THE LAST GAMBLE
The fifty-acre pasture was situated nearly a quarter of a mile away to
the left of John Allandale's house. Then, too, the whole length of it
must be crossed before the implement shed be reached. This would add
another half a mile to the distance, for the field was long and narrow,
skirting as it did the hay slough which provided the ranch with hay. The
pasture was on the sloping side of the slough, and on the top of the
ridge stretched a natural fence of pines nearly two miles in extent.
The shed was erected for the accommodation of mowers, horse-rakes, and
the necessary appurtenances for haying. At one end, as Lablache had
said, was a living-room. It was called so by courtesy. It was little
better than the rest of the building, except that there was a crazy door
to it--also a window; a rusty iron stove, small, and--when a fire burned
in it--fierce, was crowded into a corner. Now, however, the stove was
dismantled, and lengths of stove pipe were littered about the floor
around it. A rough bed, supported on trestles, and innocent of bedding,
filled one end of this abode; a table made of packing cases, and two
chairs of the Windsor type, one fairly sound and the other minus a back,
completed the total of rude furniture necessary for a "hired man's"
requirements.
A living-room, the money-lender had said, therefore we must accept his
statement.
A reddish, yellow light from a dingy oil lamp glowed sullenly, and added
to the cheerlessness of the apartment. At intervals black smoke belched
from the chimney top of the lamp in response to the draughts which blew
through the sieve-like boarding of the shed. One must feel sorry for
the hired man whose lot is cast in such cheerless quarters.
It was past eleven. Lablache and John Allandale were seated at the
table. The lurid light did not improve the expression of their faces.
"Poker" John was eager--keenly eager now that Jacky had urged him to the
game. Moreover, he was sober--sober as the proverbial "judge." Also he
was suspicious of his opponent. Jacky had warned him. He looked very old
as he sat at that table. His senility appeared in every line of his
face; in every movement of his shaking hands; in every glance of his
bleared eyes.
Lablache, also, was changed slightly, but it was not in the direction of
age; he showed signs of elation, triumph. He felt that he was about to
accomplish the object which had long been his, and, at the same time,
outwit the half-breed who had so lately come into his life, with such
disastrous results to his, the money-lender's, peaceful enjoyment of his
ill-gotten wealth.
Lablache turned his lashless eyes in the direction of the window. It was
a square aperture of about two feet in extent.
"We are not likely to be interrupted," he said wheezily, "but it never
does to chance anything. Shall we cover the window? A light in this room
is unusual--"
"Yes, let us cover it." "Poker" John chafed at the delay. "No one is
likely to come this way, though."
Lablache looked about for something which would answer his purpose.
There was nothing handy. He drew out his great bandanna and tried it. It
exactly covered the window. So he secured it. It would serve to darken
the light to any one who might chance to be within sight of the shed. He
returned to his seat. He bulged over it as he sat down, and its legs
creaked ominously.
"I have brought three packs of cards," he said, laying them upon the
table.
"So have I."
"Poker" John looked directly into the other's bilious eyes.
"Ah--then we have six packs."
"Yes--six."
"Whose shall we--" Lablache began.
"We'll cut for it. Ace low. Low wins."
The money-lender smiled at the rancher's eagerness. The two men cut in
silence. Lablache cut a "three"; "Poker" John, a "queen."
"We will use your cards, John." The money-lender's face expressed an
unctuous benignity.
The rancher was surprised, and his tell-tale cheek twitched
uncomfortably.
"For deal," said Lablache, stripping one of John's packs and passing it
to his companion. The rancher shuffled and cut--Lablache cut. The deal
went to the latter.
"We want something to score on," the money-lender said. "My memorandum
pad--"
"We'll have nothing on the table, please." John had been warned.
Lablache shrugged and smiled. He seemed to imply that the precaution was
unnecessary. "Poker" John was in desperate earnest.
"A piece of chalk--on the wall." The rancher produced the chalk and set
it on the floor close by the wall and returned to his seat.
Lablache shuffled clumsily. His fingers seemed too gross to handle
cards. And yet he could shuffle well, and his fingers were, in reality,
most sensitive. John Allandale looked on eagerly. The money-lender,
contrary to his custom, dealt swiftly--so swiftly that the bleared eyes
of his opponent could not follow his movements.
Both men picked up their cards. The old instincts of poker were not so
pronounced in the rancher as they used to be. Doubtless the game he was
now playing did not need such mask-like impassivity of expression as an
ordinary game would. After all, the pot opened, it merely became a
question of who held the best hand. There would be no betting. John's
eyes lighted up as he glanced at the index numerals. He held two
"Jacks."
"Can you?" Lablache's husky voice rasped in the stillness.
"Yes."
The dealer eyed his opponent for a second. His face was that of a graven
image.
"How many?"
"Three."
The money-lender passed three cards across the table. Then he discarded
two cards from his own hand and drew two more.
"What have you got?" he asked, with a grim pursing of his sagging lips.
"Two pairs. Jacks up."
Lablache laid his own cards on the table, spreading them out face
upwards for the rancher to see. He held three "twos."
"One to you," said John Allandale; and he went and chalked the score
upon the wall.
There was something very business-like about these two men when they
played cards. And possibly it was only natural. The quiet way in which
they played implied the deadly earnestness of their game. Their
surroundings, too, were impressive when associated with the secrecy of
their doings.
Each man meant to win, and in both were all the baser passions fully
aroused. Neither would spare the other, each would do his utmost.
Lablache was sure. John was consumed with a deadly nervousness. But John
Allandale at cards was the soul of honor. Lablache was confident in his
superior manipulation--not play--of cards. He knew that, bar accidents,
he must win. The mystery of being able to deal himself "three of a kind"
and even better was no mystery to him. He preferred his usual
method--the method of "reflection," as he called it; but in the game he
was now playing such a method would be useless for obvious reasons.
First of all, knowing his opponent's cards would only be of advantage
where betting was to ensue. Now he needed the clumsier, if more sure,
method of dealing himself a hand. And he did not hesitate to adopt it.
"Poker" John dealt The pot was not opened. Lablache again dealt. Still
the hand passed without the pot being opened. The next time John dealt
Lablache opened the pot and was promptly beaten. He drew to two queens
and missed. John drew to a pair of sevens and got a third. The game was
one all. After this Lablache won three pots in succession and the game
stood four--one, in favor of the money-lender.
The old rancher's face more than indicated the state of the game. His
features were gray and drawn. Already he saw his girl married to the man
opposite to him. For an instant his weakness led him to think of
refusing to play further--to defy Lablache and bid him do his worst.
Then he remembered that the girl herself had insisted that he must see
the game through--besides, he might yet win. He forced his thoughts to
the coming hand. He was to deal.
The deal, as far as he was concerned, was successful, His spirits rose.
Four--two.
Lablache took up the cards to deal. John was watching as though his life
depended upon what he saw. Lablache's clumsy shuffle annoyed him. The
lashless eyes of the money-lender were bent upon the cards, but he had
no difficulty in observing the old man's attention. This unusual
attention he set down to a natural excitement. He had not the smallest
idea that the old man suspected him. He passed the cards to be cut. The
rancher cut them carelessly. He had a natural cut. The pack was nearly
halved. Lablache had prepared for this.
The hand was dealt, and the money-lender won with three aces, all of
which he had drawn in a five-card draw. He had discarded a pair of nines
to make the heavy draw. It was clumsy, but he had been forced to it. The
position of the aces in the pack he had known, and--well, he meant to
win.
Five--two.
The clumsiness of that deal was too palpable. Old John suspected, but
held his tongue. His anger rose, and the drawn face flushed with the
suddenness of lightning. He was in a dangerous mood. Lablache saw the
flush, and a sudden fear gripped his heart. He passed the cards to the
other, and then, involuntarily, his hand dropped into the right-hand
pocket of his coat. It came in contact with his revolver--and stayed
there.
The next hand passed without the pot being opened--and the next.
Lablache was a little cautious. The next deal resulted in favor of the
rancher.
Five--three.
Lablache again took the cards. This time he meant to get his hand in the
deal. At that moment the money-lender would have given a cool thousand
had a bottle of whisky been on the table. He had not calculated on John
being sober. He shuffled deliberately and offered the pack to be cut.
John cut in the same careless manner, but this time he did it purposely.
Lablache picked up the bottom half of the cut. There was a terrible
silence in the room, and a deadly purpose was expressed in "Poker"
John's eyes.
The money-lender began to deal. In an instant John was on his feet and
lurched across the table. His hand fell upon the first card which
Lablache had dealt to himself.
"The ace of clubs," shouted the rancher, his eyes blazing and his body
fairly shaking with fury. He turned the card over. It was the ace of
clubs.
"Cheat!" he shouted.
He had seen the card at the bottom of the pack as the other had ceased
to shuffle.
There was an instant's thrilling pause. Then Lablache's hand flew to
his pocket. He had heard the click of a cocking revolver.
For the moment the rancher's old spirit rose superior to his senile
debility.
"God in heaven! And this is how you've robbed me, you--you bastard!"
"Poker" John's seared face was at that moment the face of a maniac. He
literally hurled his fury at the money-lender, who was now standing
confronting him.
"It is the last time, if--if I swing for it. Prairie law you need, and,
Hell take you, you shall have it!"
He swung himself half round. Simultaneously two reports rang out. They
seemed to meet in one deafening peal, which was exaggerated by the
smallness of the room. Then all was silence.
Lablache stood unmoved, his yellow eyeballs gleaming wickedly. For a
second John Allandale swayed while his face assumed a ghastly hue. Then
in deathly silence he slowly crumpled up, as it were. No sound passed
his lips and he sank in a heap upon the floor. His still smoking pistol
dropped beside him from his nerveless fingers.
The rancher had intended to kill Lablache, but the subtle money-lender
had been too quick. The lashless eyes watched the deathly fall of the
old man. There was no expression in them but that of vengeful coldness.
He was accustomed to the unwritten laws of the prairie. He knew that he
had saved his life by a hair's-breadth. His right hand was still in his
coat pocket. He had fired through the cloth of the coat.
Some seconds passed. Still Lablache did not move. There was no remorse
in his heart--only annoyance. He was thinking with the coolness of a
callous nerve. He was swiftly calculating the effect of the catastrophe
as regarded himself. It was the worst thing that could have happened to
him. Shooting was held lightly on the prairie, he knew, but--Then he
slowly drew his pistol from his pocket and looked thoughtfully at it.
His caution warned him of something. He withdrew the empty cartridge
case and cleaned out the barrel. Then he put a fresh cartridge in the
chamber and returned the pistol to his pocket. He was very deliberate,
and displayed no emotion. His asthmatical breathing, perhaps, might have
been more pronounced than usual. Then he gathered up the cards from
floor and table, and wiped out the score upon the wall. He put the cards
in his pocket. After that he stirred the body of his old companion with
his foot. There was no sound from the prostrate rancher. Then the
money-lender gently lowered himself to his knees and placed his hand
over his victim's heart. It was still. John Allandale was dead.
It was now for the first time that Lablache gave any sign of emotion. It
was not the emotion of sorrow--merely fear--susperstitious fear. As he
realized that the other was dead his head suddenly turned. It was an
involuntary movement. And his fishy eyes gazed fearfully behind him. It
was his first realization of guilt. The brand of Cain must inevitably
carry with it a sense of horror to him who falls beneath its ban. He was
a murderer--and he knew it.
Now his-movements became less deliberate. He felt that he must get away
from that horrid sight. He rose swiftly, with a display of that agility
which the unfortunate Horrocks had seen. He glanced about the room and
took his bearings. He strode to the lamp and put it out. Then he groped
his way to the window and took down his bandanna; stealthily, and with a
certain horror, he felt his way in the darkness to the door. He opened
it and passed out.