HIGH STAKES
At times before this the corporal had faced death without a tremor of
fear. Now, as he looked into the malignant face, hideous and
bestial, looming before him in the shadow of the fireplace, he felt
loathing and disgust, but he was not afraid. Crill outweighed him by
nearly a hundred pounds; he was crippled, unarmed, defenseless. Yet
as he felt the logs behind him, and knew there was no further
retreat, the beat of his pulse grew slow and regular and an icy
calmness gripped him.
His hand was still in his pocket, and he kept it there. "Stop!" he
said in a low, chilling voice.
The outlaw checked himself in mid-stride, and as though drawn by
hypnotic force, his glance wavered and focussed itself upon the
pocket of the corporal's jacket. He balanced on his feet for an
instant with tensely drawn muscles, torn between the madness to kill
and the craven dread of taking a chance.
"Back!" commanded Dexter, his hand gripped rigidly in his lifted
pocket.
For the length of a breath the murderer hesitated; a shifty, furtive
look crept into his squinting eyes; his hands closed and opened
again, and his arms fell slowly against his sides; and then, with a
hoarse sound in his throat, his gross body relaxed, and he half
stumbled backwards on his heel.
A hot thrill of exultance surged through Dexter's veins as he
realized that he had won; but his voice remained frigid and the
expression of his face did not change. "Pick up that table!" he
ordered.
A sullen red color surged up over Crill's neck and ears, and his lips
drew apart in a wolfish snarl; but something in Dexter's glance
schooled him to silence. Without a word he turned on his heel,
slouched back across the room, stooped over the table, and turned it
back on its four legs.
"All right!" said Dexter, the note of triumph erased from his speech.
"Also the dishes, if you don't mind!"
Knowing now that the man would obey him, he turned aside and
sauntered across the floor to confront Alison. And it needed but a
glance at her frightened, guilty face to tell him what had become of
his revolver. He recalled now how she had leaned against him when
she gave him his cup of coffee. As he remembered, he had the gun a
few minutes before when he sat down at the table. She must have made
the opportunity deliberately, and extracted the revolver from his
pocket without his knowledge.
He scrutinized her for a moment in grim questioning, wondering what
her purpose might have been. Was it her intention to strip him of
his only means of defense, and leave him at the mercy of his enemies?
The supposition was unthinkable, and with his first glimpse of
Alison's eyes he dismissed it as an unworthy and horrible thought.
There were two other possibilities: either she wanted the revolver
for her own protection, or else she had taken it to get rid of
evidence that might some day be used against her.
He knew that she must have the gun concealed about her person, but he
dared not try to get it back again, or ask her why she had taken it.
His life was an insurable risk only as long as Crill might be kept in
ignorance of the truth.
"Your boarders owe you an apology," he remarked with a sardonic
smile. "It isn't polite to be jumping up and down from the dinner
table. But we'll both try to behave ourselves in the future."
Alison was crouching by the fireplace with a smoking skillet in her
hand, staring at the corporal with wide, awe-stricken eyes. She had
seen him coerce a madman by sheer force of nerve, and the swift
frustration of tragedy had left her breathless and trembling.
"If you don't mind," resumed Dexter in faint mockery, "we'll go on
with the next course. The loss of the first is irreparable, but
we'll try to forget it."
"I--there's enough left in the pot--I can fill your plates again,"
the girl stammered, and he knew that she had no sense of what she was
saying.
The corporal nodded quietly, crossed the room and took his place at
the table, opposite the glowering Crill. Alison came forward in
trepidation to remove the empty plates; and for the present at least,
the incident was closed.
Dexter returned to his dinner with unaffected appetite, quite as
though nothing had happened; and when he had finished he pushed back
his stool and invited his sulky companion to go outside with him for
a walk.
The branching creek still rushed in swollen torrents around the
little island, boiling and roaring among the rocks, carrying masses
of ice and gyrating tree trunks along with the currents. The flood
ran level with the high-water mark of the afternoon, and apparently
the spring rise had reached its highest stage. From now on the water
probably would gradually recede, but Dexter knew by previous
experience with wilderness freshets, it might take two or three days
longer before he could expect to recross the ford. He scanned the
length of turbulent rapids, and shook his head. If Stark's party
failed to show up in the meanwhile, and if he could force himself to
stay awake for two more days and nights, he might escape from the
island. But at that moment the prospects were not cheering.
When he went back to the cabin, he ordered Crill to retire into his
marked circle before the fireplace. "I'm not going to stand for any
more foolishness," he remarked with an assurance he was far from
feeling. "That's your spot, and I advise you to stay in it."
Alison had already crept into her bunk. Her soft hair was tumbled
over her face, and her head lay pillowed on her extended arm. She
seemed to be asleep. Dexter looked down at her, and his lips
quivered into a wistful, tender smile. For a moment he stood
motionless in the concealing shadow by the bunk, and then, with a
slow-drawn breath he tiptoed across the floor to dim the light of the
lantern. A brief inspection of the inner premises assured him that
the door and window shutters were fastened, and he retreated to his
own corner of the room to take up his second night's vigil.
The fear that he might go to sleep had grown like a haunting specter
in his mind. He knew that if he once allowed himself to drop off, he
would sink into a deep slumber, from which there would be no
awakening. Afraid to lie down, he planted himself on a stool, leaned
his head and shoulders against the wall, and made himself as
comfortable as he dared.
So he spent the night, listening as in an evil dream to the mutter of
the rapids outside, nodding and dozing, but arousing himself each
time he felt the muscles of his body begin to sag; conning over all
the fragments of verse he could remember, doing sums in mental
arithmetic; somehow forcing his reluctant brain to keep on
functioning. He managed to watch out the night, but dawn found him
slumping on his stool, haggard and hollow-eyed, knowing that he could
not stick it out for many hours more.
By the exertion of all his will power, he managed to hold his leaden
eyes open through the interminable hours of daylight. The forking
waters had begun to fall, inch by inch. The channel, however, was
still too deep for wading. By morning, perhaps, he might venture the
crossing. He had not quite decided what he would do if he succeeded
in reaching the open shore opposite, but his common sense advised him
to let Crill escape. At least he could then creep off in hiding and
sleep. Even if he lost a day or two it would not be too late to take
up the trail again. But for the present he was in the situation of
the trapper who caught the grizzly by the tail. He had his prisoner
captive, and he couldn't let go.
The prospect of fighting off sleep through another night appalled
him. Coffee had lost the power to stimulate his nerves, and he found
himself moving about in a sort of daze, obsessed by the fear that he
might doze off, even while he stood on his feet. He had read and
re-read all the magazines in the cabin, and out of desperation that
evening he sought about him for something to occupy his mind. On the
back of one of the shelves he discovered a greasy pack of playing
cards. He riffled the deck under his thumb, and cast a speculative
glance towards Crill.
"Ever play any cards?" he inquired.
The outlaw looked over his shoulder with a twisted grin. "Sure," he
said--"when they make it interesting. But no piker stuff!"
"What do you call piker stuff?"
"Slipping 'em off for dimes." Crill fixed the officer with his beady
glance. "How much you got on you?"
Dexter shook his head depreciatingly. Money was of no use to a man
in the wilderness, and when he had ridden out from Crooked Forks on
long patrol, nearly a year ago, he carried in his pocket only a few
dollars in cash that had been left from his last August's pay.
He produced two small bills, and at sight of the numerals Crill
laughed raucously. "You don't think I'm going to fool around any
with crockery marbles, do you?" he jeered. He started to turn away,
but checked himself instantly, and faced the corporal with a sobered
expression. "At that," he added, "you've got something I could use,"
he added. "If you want to get away from the little boy stuff, maybe
we can talk."
"Yes?" said the corporal, a little puzzled. "What have I got?"
"Me!"
"What?"
"You get me." Crill's thick lips parted in a crafty smile. "I got
three thousand in gold in my belt, and ten coarse notes that bring
the total to fifteen grand. That's something for you to shoot at.
And all you got to put up is something that don't cost you anything."
"Let's get this straight," said Dexter, his eyes narrowing. "You
wish to play cards with me, you putting up money, I staking--your
freedom?"
"You said it," replied the other tensely. "You got it quick."
"Just how would such a game be played?" asked Dexter in a smooth,
milky tone.
"Poker--Jacks--the draw to fill--and a show-down." The outlaw drew a
breath of kindling excitement. "Five hundred bucks at a smash--you
swearing to let me go if you lose. If you win you've got some velvet
to go on. And we keep going until you break me or I break you.
Simple?"
"Quite!" Dexter stood for a moment in meditative silence. He had
already decided to let his prisoner go, if he ever got the chance.
So whether he should win or lose in this game of strangely matched
stakes, the police were out nothing. There was no point of honor
involved. The main consideration was the game itself. There ought
to be enough interest in such an encounter to keep him awake, and no
matter what the cost, he must not sleep to-night.
"If I should agree to release you," he said after a pause, "the
promise goes only that far. I would give you only a day's start, and
then I go after you again."
"A day's start is enough for me to shake any cop," returned Crill
with a sneer.
"Another thing," pursued the corporal quietly: "If we play, we play
fair. I want you to be entirely satisfied--as I know you wish me to
be--that fortune alone governs the turn. An impartial third person
deals the cards."
"Eh?" The outlaw looked up with an ugly scowl. "Who, for instance?"
"Miss Rayne, I'm sure, wouldn't mind dealing for each of us in turn."
Crill shifted his lowering glance from Dexter to the girl and his
scowl changed gradually to an oily smirk. "All right, lady, you do
it," he said. He snapped his fingers, devil-may-care. "Let's go!"
he invited.