardest, most unscrupulous man for miles around,
endeavored to obey with the alacrity of any sheep-dog.
In spite of himself John Allandale could not refrain from smiling at the
grotesque picture the monumental Lablache made as he lumbered towards
the stack of kindling.
When "Lord" Bill returned Lablache was bending over the stove beside the
girl.
"I've thrown the harness on the horses--watered and fed 'em," he said,
taking in the situation at a glance. "Say, Doc," turning to Abbot,
"better rouse your good lady."
"She'll be down in a tick," said Jacky, over her shoulder. "Here,
doctor, you might get a kettle of water--and Bill, see if you can find
some bacon or stuff. And you, uncle, came and sit by the stove--you're
cold."
Strange is the power and fascination of woman. A look--a glance--a
simple word and we men hasten to minister to her requirements. Half an
hour ago and all these men were playing for fortunes--dealing in
thousands of dollars on the turn of a card, the passion for besting his
neighbor uppermost in each man's mind. Now they were humbly doing one
girl's bidding with a zest unsurpassed by the devotion to their recent
gamble.
She treated them indiscriminately. Old or young, there was no
difference. Bunning-Ford she liked--Dr. Abbot she liked--Lablache she
hated and despised, still she allotted them their tasks with perfect
impartiality. Only her old uncle she treated differently. That dear,
degenerate old man she loved with an affection which knew no bounds. He
was her all in the world. Whatever his sins--whatever his faults, she
loved him.