THE "BRONCO KID'S" EAVESDROPPING
Late in July it grows dark as midnight approaches, so that the many
lights from doorway and window seem less garish and strange than they
do a month earlier. In the Northern there was good business doing. The
new bar fixtures, which had cost a king's ransom, or represented the
one night's losings of a Klondike millionaire, shone rich, dark, and
enticing, while the cut glass sparkled with iridescent hues,
reflecting, in a measure, the prismatic moods, the dancing spirits of
the crowd that crushed past, halting at the gambling games, or
patronizing the theatre in the rear. The old bar furniture, brought
down by dog team from "Up River," was established at the rear extremity
of the long building, just inside the entrance to the dancehall, where
patrons of the drama might, with a modicum of delay and inconvenience,
quaff as deeply of the beaker as of the ballet.
Now, however, the show had closed, the hall had been cleared of chairs
and canvas, exposing a glassy, tempting surface, and the orchestra had
moved to the stage. They played a rollicking, blood-stirring two-step,
while the floor swam with dancers.
At certain intervals the musicians worked feverishly up to a crashing
crescendo, supported by the voices of the dancers, until all joined at
the top note in a yell, while the drummer fired a .44 Colt into a box
of wet sawdust beside his chair--all in time, all in the swinging
spirit of the tune.
The men, who were mostly young, danced like college boys, while the
women, who were all young and good dancers, floated through the
measures with the ease of rose-leaves on a summer stream. Faces were
flushed, eyes were bright, and but rarely a voice sounded that was not
glad. Most of the noise came from the men, and although one caught,
here and there, a hint of haggard lines about the girlish faces, and
glimpsed occasional eyes that did not smile, yet as a whole the scene
was one of genuine enjoyment.
Suddenly the music ceased and the couples crowded to the bar. The women
took harmless drinks, the men, mostly whiskey. Rarely was the choice of
potations criticised, though occasionally some ruddy eschewer of
sobriety insisted that his lady "take the same," avowing that "hootch,"
having been demonstrated beneficial in his case, was good for her also.
Invariably the lady accepted without dispute, and invariably the man
failed to note her glance at the bartender, or the silent substitution
by that capable person of ginger-ale for whiskey or of plain water for
gin. In turn, the mixers collected one dollar from each man, flipping
to the girl a metal percentage-check which she added to her store. In
the curtained boxes overhead, men bought bottles with foil about the
corks, and then subterfuge on the lady's part was idle, but, on the
other hand, she was able to pocket for each bottle a check redeemable
at five dollars.
A stranger, straight from the East, would have remarked first upon the
good music, next upon the good looks of the women, and then upon the
shabby clothes of the men--for some of them were in "mukluk," others in
sweaters with huge initials and winged emblems, and all were collarless.
Outside in the main gambling-room there were but few women. Men crowded
in dense masses about the faro lay-out, the wheel, craps, the Klondike
game, pangingi, and the card-tables. They talked of business, of home,
of women, bought and sold mines, and bartered all things from hams to
honor. The groomed and clean, the unkempt and filthy jostled shoulder
to shoulder, equally affected by the license of the goldfields and the
exhilaration of the New. The mystery of the North had touched them all.
The glad, bright wine of adventure filled their veins, and they spoke
mightily of things they had resolved to do, or recounted with simple
diffidence the strange stories of their accomplishment.
The "Bronco Kid," familiar from Atlin to Nome as the best "bank" dealer
on the Yukon, worked the shift from eight till two. He was a slender
man of thirty, dexterous in movement, slow to smile, soft of voice, and
known as a living flame among women. He had dealt the biggest games of
the early days, and had no enemies. Yet, though many called him friend,
they wondered inwardly.
It was a strong play the Kid had to-night, for Swede Sam, of Dawson,
ventured many stacks of yellow chips, and he was a quick, aggressive
gambler. A Jew sat at the king end with ten neatly creased
one-thousand-dollar bills before him, together with piles of smaller
currency. He adventured viciously and without system, while outsiders
to the number of four or five cut in sporadically with small bets. The
game was difficult to follow; consequently the lookout, from his raised
dais, was leaning forward, chin in hand, while the group was hedged
about by eager on-lookers.
Faro is a closed book to most people, for its intricacies are
confusing. Lucky is he who has never persevered in solving its
mysteries nor speculated upon the "systems" of beating it. From those
who have learned it, the game demands practice, dexterity, and
coolness. The dealer must run the cards, watch the many shifting bets,
handle the neatly piled checks, figure, lightning-like, the profits and
losses. It was his unerring, clock like regularity in this that had won
the Kid his reputation. This night his powers were taxed. He dealt
silently, scowlingly, his long white fingers nervously caressing the
cards.
This preoccupation prevented his noticing the rustle and stir of a
new-comer who had crowded up behind him, until he caught the wondering
glances of those in front and saw that the Israelite was staring past
him, his money forgotten, his eyes beady and sharp, his rat-like teeth
showing in a grin of admiration. Swede Sam glared from under his
unkempt shock and felt uncertainly towards the open collar of his
flannel shirt where a kerchief should have been. The men who were
standing gazed at the new-comer, some with surprise, others with a half
smile of recognition.
Bronco glanced quickly over his shoulder, and as he did so the breath
caught in his throat--but for only an instant. A girl stood so close
beside him that the lace of her gown brushed his sleeve. He was
shuffling at the moment and dropped a card, then nodded to her.
speaking quietly, as he stooped to regain the pasteboard:
"Howdy, Cherry?"
She did not answer--only continued to look at the "lay-out." "What a
woman!" he thought. She was not too tall, with smoothly rounded bust
and hips, and long waist, all well displayed by her perfectly fitting
garments. Her face was oval, the mouth rather large, the eyes of dark,
dark-blue, prominently outlined under thin, silken lids. Her dull-gold
hair was combed low over the ears, and her smile showed rows of
sparkling teeth before it dived into twin dimples. Strangest of all, it
was an innocent face, the face and smile of a school-girl.
The Kid finished his shuffling awkwardly and slid the cards into the
box. Then the woman spoke:
"Let me have your place, Bronco."
The men gasped, the Jew snickered, the lookout straightened in his
chair.
"Better not. It's a hard game," said the Kid, but her voice was
imperious as she commanded him:
"Hurry up. Give me your place."
Bronco arose, whereupon she settled in his chair, tucked in her skirts,
removed her gloves, and twisted into place the diamonds on her hands.
"What the devil's this?" said the lookout, roughly. "Are you drunk,
Bronco? Get out of that chair, miss."
She turned to him slowly. The innocence had fled from her features and
the big eyes flashed warningly. A change had coarsened her like a puff
of air on a still pool. Then, while she stared at him, her lids drooped
dangerously and her lip curled.
"Throw him out, Bronco," she said, and her tones held the hardness of a
mistress to her slave.
"That's all right," the Kid reassured the lookout. "She's a better
dealer than I am. This is Cherry Malotte."
Without noticing the stares this evoked, the girl commenced. Her hands,
beautifully soft and white, flashed over the board. She dealt rapidly,
unfalteringly, with the finish of one bred to the cards, handling chips
and coppers with the peculiar mannerisms that spring from long
practice. It was seen that she never looked at her check-rack, but,
when a bet required paying, picked up a stack without turning her head;
and they saw further that she never reached twice, nor took a large
pile and sized it up against its mate, removing the extra disks, as is
the custom. When she stretched forth her hand she grasped the right
number unerringly. This is considered the acme of professional finish,
and the Bronco Kid smiled delightedly as he saw the wonder spread from
the lookout to the spectators and heard the speech of the men who stood
on chairs and tables for sight of the woman dealer.
For twenty minutes she continued, until the place became congested, and
never once did the lookout detect an error.
While she was busy, Glenister entered the front-door and pushed his way
back towards the theatre. He was worried and distrait, his manner
perturbed and unnatural. Silently and without apparent notice he passed
friends who greeted him.
"What ails Glenister to-night?" asked a by-stander. "He acts funny,"
"Ain't you heard? Why, the Midas has been jumped. He's in a bad
way--all broke up."
The girl suddenly ceased without finishing the deck, and arose.
"Don't stop," said the Kid, while a murmur of dismay came from the
spectators. She only shook her head and drew on her gloves with a show
of ennui.
Gliding through the crowd, she threaded about aimlessly, the recipient
of many stares though but few greetings, speaking with no one, a
certain dignity serving her as a barrier even here. She stopped a
waiter and questioned him.
"He's up-stairs in a gallery box."
"Alone?"
"Yes'm. Anyhow, he was a minute ago, unless some of the rustlers has
broke in on him."
A moment later Glenister, watching the scene below, was aroused from
his gloomy absorption by the click of the box door and the rustle of
silken skirts.
"Go out, please," he said, without turning. "I don't want company."
Hearing no answer, he began again, "I came here to be alone"--but there
he ceased, for the girl had come forward and laid her two hot hands
upon his cheeks.
"Boy," she breathed--and he arose swiftly.
"Cherry! When did you come?"
"Oh, DAYS ago," she said, impatiently, "from Dawson. They told me you
had struck it. I stood it as long as I could--then I came to you. Now,
tell me about yourself. Let me see you first, quick!"
She pulled him towards the light and gazed upward, devouring him
hungrily with her great, languorous eyes. She held to his coat lapels,
standing close beside him, her warm breath beating up into his face.
"Well," she said, "kiss me!"
He took her wrists in his and loosed her hold, then looked down on her
gravely and said:
"No--that's all over. I told you so when I left Dawson."
"All over! Oh no, it isn't, boy. You think so, but it isn't--it can't
be. I love you too much to let you go."
"Hush!" said he. "There are people in the next box."
"I don't care! Let them hear," she cried, with feminine recklessness.
"I'm proud of my love for you. I'll tell it to them--to the whole
world."
"Now, see here, little girl," he said, quietly, "we had a long talk in
Dawson and agreed that it was best to divide our ways. I was mad over
you once, as a good many other men have been, but I came to my senses.
Nothing could ever result from it, and I told you so."
"Yes, yes--I know. I thought I could give you up, but I didn't realize
till you had gone how I wanted you. Oh, it's been a TORTURE to me every
day for the past two years." There was no semblance now to the cold
creature she had appeared upon entering the gambling-hall. She spoke
rapidly, her whole body tense with emotion, her voice shaken with
passion. "I've seen men and men and men, and they've loved me, but I
never cared for anybody in the world till I saw you. They ran after me,
but you were cold. You made me come to you. Perhaps that was it.
Anyhow, I can't stand it. I'll give up everything--I'll do anything
just to be where you are. What do you think of a woman who will beg?
Oh, I've lost my pride--I'm a fool--a fool--but I can't help it."
"I'm sorry you feel this way," said Glenister. "It isn't my fault, and
it isn't of any use."
For an instant she stood quivering, while the light died out of her
face; then, with a characteristic change, she smiled till the dimples
laughed in her cheeks. She sank upon a seat beside him and pulled
together the curtains, shutting out the sight below.
"Very well"--then she put his hand to her cheek and cuddled it. "I'm
glad to see you just the same, and you can't keep me from loving you."
With his other hand he smoothed her hair, while, unknown to him and
beneath her lightness, she shrank and quivered at his touch like a
Barbary steed under the whip.
"Things are very bad with me," he said. "We've had our mine jumped."
"Bah! You know what to do. You aren't a cripple--you've got five
fingers on your gun hand."
"That's it! They all tell me that--all the old-timers; but I don't know
what to do. I thought I did--but I don't. The law has come into this
country and I've tried to meet it half-way. They jumped us and put in a
receiver--a big man--by the name of McNamara. Dex wasn't there and I
let them do it. When the old man learned of it he nearly went crazy. We
had our first quarrel. He thought I was afraid--"
"Not he," said the girl. "I know him and he knows you."
"That was a week ago. We've hired the best lawyer in Nome--Bill
Wheaton--and we've tried to have the injunction removed. We've offered
bond in any sum, but the Judge refuses to accept it. We've argued for
leave to appeal, but he won't give us the right. The more I look into
it the worse it seems, for the court wasn't convened in accordance with
law, we weren't notified to appear in our own behalf, we weren't
allowed a chance to argue our own case--nothing. They simply slapped on
a receiver, and now they refuse to allow us redress. From a legal
stand-point, it's appalling, I'm told--but what's to be done? What's
the game? That's the thing. What are they up to? I'm nearly out of my
mind, for it's all my fault. I didn't think it meant anything like this
or I'd have made a fight for possession and stood them off at least. As
it is, my partner's sore and he's gone to drinking--first time in
twelve years. He says I gave the claim away, and now it's up to me and
the Almighty to get it back. If he gets full he'll drive a four-horse
wagon into some church, or go up and pick the Judge to pieces with his
fingers to see what makes him go round."
"What've they got against you and Dextry--some grudge?" she questioned.
"No, no! We're not the only ones in trouble; they've jumped the rest of
the good mines and put this McNamara in as receiver on all of them, but
that's small comfort. The Swedes are crazy; they've hired all the
lawyers in town, and are murdering more good American language than
would fill Bering Strait. Dex is in favor of getting our friends
together and throwing the receiver off. He wants to kill somebody, but
we can't do that. They've got the soldiers to fall back on. We've been
warned that the troops are instructed to enforce the court's action. I
don't know what the plot is, for I can't believe the old Judge is
crooked--the girl wouldn't let him."
"Girl?"
Cherry Malotte leaned forward where the light shone on the young man's
worried face.
"The girl? What girl? Who is she?"
Her voice had lost its lazy caress, her lips had thinned. Never was a
woman's face more eloquent, mused Glenister as he noted her. Every
thought fled to this window to peer forth, fearful, lustful, hateful,
as the case might be. He had loved to play with her in the former days,
to work upon her passions and watch the changes, to note her features
mirror every varying emotion from tenderness to flippancy, from anger
to delight, and, at his bidding, to see the pale cheeks glow with
love's fire, the eyes grow heavy, the dainty lips invite kisses. Cherry
was a perfect little spoiled animal, he reflected, and a very dangerous
one.
"What girl?" she questioned again, and he knew beforehand the look that
went with it.
"The girl I intend to marry," he said, slowly, looking her between the
eyes.
He knew he was cruel--he wanted to be--it satisfied the clamor and
turmoil within him, while he also felt that the sooner she knew and the
colder it left her the better. He could not note the effect of the
remark on her, however, for, as he spoke, the door of the box opened
and the head of the Bronco Kid appeared, then retired instantly with
apologies.
"Wrong stall," he said, in his slow voice. "Looking for another party."
Nevertheless, his eyes had covered every inch of them--noted the drawn
curtains and the breathless poise of the woman--while his ears had
caught part of Glenister's speech.
"You won't marry her," said Cherry, quietly. "I don't know who she is,
but I won't let you marry her."
She rose and smoothed her skirts.
"It's time nice people were going now." She said it with a sneer at
herself. "Take me out through this crowd. I'm living quietly and I
don't want these beasts to follow me."
As they emerged from the theatre the morning air was cool and quiet,
while the sun was just rising. The Bronco Kid lighted a cigar as they
passed, nodding silently at their greeting. His eyes followed them,
while his hands were so still that the match burned through to his
fingers--then when they had gone his teeth met and ground savagely
through the tobacco so that the cigar fell, while he muttered:
"So that's the girl you intend to marry? We'll see, by God!"