THE DEALER AT STOELL'S
On the morning after the final game of stud in which he had slipped the
last dollar of his fortune across the green cloth, Brent threw back his
blankets and robes and sat upon the edge of his bunk. He had long since
discarded his tent for a cabin and his eyes took in the details of the
rough furnishings in the grey light that filtered through the heavily
frosted window panes. He drew on his shirt and trousers and glanced at
his watch. It was ten o'clock. He built a roaring fire, broke the ice
that had formed upon the surface of a huge pail of water, filled his
coffee-pot, and set his wash pan beside it upon the stove. Then he
returned to his bunk and, feeling beneath his pillow, withdrew a flat
quart bottle and took a long drink. When the water had warmed in the
pan, he shaved before a small mirror that hung above his rude wash
stand. Twice during the process he returned to the bottle for a swallow
of liquor.
"Kitty was right," he confided to his reflection in the glass, "My luck
did turn--and now, I'm broke."
He finished shaving and, as he was about to turn from the wash stand
paused, and thrusting his face close to the mirror, subjected it to
careful scrutiny.
"Eyes _are_ a little muddy," he grudgingly admitted, "And face a little
pouchy and red, but, hell, it isn't the hooch!--I don't drink enough to
hurt me any. It's being indoors so much, and the smoke. Two days on the
trail will fix that. I've got to slip out and make another strike. And
when I come back--that bunch will be in for an awful cleaning."
He threw a handful of coffee into the pot, and sliced some bacon into a
frying pan, and when the grease ran, he broke a half-dozen eggs and
scrambled them with the bacon.
"She said I wouldn't have the nerve nor the muscles to hit out and
locate another claim," he grinned as he swallowed a draught of scalding
coffee. "I'll show her!"
He finished his meal, washed the dishes, and drew on his mukluks and
blanket coat. As he opened the door he was met by a blast of wind-driven
snow that fairly took his breath, and drawing back into the room he shut
the door.
"I thought it was pretty dark in here for this time of day--some
blizzard!"
He drew down the ear-flaps of his fur cap, hunted up his heavy mittens,
and once more opening the door, pushed out into the storm.
Twenty minutes later he entered Stoell's place, and as he stamped the
snow from his garments, and beat it from his cap and mittens, Camillo
Bill greeted him from the bar.
"Hello, Ace-In-The-Hole! I'm buyin' a drink." The room was deserted
except for the bartender who promptly set out bottle and glasses. "Let's
go over here," suggested Camillo Bill, when the empty glasses had been
returned to the bar. He led the way to a small table.
"Bring the bottle and glasses!" called Brent over his shoulder, and
Camillo Bill seconded the order with a nod.
"Now," he began, as Brent filled his glass, "Let's get this here deal
straightened out. In the first place, is them two claims of yourn worth
a million?"
Brent flushed, hotly, but Camillo Bill forestalled his reply. "Hold on,
now. I didn't mean what you're thinkin' about--an' you ort to know me
well enough to know I didn't. When you said them two claims was worth a
million, not me, nor no one else questioned your word, did we? Well,
what I'm gettin' at is are they worth more than a million, 'n' how much
more?"
Brent laughed: "They're worth more than a million. How much more I don't
know. I took out a half a million last summer, and I don't think I'm
half way to bed-rock at the deepest."
Camillo Bill nodded: "All right, that's what I wanted to know. You see,
there's five or six of us holds your slips an' markers that totals a
million over an' above what was in Stoell's safe. I'll jest cash them
slips an' markers, an' take over the claims."
Brent shrugged, "Go ahead. It don't make any difference to me how you
divide them up."
Camillo Bill grinned: "It does make a hell of a lot of difference to you
how we divide 'em up," he said. "It's like this: I like your style.
You're a _tillicum_--a natural borned sourdough. You're white clean
through. When you said there's so and so much in Stoell's safe, the dust
was there. An' when you know'd yer claims was worth more than a million,
you says a million instead of stretchin' it to two million, an' maybe
stickin' some one. Now when I cash them markers that's out agin the
claims, an' figger in the slips an' markers I hold myself, I'll have a
million invested, won't I? An', that's what I won--a million--not a
million an' a half, or two million--just a million. Well, when I get
that million back--you get the claims back--see?"
Brent stared at the man in amazement: "What do you mean? I lost the
claims--lost them fair and square----"
"No you didn't," interrupted the other, "You lose just what yer slips
an' markers says you lose--an' not a damn cent more. The claims was only
a sort of security for the dust. C'latteral the banks would call it. Am
I right, or wrong?"
Brent drank the whiskey in his glass and refilling it, shoved the bottle
toward Camillo Bill, but the man shook his head. "No more for me. Too
much of that stuff ain't no good. But about them claims--am I right, or
wrong?"
"You're the whitest damned white man that walks on two legs, if that's
what you mean," answered Brent, in a low voice. "I'll make the claims
over to you, now."
"Don't say that," replied Camillo Bill, "they was five or six of us that
figgered out this play--all friends of yourn. We all of us agreed to do
what I'm doin'--it was only a question of who could afford to carry the
load till next fall. I kin. Right's right--an' wrong ain't deuce-high,
nowheres. A million's a million--an' it ain't two million. An' you don't
need to make over them claims to me, neither. Jest you sign a paper
givin' me the right to go into 'em an' take out a million, an' we'll
tear up them slips an' markers."
"But what if there isn't a million in them. I believe there is--much
more than a million. But, what if they're 'spotted,' and I just happened
to hit the spots, or what if bed-rock shows a lot shallower than I think
it will----"
"What if! What if! To hell with what if! If the claims peter out I ain't
no better off if I hold title to 'em, am I? If they ain't good for the
million, what the hell difference does it make who owns 'em? I'd ruther
someone else holds a bum claim than me, any day," he added with a grin.
"An' now that's settled, what you goin' to do, while I'm gettin' out my
dust?"
Brent drank his liquor, and reached for the bottle: "Why, I'm going to
hit out and locate another strike," he said, a trifle thickly.
Camillo Bill regarded him thoughtfully: "Where at?"
"Why I don't know. There are plenty of
creeks--Eldorado--Ophir--Doolittle----"
The other laughed: "Listen here," he said, "While you be'n here in town
rollin' 'em high an' soppin' up hooch, they's be'n a hell of a change on
the creeks. Ain't you stopped to notice that Dawson's more'n twict as
big as she was in August, an' that the country is gittin full of
tin-horns, an' _chechakos_. Well it is--an' every creek's filed that's
worth a damn--an' so's every one that ain't. They ain't a claim to be
took up no more on Bonanza, nor Ophir, nor Siwash, nor Eldorado, nor
Alhambra, nor Sulphur, nor Excelsis, nor Christo, nor Doolittle, nor not
hardly none on no pup nor dry wash that runs into 'em."
"All right, I'll go farther, then," retorted Brent, pouring more liquor
into his glass. "I'll go beyond the last creek that's staked. And, by
God, I'll find gold!"
Camillo Bill shook his head: "Look a here, you ain't in no shape to hit
out on no long trip. You've laid up too long to tackle it, an' you've
drunk too much of that damned hooch. It ain't none of my business what
you do, or what you don't do--maybe you ain't drinkin' enough of it, I
don't know. But that there's damn poor stuff to train on for a long
trail in winter--an' I'm tellin' it to you that winter's sure hit these
diggin's an' hit 'em hard. Tell you what I'll do. I've be'n nosin'
'round buyin' claims while you be'n layin' abed daytimes sleepin' off
the hooch. I've got more'n what I kin 'tend to alone. I'll give you two
thousand a month to help me look after 'em, an' you can sort of ease off
the hooch, an' get broke in easy agin. If you sleep nights, an' keep out
doors daytimes, an' lay off the cards an' the hooch, you'll be good as
ever agin spring."
"Not on your life," flared Brent, "I'm as good a man right now as I ever
was! And a damn sight too good a man to be anybody's pensioner. You know
damned well that you don't need me at two thousand a month, or any other
figure, except at an ounce a day, the same as anyone else gets. What the
hell's the matter with everybody?" A querulous note crept into Brent's
voice, "I tell you I'm as good a man as I ever was! Kitty told me the
same thing--that I'm drinking too much! Whose business is it if I am?
But, I'm not, and I'll hit the trail tomorrow and show you all!"
"So long," said Camillo Bill as he rose from his chair. "I told you it
wasn't no one's business but yourn, so they ain't no argyment there.
Only, jest you remember that I'm a friend of yourn, an' so is
Kitty--an' a man might have a damn sight worse friend than her, at
that."
Later in the day Stoell accosted Brent as he stood drinking alone at the
bar. "They romped right up your middle, didn't they, the last week or
so?"
Brent nodded: "They cleaned me out. I played them too high for the cards
I was holding."
"What you figuring on doing now?"
"Going to hit out and locate another claim when this storm lets up."
"You've got a long trip ahead. Everything's staked."
"So they say, but I guess I'll find something, somewhere."
"Why don't you take an inside job this winter. Hell of a lot of grief
out there in the snow with only a tent and a bunch of huskies."
"What kind of a job?"
"I'm figuring on starting up a new layout--faro. How'd you like to deal?
Just till spring when the weather lets up a little. You can't tell what
you're staking under ten foot of snow anyhow."
"I never dealt faro."
"It won't take you long to learn. I only run one big game now because I
can't trust no one to deal another--but I could get plenty of play on
one if I had it goin'. I figure that the boys all like you, an' you'd be
a good card. They all know you're square an' I'd get a good play on your
layout. What do you say? It's a damn sight better than mushin' out
there in the cold."
"What will you pay?"
"Well, how would five hundred a month, an' five percent of the winnings
of the layout do? You wouldn't need to come on till around nine in the
evening, and stay till the play was through. I'll throw in your supper,
and dinner at midnight, and we won't keep any bar tab. You're welcome to
what drinks you want--only you've got to keep sober when you're on
shift."
Brent did not answer immediately. A couple of men came through the door
in a whirl of flying snow, and he shivered slightly, as the blast of
cold air struck him. Stoell was right, there would be a hell of a lot of
grief out there on the long snow trail. "I guess I'll take you up on
that," he said, "When do I start?"
"It'll take me a day or so to get rigged up. Let's make it day after
tomorrow night. Meantime you can do your eating and drinking here--just
make yourself at home. The boys'll be tickled when they hear the
news--it'll spread around the camp pretty lively that you're dealing
faro at Stoell's, and we'll get good play--see."
During the next two days Brent spent much time in Stoell's, drinking at
the bar, and watching the preparation of the new layout over which he
was to preside. And to him there, at different times came eight or ten
of the sourdoughs of the Yukon, each with a gruff offer of assistance,
but carefully couched in words that could give no offense. "You'll be on
yer feet agin, 'fore long. If you need any change in the meantime, just
holler," imparted one. Said another: "Here, jest slip this poke in yer
jeans. I ain't needin' it. Somethin'll turn up d'rectly, an' you can
slip it back then." But Brent declined all offers, with thanks. And to
each he explained that he had a job, and each, when he learned the
nature of the job, either answered rather evasively, or congratulated
him in terms that somehow seemed lacking in enthusiasm. Old Bettles was
the only man to voice open disapproval: "Hell," he blurted, "Anyone c'n
deal faro. Anyone c'n gamble with another man's money, an' eat another
man's grub, an' drink another man's hooch. But, it's along the cricks
an' the gulches you find the reg'lar he-man sourdoughs."
At the words of this oldest settler on the Yukon, Brent strangely took
no offense. Rather he sought to excuse his choice of profession: "I'm
only doing it till spring, then I'm going to hit into the hills, and
when I come back we'll play them higher than ever," he explained. "I'm a
little soft now and don't feel quite up to tackling the winter trail."
"Humph," grunted Bettles, "You won't be comin' back--because you ain't
never goin' to go. If yer soft now, you'll be a damn sight softer agin
spring. Dealin' from a box an' lappin' up hooch ain't a-goin' to put you
in shape for to chaw moose-meat an' wrestle a hundred pound pack. It'll
sap yer guts." But Brent laughed at the old man's warning, and the next
evening took his place behind the layout with the cards spread before
him.
As Stoell had predicted, Brent proved to be a great drawing card for the
gambling house. Play at his layout ran high, and the table was always
crowded. But nearly all the players were _chechakos_--men new to the
country, who had struck it lucky and were intent upon making a big
splash. Among these tin-horns and four-flushers, Ace-In-The-Hole was a
deity. For among petty gamblers he was a prince of gamblers. Rumors and
fantastic lies were rife at all the bars concerning his deeds. "He had
cleaned up ten million in a summer on a claim." "He killed three men
with three blows of his fist." "The Queen of the Yukon was all caked in
on him, and he wouldn't have her. He tossed her a slip for half a
million that he had won on a single bet at the wheel, and because she
was sore at him, she ground it into the floor with her foot." "He had
bet a million on an ace in the hole--hence his name. He had gambled away
twenty million in a week." And so it went. Men fell over themselves to
make his acquaintance that they might ostentatiously boast of that
acquaintance at the bars. One would casually mention that
"Ace-In-The-Hole says to me, the other day, he says--" Or, "I was
tellin' Ace-In-The-Hole about one time I an' a couple of tarts down in
'Frisco--" Or, "Me an' Ace-In-The-Hole was eatin' supper the other
night, an' he says to me--" When he was off duty, men crowded to stand
next to him at the bar, they plied him with drinks, and invited him to
dine. All of which meant increased business for Stoell. So that upon
several occasions when Brent was too drunk to attend to business, Stoell
himself dealt his game and said nothing.
It was inevitable that this sudden popularity should in a measure turn
Brent's head. Personally, he detested the loud-mouthed fawning
_chechakos_, but as his association with them grew, his comradery with
the real sourdoughs diminished. They did not openly or purposely cut
him. They still greeted him as an equal, they drank with him, and
occasionally they took a fling at his game. But there was a difference
that Brent was quick to notice, and quick to resent, but powerless to
dispel. He was a professional gambler, now--and they were mining
men--that was all.
Only once since he had taken up his new vocation had he seen Kitty. She
had come into Stoell's one evening, and slipping behind the table stood
at his elbow until the end of the deal. As he shuffled the cards
preparatory to returning them into the box, she placed her lips close to
his ear: "Who are all your friends?" she whispered indicating the
tin-horns and _chechakos_ that rimmed the table. Brent flushed,
slightly, and answered nothing. "So this is what you meant by hitting
the trail when they broke you, is it? Well, take it from me, it's a
short trail, and a steep grade slanting down, and when you're on the
toboggan it ain't going to take long to hit the bottom--with a bump."
And before Brent could reply she had slipped away and lost herself in
the crowd.
Night after night, although his eyes sought the crowd, he never saw her
again, nor did he find her upon his excursions to "The Nugget," or to
Cuter Malone's "Klondike Palace." If she were purposely avoiding him,
she was succeeding admirably.
Along in February, Brent was surprised one day to receive, in his own
cabin, a visit from Johnny Claw. "What do you want?" he asked as the man
stood in the doorway.
Claw entered, closing the door behind him. He removed his cap and
mittens, and fumbling beneath his parka, produced a sealed bottle of
whiskey which he set upon the table: "Oh, jest dropped in fer a little
visit. Been 'outside.' Try a shot of this hooch--better'n anything
Stoell's got."
Brent sat down upon the edge of his bunk and motioned the man to a
chair: "Didn't know you were so damned friendly with me that you would
lug me in a bottle of hooch from the outside," he said, "What's on your
chest?"
Claw produced a corkscrew and opened the bottle, then he poured a
half-tumbler into each of two glasses. "Le's liquor," he said, offering
one to Brent. "Good stuff, ain't it?"
Brent nodded: "Damned good. But what's the idea?"
"Idee is jest this," announced Claw, eyeing him shrewdly, "You damn near
busted me, but I ain't holdin' that agin' you." He paused and Brent, who
knew that he was lying, waited for him to proceed. "You told me right
plain out that you didn't like the business I was in! That's all right,
too. I s'pose it ain't no hell of a good business, but someone's got to
bring 'em in or you bucks wouldn't have nobody to dance with. But,
layin' all that aside, you're dealin' the big game for Stoell."
"Yup."
"Well, listen: You're hittin' the hooch too hard fer to suit Stoell. At
the end of the month you're out of a job--see? He's goin' to let you
out, 'cause yer showin' up too reg'lar with a bun on. Says it's got to
where yer crocked so often he might's well be dealin' the game hisself."
"Who did he tell this to--you?"
The other leered: "Naw, not to me. He don't like me no more'n what you
do. But, I happened to hear him tellin' it to Old Bettles an' Camillo
Bill. 'That's right,' says Bettles, 'fire him, an' maybe we kin git him
into the hills.' 'I'm 'fraid not,' says Camillo Bill. 'Leastways not
till spring. An' at the rate he's goin', by that time he'll be countin'
bees.' 'It's a shame,' says Bettles, 'There's a damn good man gone
wrong.' 'He is a damn good man,' says Stoell, 'They ain't many I'd trust
to deal that big game. He's square as hell--but, the hooch has got
him.'"
"The hell it has," said Brent, with a short laugh. "They're damned
fools! I don't drink enough to hurt me any. I'm as good a man as I ever
was!"
"Sure you be," assented Claw. "What little you drink wouldn't hurt no
one. What's it any of their business? You don't need no guardeen to tell
you when to take a drink," he paused and refilled Brent's glass. "'Yer
square as hell,'" says Stoell--"but what's it gittin' you? He's goin' to
fire you, ain't he?"
"Well?"
"Well--why not git even with him, an' at the same time clean up big fer
yerself? They ain't no chanct to git caught."
"What do you mean?" Brent's voice rasped a trifle harshly, but Claw did
not notice.
"I got it all doped out. Cold deck him--an' I'll play agin the fixed
deck an' make a cleanin'--an' we'll split."
"You mean----"
"I mean this. Me an' you will fix up a deck, an' I'll copy off how the
cards lays. Then you slip 'em into the box an' start the deal, an' I'll
lay the bets. Of course, knowin' how they'll fall, I kin win whenever I
want to. No one'll ever b'lieve it's a frame-up, 'cause they know you're
square, an' likewise they know you hate me, an' they wouldn't figger
we'd git together. I'll make the play strong by comin' in fer a night
er two before we spring it an' braggin' that I've got a system. Then
I'll have my slip of paper an' I'll look at it, an' make bets, an' of
course I'll lose--'cause they ain't no system. An' the next night I'll
do the same an' the third night we'll slip in the fixed deck--an' then
my system'll win. An' all the time I'll be sneerin' at you, like I hated
yer guts----"
The sentence was never finished. In a blind rage Brent hurled himself
upon the man, and both crashed to the floor together. The fight was fast
and furious while it lasted. But, flabby, and with his brain befuddled
with liquor, Brent was no match for the other, who a year before, he
could have killed with his bare hands. He got in several good blows at
the start, which slowed up his antagonist, and rendered him incapable of
inflicting serious damage later, when Brent winded and gasping, was
completely at his mercy. A referee would unhesitatingly have declared it
Claw's fight, for when he slipped from the cabin it was to leave Brent
nursing two half-closed and rapidly purpling eyes, with nose and lips to
match.
When, four days later he showed up at Stoell's, the latter called him
aside and weighing out what was coming to him in dust, informed him that
his services were no longer required.