"WHERE DO I GO FROM HERE?"
From Stoell's Brent drifted to "The Nugget," where for a month, he dealt
faro on percentage in a "limit" game--for with the tin-horns and the
_chechakos_ had come also "limits" and "table stakes."
Here, "The Queen of the Yukon" passed and repassed his layout a dozen
times in an evening on her way to and from the dance-hall in the rear,
but never by even so much as a look did she admit that she recognized
him.
On the afternoon of his first payday, he sat in a "table stakes" game of
stud and a run of luck netted him seven hundred dollars. Whereupon he
promptly went on a spree that lasted three days and when he again showed
up for duty another dealer was presiding over his layout.
The next day Cuter Malone called him into a little back room and sounded
him out. "Hear how yer out of a job," quoth Cuter, as he set two glasses
and a bottle upon the little table between them. Brent nodded, and the
other continued: "Want to keep on dealin'?"
"Why yes, I guess so. I'm going to hit the trail right after the
break-up, but until that comes I might as well be doing something."
"Sure. Well I got a good percent proposition fer you. You'll draw quite
a little trade--you done it at Stoell's, an' then swung the heft of it
over to 'The Nugget.'"
"Is it a limit game?" asked Brent. "What percentage will you pay?"
Malone filled the glasses from the bottle, and having drank combed at
his black beard with his fingers: "W-e-e-l, that's accordin'. This here
game I'm figgerin' on is a sure thing--that is, o' course, lots o' turns
has got to lose, but in the long run she wins big."
"What do you mean--a sure thing?"
Cuter grinned craftily: "D'ye ever hear tell of a double-slotted box?
Well, I've got one, an'----"
Brent interrupted him with a short laugh: "What you mean is that because
I've got the reputation for being square, you want to use me for a
decoy, and when they come in, rob them on a percentage."
"Well, that's--er--talkin' it out kind of plain----"
"You can go to hell!" exclaimed Brent, "and that's talking it out kind
of plain, too."
Cuter laughed: "Don't git sore about it. Business is business, an' I'm
into it to git the money, one way an' another. If you don't want to
deal, how about goin' behind the bar? That's a square enough game." He
paused and grinned. "An' I wouldn't mind fer onct havin' someone
handlin' my dust that I wouldn't feel like friskin' every time he went
out the door to see how much of it had stuck to him."
And so Brent began tending bar in the notorious "Klondike Palace," and
Kitty, as she faced him for the first time with her dancing partner and
called for a drink, addressed him in words that to her partner meant
nothing: "Your toboggan is going good, now--ain't it, Ace-In-The-Hole?
You're most there, now--most to the bump that lays at the end of the
trail." And Brent served the drinks, and answered nothing.
The "Klondike Palace" was the wildest and most notorious of all the
dives of the big camp. Unlike Stoell's and "The Nugget," everything
downstairs was in one big room. The bar occupied a whole side, the
gambling tables and devices were in the rear, and the remainder of the
wide floor space was given over to dancing. At the rear of the bar a
flight of stairs led upward to the rooms of the painted women.
And it was concerning one of these painted women that, three weeks
later, Brent had his first "run in" with Cuter Malone. It was bitter
cold and snowing thickly, and Brent, with lowered head, was boring
through the white smother on his way to work. He paused in the light
that shone dully through the heavily frosted windows of Malone's and was
about to push open the door, when from the thick darkness around the
side of the building he heard a woman scream. It was a sharp, terrible
scream, that ended in a half-muffled shriek. And without an instant's
hesitation, Brent dashed around the corner. The "Klondike Palace" was
located well upon the edge of the big camp, beyond it being only a few
scattered cabins. Scarcely fifty feet from the street he came upon a man
standing over a woman who was cowering in the snow. Neither saw him, and
even as he looked the man struck with a coiled dog whip. Again the woman
screamed, and the man jumped upon her and started to kick her first with
one foot then with the other as she lay in the snow. Like an avalanche
Brent hurled himself upon the man, his fist catching him squarely upon
the side of the head and sending him sprawling. Without waiting for him
to get up, Brent jerked the woman to her feet and pushed her toward the
street. He saw then that she was one of the girls who roomed over
Malone's, and that she was clad in the thinnest of silk stockings, and
the flimsiest of semi-transparent gowns. One of her high-heeled slippers
had been lost in the snow. Scarce able to stand, the girl staggered
whimpering toward the light. Turning upon the man who had regained his
feet Brent found himself looking into the muzzle of a forty-five. So
close was the man that even in the darkness he could see his face. It
was Johnnie Claw, and Brent saw that the recognition was mutual. Claw's
thick lips writhed back in a grin of hate, and Brent could hear his
breath sucking heavily between his clenched teeth. Eye to eye they
stared as Brent's lips moved in a sneer: "Well--you--damned--pimp--why
don't you shoot?" To his intense surprise, the gun wavered, dropped to
the man's side and, jamming it into the pocket of his fur coat, Claw
pushed past him toward the street, mumbling thick curses.
Later, that night, when business was a little slack during a dance
Malone motioned him aside: "Say, what the hell be you buttin' in on
other folks business fer?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. What did you go knockin' Johnnie Claw down fer,
when he was givin' that damn Violet what was comin' to her, fer holdin'
out on him?"
"Giving her what was coming! My God, man, he would have kicked her to
death there in the snow--that's what he would have done!"
"Well, what if he did--she's hisn, ain't she?"
A surge of swift anger almost overcame Brent. His fists clenched, and it
was with difficulty that he refrained from striking Malone down where he
stood. Instead, he leaned a trifle closer to the man: "Just let this
stick to you, Malone," he said, "What passes between me and Claw, or me
and anyone else, when it isn't on your premises and on your time, is my
business--see?"
Malone laughed, shortly, and with a shrug, turned away, while Brent
served drinks to a couple who had left the dance and sauntered to the
bar. The couple were Kitty, and a strapping young _chechako_ called
Moosehide Charlie, the name referring to an incident that had occurred
early in the winter when he had skinned out a moose and, finding himself
far from camp and no blankets, had wrapped himself in the green hide and
gone to sleep. In the morning he awoke to find himself encased in an
iron-hard coffin of frozen moosehide unable to move hand or foot.
Luckily a party of hunters found him and spent half a day thawing him
out over a roaring fire.
Said Kitty to Moosehide Charlie, as she sipped at the liquid that by
courtesy was called port wine: "That's Johnnie Claw over there by the
door. He's one-two-three with Cuter Malone--some say they're pardners."
Her companion swallowed his liquor and glanced indifferently toward the
object of the girl's remarks. "It ain't worryin' me none who he's
pardners with. I don't like the looks of him, nohow."
"Sh-sh-sh," warned Kitty, "What a man learns in this country don't hurt
him any. I was just telling you so if you ever happened to run foul of
Claw, you'd know enough to keep your eye on Malone, too."
"Guess I ain't goin' to run foul of him. Come on, let's dance."
Kitty had not even favored him by so much as a glance, but as Brent
removed the glasses from the bar, he smiled.
The days were rapidly lengthening on the Yukon. At noon each day the sun
was higher in the heavens and its increased heat was heralded by little
streams of snow water that trickled over the ice of the creeks.
One evening when the grip of winter had broken and the feel of spring
was in the air, Moosehide Charlie stood at the bar drinking with Johnnie
Claw. It was too early for the dancers and three or four of the girls
sat idly along the opposite wall. As Brent served the drinks, he noticed
that Claw appeared to be urging the younger man into a deal of some
kind--he, caught a word now and then, of reference to dumps, slucings,
and water heads. Moosehide seemed to be holding out. He was a man who
drank little, and after two drinks he turned from the bar shaking his
head. "Come on," urged Claw, "Have another."
"No, two or three's my limit. I don't aim to git drunk."
"Drunk, hell!" laughed Claw, "I don't nuther. You've only had two. Make
it three, an' I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll throw off a leetle on
that claim. I ain't got time to fool with it, noways."
Moosehide returned to the bar: "Well, one more, then, an' that's all.
But you'll have to throw off more'n just a little on that property, fer
me to touch it."
Claw filled his glass and pushed the bottle toward the other and as
Moosehide Charlie measured his liquor, out of the tail of his eye, Brent
saw Claw pour something from a small vial into his own glass and return
the vial swiftly to his pocket. The next moment he was talking earnestly
to Moosehide who, as he listened, toyed with his glass, rubbing into
patterns the few drops of liquor he had spilled upon the bar.
Cuter Malone had himself carried a tray of drinks to be served at one of
the poker tables in the rear, and just at this moment, tray and glasses
struck the floor with a loud crash. Moosehide Charlie turned quickly at
the sound, and as he did so Brent saw Johnnie Claw deftly switch the
glasses upon the bar. Malone returned, grumbling at his clumsiness, for
another tray of drinks, and Claw raised his glass. "I guess we kin deal,
all right. Le's drink, an' then we'll slip into the back room there an'
figger it out."
As Moosehide picked up the glass before him, Brent reached out swiftly
and took it from his fingers. He looked into it for a second and tossed
its contents onto the floor. "Better fill her up again," he said, "There
was a fly in it." A fly on the Yukon, with the rivers still frozen, and
the sodden snow three feet deep on the ground! Moosehide stared, and
before Brent could move, Cuter Malone had floored him with a blow from a
heavy bottle. The truth flashed upon Moosehide Charlie. One blow of his
fist settled Claw, while with his other hand he reached across the bar
and jerked a gun from the hand of Cuter Malone. The poker players rose
from their chairs and started for the bar, but Moosehide motioned them
back with the gun. "Jest go on with yer game, boys," he said meaningly.
"Don't mind me." And as they settled into their places he stepped around
the bar, keeping Malone covered. Kitty, who had been chatting with the
girls on the opposite side of the room, darted across the floor and
brushing past Moosehide, knelt beside Brent. "Jest raise up his head,
girl, an' throw some water in his face," ordered Moosehide, "An' pour a
little licker down his throat. If he can't swaller it, it'll make him
gag an' bring him to." Then he turned to Malone: "An' you, you damn
crook! You git busy an' weigh out what's comin' to him. An' weigh it
damn quick--an' weigh it right. 'Cause if it ain't right, I'm a-comin'
back here with about forty or ninety of my friends an' I'm tellin' it to
you, we'll gut this damn joint--an' you along with it!"
Brent only partially revived under the water and choking whiskey, and
between them they managed to get him out the door and onto Moosehide's
sled. Then they hauled him to his cabin and put him to bed, where he lay
for two weeks, delirious with fever, while Kitty stayed day and night
at his side and nursed him. Another week passed, during which the girl
came daily and cooked his meals, and made him get up for a little while
each day while she aired and rearranged his blankets. At length came a
day when he rose and dressed himself and stayed up till evening.
"You won't be needing me any more," said the girl, simply, as she stood
in the doorway late in the afternoon. She pointed to two small buckskin
sacks which she had laid upon the table. "There's your pay that was
coming to you from Cuter Malone, and a sack that Moosehide Charlie left
for you."
"Moosehide Charlie? He don't owe me anything."
"Says he owes you a whole lot, and he wanted me to give you that. He's
gone off on a trip up Indian River."
Brent picked up the sack, which was a dozen times the weight of the
other, and extended it toward the girl: "Give this back to him," he said
shortly. "I don't need it."
Kitty did not take it: "You do too need it," she said, "How long will
that pinch of dust last you? And what are you going to do when it's
gone?"
"It don't make any difference what I do when it's gone. Whatever I do, I
won't live on charity." And he tossed the sack past her through the
doorway where it buried itself in the snow.
"You're a fool, Ace-In-The-Hole," she said, quietly, "A _damn fool_."
The man nodded, slowly: "That's right, I reckon. Anyway we won't quarrel
about it. Will you do me just one more favor?"
"What is it?"
"Take this dust and get me a bottle of hooch--a quart bottle--two of
them."
"No, I won't!"
Brent rose to his feet: "I'll have to go myself, then," he said, as he
cast his eyes about for his hat.
"You ain't able! You're weak as a cat, and you'd fall down in the snow."
"I'll get up again, then." He found the hat and put it on.
"I'll go," the words were hurled at him, and he handed her Cuter
Malone's sack. "Never mind that--"
"Take it! Or I won't touch the hooch."
Reluctantly, she took it and in half an hour she was back and without a
word deposited two quart bottles upon the table.
"Will you drink with me?" Brent asked, as he drew the cork.
"No! I'm going, now."
Brent rose to his feet and held out his hand: "Good bye, Kitty," he
said, gravely. "I know what you've done for me--and I won't forget it.
You'll come to see me--sometimes?"
"No. I hate you! An' if you could see yourself the way I see
you--knowing what you are, and what you ought to be--you'd hate
yourself!"
Brent flushed under the sting of the words: "I'm as good a man as I ever
was," he muttered, defiantly.
The girl sneered: "You are--like hell! Why, you ain't even got a
job--now. You're a bum! You hit the bump that I told you was at the end
of your trail--now, where do you go from here?" And before Brent could
reply she was gone.
"Where do I go from here?" he repeated slowly, as he sank into a chair
beside his table, and swallowed a stiff drink of whiskey. And, "Where do
I go from here?" he babbled meaninglessly, three hours later when, very
drunk, his head settled slowly forward upon his folded arms, and he
slept.