The news fled like a prairie fire. From ranch to ranch, from the
trading stores that dotted the foothill country, up to Banff, where P.
D.’s packhorses were carrying the tourists into the supposed wilds of
the Rocky Mountains and down to the cowtown of Cochrane. Here the news
was received with consternation and amazement.
P. D.’s name was a household word. His cattle, his grain, so ran
the legend, had made this part of the country famous throughout the
civilized world. And as for chess: The country people knew but vaguely
the meaning of the word; but they did know at least that it was
associated in some illustrious way with their distinguished neighbour,
P. D. McPherson. He was a Chess Champion. “Champion” was a name to
conjure with. It put P. D.’s name upon several occasions into the
newspapers; in obscure parts where they printed riddles and conundrums
and funny stuff for children, but also whenever P. D.’s exploits at
the cattle fairs were summed up in the local press, and his picture
appeared on the front page and he gave out interviews predicting the
ruin of the country or its ascendancy above all other countries in the
world, there was always a line included about P. D. being the Chess
Champion of Western Canada and potential champion of all of Canada.
Even the riders on the range and the crews at the road and lumber camps
stopped each other to gossip about the incredulous news.
“Did you hear about P. D.?” one would inquire.
“No, what about him?”
“He got beat. Beat at chess.”
“G’wan!”
“Sure did.”
“You don’t say. Who done it? Betchu some Yank come on over from the
States, huh?”
“Not on your life. One of his own men done it.”
“G’wan! Who?”
“Well, that English fly, the Cheerio Duke they call him, the one they
picked off the road in July--he licked the pants off P. D.”
“You don’t say. _Him!_ Why, he’s nothing but a tenderfoot. He don’t
know nothing.”
“Don’t he, though! That’s where you’re off your bat. What he don’t
know, ain’t worth knowing, believe me.”
“Well, you hear all sorts o’ tales about him. Who is he, anyway?”
“Dunno, and nobody else does. But one thing’s sure, he licked P. D.
Licked him the first time they played, and he’s kept it up every night
since. They’s a bet on. He’s to hold his job till P. D. licks him, and
from the looks of things ’pears like he’s got a permanent job. And
say--I heard that the old man ses he ain’t goin’ over to the States to
play for championship there until he’s trimmed Cheerio chap.”
“I want to know! The Calgary _Blizzard_ had a whole column ’bout him
goin’ over to the States to beat the Champion there.”
“Well, he’s got his hands full right here.”
“Guess I’ll ride over and take a look-in at O Bar.”
“Not a chance. Say, the old man’s sore as a dog. Ain’t lettin’ a soul
into the house. Has himself shut in and ain’t taking a bite of air
and hardly any eats. Just gone plumb crazy on that chess game. It’s
something like checkers, only it ain’t the same. You got to use your
nut to play it.”
“Well, here’s to old P. D. Hope he wins.”
“Here’s to him, as you say, but he ain’t got a chance. That Cheerio
duke ain’t no amachoor.”
Alberta, as all the world is beginning to know, is a gambler’s
paradise. In this great boom land, where every day brings its new
discoveries of gold, oil, coal, silver, salts, platinum and all the
minerals this world of ours hides within herself, one tosses a penny
on life itself. From all parts of the world come people whose lives
and hopes are dependent upon games of chance, be they of the board, a
pack of cards, the stock market, the oil fields or the great gamble
of the land. Gambling is instinctive and intuitive in Alberta. A
chance is taken on anything. The man in the city and the man upon the
land throwing the dice of fate upon the soil are equally concerned in
gambling.
Cheerio’s proposition, therefore, and the way in which it was rumoured
he continued to beat the veteran chess player appealed to the sporting
sense of the country. It was not long before money was up and bets were
on the players. News of the game swept down finally to Calgary, and a
sporting editor dispatched a reporter upon the job. The reporter liked
his assignment first rate, since it included a trip into the foothills
and an indefinite leave of absence. He was not, however, received with
open arms at O Bar O.
Hilda, when he revealed the fact that he was a reporter, snapped the
screen door closed, and only after the most diplomatic argument on the
part of the newspaper man finally consented to announce his presence at
O Bar O to her father.
“Just tell him,” said the reporter, “that I only want a word or two
from him, and I’ll not print a line that he doesn’t approve of.”
To this perfectly amicable message, P. D. (invisible but plainly heard
shouting his explosive reply) returned:
“No, G-- D-- it. I’ll see no snooping, spying, G-- D-- reporter. I’ll
have none of ’em on my place. I’ll have ’em thrown off. This is no
public place, and I’ll have no G-- D-- reporter trespassing upon my
G-- D-- privacy.”
Hilda, back at the screen door:
“My father says he doesn’t want to see you, and if I were you, I’d beat
it, because we’ve got some pretty husky men on this place and you don’t
look any too strong. There’s no telling what might happen to you, you
know.”
“Will you just ask your father, then, if he will give me, through
you, a statement as to the chances of Canada winning the World
Championship, either through him or his present opponent. What we are
chiefly interested in--that is to say, the readers of the Calgary
_Blizzard_--is whether or not we are to have the Cup for Canada. It
doesn’t matter whether Mr. McPherson or his opponent gets it for us.”
“Oh, doesn’t it, though!” Hilda could have hit him with pleasure. So
it didn’t matter to the big, heartless public whether her Dad or that
Englishman won or not.
“Well, would you mind asking your father just that?”
Hilda, inside:
“Dad, he wants to know whether either you or--_him_” (Hilda referred
always to Cheerio as “him” or “he”) “will be going to Chicago for the
tournament now.”
“You tell that bloody young news hound that he’ll do well to clear off
the place in a damn quick hurry, or we’ll make it a damned sight hotter
for him than the place he’s eventually headed for.”
Hilda, back at screen door:
“My father says for you to clear off the place, and I advise you to,
too. You’ve a nerve to come here to get stuff to print against my
father in the paper. I’d just like to see you dare to print anything
about us. It’s none of the newspapers’ business, and my father will
win, anyway.”
“Thank you. I’m glad to have that line on the game. Did he win last
night?”
“I’m not going to answer a single question. We don’t want a single
thing to get in the papers.”
“But it’s already been in the paper.”
“What?”
“Here you are--half a column story.”
Hilda came out on to the porch, and seized and scanned the paper. Her
face burned as she read, and the hot, angry tears arose in her eyes.
How dared they publish for all the world to read that her old dad was
being beaten each night by that Englishman? She whirled around on the
inoffensive reporter.
“Who wrote that beastly stuff? It’s a damned shame. Just goes to show
what your old newspapers are. Did you write it?”
“No, no,” hastily denied the reporter. “I was only assigned to the
job to-day. That’s some outside stuff telephoned in, probably by one
of your neighbours. I’m here to follow up--to get a special story, in
fact. And look here, Miss McPherson--you’re Miss McPherson, aren’t
you?--well, look here, it’s better for us to get the dope directly from
yourselves than have to make it up. I’m here to get a story, and I’m
going to get it.”
“Well, let me tell you, you’ll have some sweet time getting it.”
“I intend to stay here till I do.”
“Here on our steps? I’d like to see you.”
“Well, not exactly on the steps--but on the job, at all events, I’ll
camp down the road by the river, and I can cover the story just as well
from there.”
Hilda threw him a look of withering scorn. Pushed the screen door open,
and banged it, as well as the inside door, in the reporter’s face.
He stood in thought a moment on the steps and then he jotted down:
“Beautiful young daughter of P. D. McPherson on guard over father.
Inherits famous disposition. Declares that her father will win.
Intimates that he, not his hitherto victorious opponent, will go to
Chicago----”
At this juncture, and while he was jotting down the notes anent Hilda
McPherson, Cheerio came up the steps and crossed the verandah toward
the front door, followed by Sandy, who, much to the bitter indignation
of his sister, was once again the Englishman’s satellite and admirer.
“Good evening,” said the reporter, cordially.
“Hello!” returned the unsuspicious Cheerio, and returned the grip of
the newspaper man’s hand.
“I wonder if you could give me some information about this Englishman
who’s playing opposite Mr. P. D. McPherson for the Western Championship
and----”
“Wh-wh-wh-wh-wh-what f-f-for?” stammered Cheerio, taken aback by the
question.
“I’m from the Calgary _Blizzard_ and----”
“G-g-g-good God!”
“If you know the man who----”
“Gee! He’s him hisself!” chortled Sandy.
Cheerio was punching the electric bell persistently. Hilda, hurrying
at the summons, opened the door inside, cast a haughty look from the
reporter to Cheerio, and then reluctantly unhooked the latch and let
the latter in. She closed both doors again with a snap.
Sandy, who had not followed Cheerio into the house, stood grinning
up at the reporter, and the latter was seized with an inspiration.
He returned the jeering stare of P. D.’s son with a man-to-man look
of confidence. Nonchalantly, he brought forth a cigarette case and,
extending it carelessly to Sandy, invited him to have one. Sandy, whose
young lips had never touched the forbidden weed, helped himself with
ostentatious carelessness and even accepted the light tendered from
the other’s half finished stub.
“In a hurry?” asked the newspaper man.
“Nope.”
“Suppose we sit over here.”
The reporter indicated the steps, and Sandy leaned back against the
pillar with the cigarette alternately between his two fingers or
between his young lips.
“You’re P. D. McPherson’s son, are you not?”
“Yeh.”
“Well, what about this Englishman? I wonder if you can tell me
something about him.”
“Sure,” said Sandy, ignoring a sudden quaking at the pit of his
stomach, and blowing out an elaborate whiff of smoke. “Sure, I c’n tell
you all about him.”