Angel McCoy went straight back to the Eagle. There were men on the porch
of the saloon, and he wondered at the number of them. Rather
breathlessly he shoved his way into the place and looked around. There
were at least thirty men in the saloon, and quite a number of them were
crowded around the black-jack layout. There were no players at any of
the other tables, because there were no dealers. The bartender was
working at top speed.
Wonderingly Angel worked his way around to the black-jack table, and
stopped against the wall. Old Rance McCoy and three other men were
playing. Near the end of the table stood Chuckwalla Ike, puffing
industriously on a frayed-out cigar, closely watching the dealer.
Old Rance was betting with hundred-dollar bills, and as Angel watched
him he lost five in quick succession. In his left hand he clutched a
huge roll of currency, from which he stripped off bill after bill.
“Let’s make it worth while,” said old Rance.
“Here’s five hundred.”
Angel watched the old man win the bet. The dealer’s eyes flashed quickly
around the crowd, and he saw Angel.
“Let it ride,” said the old man. “Why don’t some of yuh buy into this
game? I don’t want to hog all of it.”
Several of the cattlemen made small bets, as Angel moved around behind
the dealer.
“There’s a hundred-dollar limit, gents,” said Angel easily.
Old Rance looked at Angel quizzically.
“Hundred dollars, eh?” he queried. “That’s too slow.”
“It’s shore too heavy for me,” laughed Jim Langley. “I’m limited to
five-dollar bets myself. Rance is the only millionaire around here.”
Old Rance slowly pocketed the money, after throwing a hundred dollars on
the table, and the deal went on. Angel backed away and went around to
the stud-poker table, where he laid out the chips and broke open a new
deck of cards. The table filled in a few moments. In the larger houses
there is a dealer, who merely does the dealing and takes care of the
rake-off for the house, but in a place like the Eagle the dealer takes
an active part in the game, passing the buck each time to indicate which
player is to be dealt to first.
There was no limit in the stud game. Chips ran according to color, from
twenty-five cents to ten dollars. The cowboys played a cautious game. A
forty-dollar pay check would not last long in a game of that kind unless
the player either played in luck or used good judgment.
Old Rance won consistently. Hundred after hundred went to swell the roll
of bills in his pocket. The rest of the players merely piked along,
causing the dealer little concern. “Rance is a thousand to the good,”
announced a cowboy, who had come from the black-jack layout to look at
the poker game.
Angel bit the corner of his lip and blinked at his cards. He could ill
afford to lose a thousand, and he knew the old man was on a betting
spree. Ten minutes later the dealer came and spoke softly to him:
“Eighteen hundred to the bad, Angel; and I’m out of money.”
“Close the game,” said Angel harshly.
A poker-player drew out of the game, and old Rance took his place. He
threw a hundred-dollar bill across to Angel.
“Table stakes, Angel?” he asked.
“Table stakes,” growled Angel, meaning that a player could bet only the
amount of money in front of him.
The old man drew out his enormous roll of money and placed it beside his
chips. Angel eyed the roll closely. There were thousands in that roll.
He did not know that old Rance had drawn every cent of money he had on
deposit in the bank; a total of seventy-five hundred.
Old Rance’s first open card was the ace of spades. He looked at it and
laughed across the table at Angel. It was the best card in sight, and
the old man threw ten yellow chips--one hundred dollars’ worth--into the
pot.
The players promptly passed. None of them felt like taking a chance,
even with only two cards dealt in each hand. Angel sneered openly and
covered the bet. He realized that the old man was aiming the bet at him.
Angel had a queen buried and a ten-spot in sight.
The next two cards showed a king for Rance and another ten for Angel.
“Pair of tens bet a hundred,” said Angel.
“Make it two hundred,” replied Rance, taking the money off his roll.
Angel acquiesced, after considering another raise.
The next two cards showed another ace to Rance and a queen for Angel.
This gave Rance two aces in sight and an ace in the hole, while Angel’s
two tens and a queen in sight gave him queens and tens. Rance promptly
bet a hundred dollars, and Angel just as promptly boosted it a hundred.
Rance grew thoughtful, and after due deliberation he raised the bet
another hundred. Angel called. A gasp went up when Rance drew another
ace, and Angel a ten.
“Three aces bets,” drawled Angel.
Old Rance made a motion as though to turn over his buried card, but
hesitated and checked the bet. Angel bet two hundred dollars--twenty
yellow chips.
Rance laughed softly, eying Angel’s three tens and the queen.
“Up three hundred,” he said softly, as he deliberately peeled off more
bills.
It was Angel’s turn to be thoughtful. He had a ten-full on queens. Those
three aces worried him, but he was too deep in the pot to stop now.
Slowly he counted off fifty of the yellow chips, fingering them softly.
Then he shoved them into the center of the table.
“Up two hundred,” he said coldly.
Old Rance eyed Angel coldly, as he peeled off the amount of the raise
and tossed it to the center. He counted off three hundred more and added
it to the huge pile of money and yellow chips.
“Three hundred more?” asked Angel hoarsely.
Old Rance did not reply; he did not need to. Angel’s hand trembled as he
counted out the required amount in chips.
“Just callin’ me?” queried Rance.
“Looks like it, don’t it?” growled Angel.
Old Rance turned over his fourth ace. He had won eighteen hundred
dollars in one hand. Angel looked dumbly at him, as he returned the
money to his roll, and stacked the piles of yellow chips. Old Rance had
already won thirty-six hundred dollars from Angel. But the evening was
young.
Angel spoke to the dealer, who stood behind him:
“Bring me some yellow chips.”
And when the man came with the chips he said to him:
“Open the black-jack game, Bud; it looks like a big night.”
Angel was game. He didn’t have enough cash to redeem those yellow chips.
He had only had a trifle over three thousand in cash to start the
evening play, and there was less than a thousand dollars of his money
left in the bank. But Angel was a gambler, and he had no intention of
letting the old man get away with all that money.
There was nothing spectacular about the next hand. Rance dropped out
after the second card, and Jim Langley won the pot. But on the next hand
old Rance called a five-dollar bet by Jess Fohl, and boosted it a
hundred.
“Tryin’ to run everybody out?” queried Fohl.
“A runner ain’t got no business in this game, Jess.”
He looked straight at Angel, who flushed hotly and called the bet. The
rest of the players dropped out. Fohl cursed over the loss of his money.
He had a pair of sevens, back-to-back, and didn’t want to drop; but the
hundred was more than he could stand.
In sight, Rance had a six, and Angel had a five. Angel reasoned that
Rance must have a six in the hole, in order to raise the bet. Rance drew
an ace, while Angel drew a nine. It cost Angel another hundred to draw,
but he did not raise.
Angel drew a six the next time, and Rance drew a trey. It was Rance’s
bet, but he checked it to Angel, who promptly bet a hundred, and Rance
merely called the bet. The next two cards showed a nine to Rance and a
four to Angel.
Neither player had a pair in sight.
“Ace, nine bets,” droned Angel, and Rance promptly bet the usual hundred
dollars, and Angel passed. He turned over the ace he had buried, and
shut his lips angrily when old Rance disclosed a deuce of clubs. Angel’s
ace, nine, six, five would have beaten Rance’s ace, nine, six, trey.
“Of all the damned fool bettin’!” exclaimed Chuckwalla, who was still
trying to smoke that frayed-out cigar. “Winnin’ over three hundred
dollars on ace high.”
“Nerve,” corrected old Rance easily.
“Nerve!” sneered Angel. “You raised that first bet with a deuce in the
hole and a six exposed. You’re crazy.”
“Just nerve,” said Rance coldly. “Somethin’ you ain’t got.”
“You think I ain’t?”
Old Rance leaned across the table, looking steadily at his son.
“How much nerve have yuh got, Angel?”
“I’ve got enough.”
“I wonder if yuh have. I’ve got about thirty-nine hundred of yore money
right now, Angel. Have yuh got nerve enough to bet me another
thirty-nine hundred that I don’t get the first ace off the deck?”
Angel stared at him, his eyes half-closed. Thirty-nine hundred more.
Still, luck might be with him this time. It was a chance to win back all
he’d lost.
“Neither of us will deal,” said Rance softly. “We’ll let Jim Langley
deal to us, and we’ll cut to see who gets the first card.”
“All right,” said Angel, trying to make his voice sound calm.
Rance won the cut, and leaned back indifferently while Jim Langley
shuffled the deck. Angel cut the cards first, and when Langley presented
the cards to Rance, he waived the right to cut them.
“Are yuh all ready?” asked Langley nervously.
“Let ’em go,” said Angel.
“By God, an ace!” exploded Chuckwalla.
It was the first card off the deck--the ace of spades. Jim Langley
slowly replaced the deck on the table and stepped back. Angel stared at
the card, licked his dry lips, and finally shrugged his shoulders.
Seventy-eight hundred dollars! He looked at his father, who was leaning
one elbow on the table, calmly counting the yellow chips.
“You got enough?” asked Angel hoarsely.
“Yeah,” said Rance. He stacked the chips and shoved them over to Angel,
who mechanically counted them before placing them in the rack.
“Is this game goin’ ahead?” asked Langley.
“In a few minutes,” said Angel. He looked at his father, as he got to
his feet.
“Come on and I’ll cash yuh in,” he said. The old man nodded and they
went to the rear of the saloon, entering Angel’s private room.
Angel shut the door and leaned back against it, while the old man stood
near the center, looking at him.
“You’re broke, eh?” said Rance coldly.
“Yeah, I’m broke,” admitted Angel. “I ain’t got enough money to keep my
games open. I’ve got about nine hundred in the bank.”
“And you owe me about six thousand dollars,” said Rance.
“Yeah.”
Old Rance studied the face of his son for several moments.
“Yuh stole an ace the other day, Angel.”
“Well?” Angel did not deny it.
“Everybody knows it,” said Rance softly. “It ruined yore business. I
brought the business back for yuh, and now yuh ain’t got enough money to
keep it rollin’. Here!”
He drew out his roll of bills, stripped off the eighteen hundred he had
won at the black-jack game, and gave it to the wondering Angel.
“Now,” said Rance coldly, “give me yore I.O.U. for the full
seventy-eight hundred.”
Angel’s eyes brightened quickly.
“You mean you’ll take my I.O.U. for that----”
“I always was a fool,” said the old man bitterly. “Go ahead and write it
out.”
Angel sat down at his table and quickly wrote out the I.O.U., which the
old man accepted.
“Go back to yore games,” said old Rance. “And see if yuh can’t deal
fair.”
They went back into the saloon and Angel opened the poker game again.
Old Rance went to the bar with Chuckwalla, and had a drink. The old man
had had several drinks before the game, and now he piled in several
more. Chuckwalla held the smudging cigar in his gnarled fingers and
tossed down drink after drink.
The black-jack game playing dwindled to nothing, and the dealer closed
the game until some customers showed up. In the meantime he went across
the street and up to the corner to the post-office.
Old Rance left the bar and went over to the poker table; not with any
intention of playing again, but merely drawn by the fascination of the
game. In a few minutes the dealer came back, handing Angel a letter as
he came past the table. Angel glanced at the postmark on the letter. It
was from Medicine Tree.
Jim Langley dropped out of the game and old Rance took his chair. He
indicated with a shake of his head that he did not wish to play. Angel
signaled to the dealer to take his place, and as soon as the
substitution was made, he went over to the end of the bar, tore open the
envelope, and began reading the letter.
Jim Parker closed his store at nine o’clock and went home. He had heard
that Rance McCoy was bucking the game in the Eagle, plunging heavily on
the black-jack game. But Parker was too tired to go over and see just
what was going on.
Lila was in her room, which adjoined the Parkers’ bedroom, reading, when
Jim Parker and his wife came up to bed, and she heard them discussing
what Parker had heard.
“Oh, the Eagle is filled up, they tell me,” said Parker. “I didn’t go
over. One of the boys said that old Rance had a roll of bills that would
choke a horse, and he’s bettin’ ’em high. What Angel will do to him will
be plenty.”
“Hasn’t Rance any sense at all?” queried Mrs. Parker.
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Parker sleepily. “Maybe he don’t know that
Angel is a crooked dealer. He wouldn’t expect his own son to steal from
him, would he? I’m glad tomorrow is Sunday.”
“Somebody ought to warn old Rance,” said Mrs. Parker.
“Well, don’t try it, my dear. It’s none of our business. If he wants to
go against a crooked deal--let him go.”
“How much money do you suppose he’ll lose, Jim?”
“Who--Rance? All he’s got. No, I’m not jokin’. Rance is a gambler, and
he’ll bet as long as he’s got a cent.”
Lila got to her feet and picked up the pale blue shawl. She could go
downstairs without passing the Parkers’ room; so she tiptoed softly
down, let herself out through the front door, which was never kept
locked, and went quickly out to the street.
It did not take her long to reach the Eagle Saloon. Some cowboys stared
at her as she came into the lights, but she paid no attention to them. A
cowboy was at the bar, singing a plaintive melody in a drunken tenor,
and there was a babel of voices, the clatter of poker chips.
Angel was back in the game again. She could see the back of Rance
McCoy’s grizzled old head, his sombrero tilted forward to shield his
eyes. The room was full of tobacco-smoke. Chuckwalla Ike saw her first.
He blinked foolishly and stumbled toward her, trying to tell her to get
out of there, but she eluded him and came in behind old Rance, putting a
hand on his shoulder.
Angel was dealing, but halted quickly. Every one in the room was staring
at her. Old Rance turned his head and looked up at her white face, a
puzzled expression in his eyes.
“What do yuh want, Lila?” he asked.
“Don’t play against him,” she said hoarsely, pointing at Angel. “Please
don’t. He admitted that he dealt crooked to you. He’s a cheat. He--he
told me he did.”
The room was silent. Angel’s face flushed hotly and he surged to his
feet, kicking back his chair.
“That’s a lie!” he hurled at her. “I never told yuh any such a thing.
You get out of here! This is no place for you.”
Lila faced him defiantly.
“I came to tell Rance McCoy what you did to him, Angel. If he wants to
play now--all right.”
“You came to warn him, eh?” sneered Angel. “Playin’ politics, are yuh?
Tryin’ to get in good with the old man. Lemme tell yuh somethin’ about
yourself. I just got a letter tonight. Yore father was a thief--a
bank-robber! He was killed----”
Old Rance sprang out of his chair and leaned across the table toward
Angel.
“Shut up, you dirty pup!” he gritted. “Give me that letter!”
“What if I won’t?” snapped Angel.
“Then I’ll take it off yore dead carcass.”
The old man had swayed sideways and his right elbow was bent slightly.
The men behind Angel sagged aside quickly.
“It’s in yore coat pocket,” said Rance warningly.
Slowly Angel reached into his pocket, took out the letter, and flung it
down in front of his father. Quickly the old man tore it into small
pieces, flinging them aside with a flip of his wrist.
The men were staring at old Rance, wondering what it was all about. They
did not know what Angel knew about Lila’s parentage, and as far as they
were concerned, they thought Angel was accusing old Rance of being these
things.
Old Rance reached back and took Lila by the arm.
“It’s all right,” he said brokenly. “Yuh can’t expect it to always work
out jist right. C’mon, Lila.”
They walked out together, the crowd staring after them. Angel’s face was
a little more white than usual as he dropped back into his chair, ready
to resume the game. But the players cashed in their chips and went out,
until no one remained in the place, except Angel, the other dealer, and
the bartender.
Rance walked as far as the gate of the Parker home with Lila. Neither of
them said anything until they reached the gate, when Lila said:
“Oh, I’m sorry it happened. I simply had to tell you. But I--I guess I
forgot he was your own son.”
“That’s all right, Lila; it was thoughtful of yuh to even think of me.”
“But that letter----” faltered Lila. “What letter was it?”
“I dunno,” slowly. “Forget it.”
“But he--he said my father was a thief and a bank-robber.”
Old Rance was silent for several moments.
“I don’t reckon Angel got the truth of the matter,” he said softly. “You
forget it, Lila. Goodnight.”
He turned and faded out in the darkness, going back to the main street.
The bulk of the crowd had gone back to the Red Arrow, and there was much
speculation regarding what had happened at the Eagle.
Old Chuckwalla Ike had gone back there with the crowd, and was drinking
prodigious quantities of raw liquor. One of the men asked him what Angel
had meant by telling the girl what he did. But Chuckwalla swore he
didn’t know.
“Angel’s crazy,” he declared. “Allus been crazy. Never did have the
sense that God gave geese in Ireland.”
“Well, he shore got trimmed,” declared Jim Langley. “Think of dealin’
first ace for five thousand! I figure old Rance won pretty close to
eight thousand from Angel; and if Angel can pay him off, I’m an Eskimo
in Florida.”
“Old Rance owns the Eagle right now,” stated another. “He shore paid
Angel for his crooked dealin’.”
Old Chuckwalla got pretty drunk before he left the Red Arrow and went on
a hunt for old Rance. The Eagle was dark. Chuckwalla managed to paw his
way along the hitch-rack and to locate his horse. It was only after
several tries that he was able to get into the saddle. Once he went all
the way over the horse, but had presence of mind enough to cling to the
reins.
“Shore gettin’ active in m’ old age,” he told himself as he tried to get
his foot out of his hat. “Ain’t many men of my age that can leap plumb
over a bronc in the dark.”
He finally got seated and rode out of town, swaying in his saddle, and
trying to sing. It was about eleven o’clock when he reached the Circle
Spade. By this time he was sober enough to unsaddle his horse, turn it
loose in a corral, and go up to the ranch-house, where he went to bed.
His horse had picked up a small stone in the frog of its right front
foot, and was limping badly, but Chuckwalla didn’t know it.