say, for the whistle of the _Prairie Belle_ startled the crowd as she
steamed up to the levee, and Long Mike staggered to his feet, stuffing
his winnings in his pockets as he rose. Neither whiskey nor poker was
potent to hold him when there was business to be done.
As he stepped unsteadily into the open air, Sam heard him asking of the
wide, wide world, “Where is that man Gallagher?”
V
STUMPY’S DILEMMA
The only thing stirring on the levee at Brownsville on Sunday morning,
usually, was a small dog belonging to Stumpy. It was of record that when
Stumpy arrived at Brownsville with his dog Peter, bringing their entire
earthly possessions wrapped in a large red handkerchief, Peter came
across the gangplank first, being in hot pursuit of a rat. The rat
escaped, finding its way into a crevice near the edge of the water, and
the most of Peter’s spare time for the two years that had elapsed since
then had been spent near that crevice. No sign of the rat had ever been
discovered, but Peter’s faith was abiding.
It was possibly characteristic of the breed of Peter, which was
considered in Brownsville to be some sort of terrier--and it was
certainly characteristic of Peter that he did not sit down by the
crevice to watch for that rat, but ran back and forth continually,
barking, meanwhile, with cheerful disregard of the effort involved. He
did not wag his tail, being possessed of a totally insufficient amount
of tail to be wagged. “Sure his tail was never cut off,” Stumpy used to
say, “it was drove in.” But he wagged the entire hinder portion of his
body, as he ran, with an enthusiasm that frequently sent two of his legs
high in the air.
While he was engaged in this fashion one otherwise peaceful Sabbath day,
his master appeared in view, and the two were soon in conversation.
“Thim two spalpeens that kim off the boat last night, I’m thinkin’, is
goin’ to do up the town, I do’ know,” said Stumpy, whose habit it was to
discuss matters with Peter when he found them too difficult to
understand easily.
Peter looked at him anxiously, but finding that Stumpy had paused for
reflection, he barked once, and waited.
“That’s just it,” said Stumpy, eagerly. “The divil’s own cousin cudn’t
tell if they was Mormon missionaries or retail grocers on a holiday
trip. If it was down the river, now, they’d be cotton factors maybe, but
whhat’d a cotton factor be doin’ in Brownsville, I do’ know. An’ the
drink! Glory be, but they’re divils for drink. An’ Long Mike on’y a week
after the last wan.”
This last remark called for no explanation in Brownsville, where Long
Mike’s sprees were events in municipal history. Peter whined
lugubriously.
“An’ it’s right ye are, Peter,” said Stumpy. “If he starts in again now
there’ll be an end. Didn’t he wipe out Gallagher’s place from door to
door, wid the glory o’ drink in him, two weeks ago? It’s none too
peaceful at the best, that Brownsville is, but wid him drunk it’s hell.
An’ it’s drunk he’ll be again if thim two strangers stays. An’ I do be
thinkin’, Peter, that if he’s drunk again afore the change o’ the moon,
he’ll sober up in the life everlastin’.”
At this Peter howled long and loud, and Stumpy lapsed into silence.
To them presently appeared Sam. The exigencies of business required
Sam’s presence in the barroom, as a usual thing, regardless of the day,
or time of day, he being the only dispenser of potable necessities in
Brownsville, but the stress of Saturday nights was commonly followed by
an interval of calm on Sabbath mornings, and his custom was to go abroad
for air on those occasions.
Seating himself on a piece of driftwood, he chewed the end of his cigar
for a time, and then observed: “It was a large night.”
“It was,” said Stumpy. “Is thim two strangers stayin’ here long, I don’t
know?” Stumpy’s brogue defied spelling.
“They’ll be dead if they do,” said Sam. “I’ve saw wild men afore, but I
never seen two men try to pull up the Mississippi River by the roots.”
“If it was thim ’ud die,” said Stumpy, gloomily. “An’ Hennessy. We c’d
do widout Hennessy an’ wan or more others. But I do be thinkin’ Long
Mike is off again.”
“Looks like it,” said Sam.
Just then the report of a pistol-shot rang
[Illustration: “JUST THEN THE REPORT OF A PISTOL-SHOT RANG OUT.”]
out, and Peter leaped in the air. He was not hurt, but the bullet had
struck between his fore paws, and he was frightened.
Stumpy turned like a flash. The two strangers were approaching, laughing
heartily, and one of them was about to shoot again. Stumpy was a small
man, probably a foot shorter than either of the newcomers, but his hair
was very red. He sprang to his feet.
“That’s my dog,” he said, pulling off his coat, and the man who was
poising his revolver lowered it.
“No offence, friend,” he said, pleasantly. “I just wanted to see the dog
dance.”
“Dance, is it?” shouted Stumpy, in a fine rage. “That dog’s no circus.
If it’s dancin’ ye want, I’ll dance, but it’s on your ugly face it’ll
be, wid you on the flat o’ your back.” And he squared off in excellent
style.
“There, there,” said the big man, soothingly, “I’ll not fight you, and
I’ll not bother your dog, if it’s yours. Come and have a drink.”
It was not easy to placate the little Irishman, but the two strangers
finally accomplished it, and the entire party went over to the barroom.
Peter, however, refused to enter the place, and showed his teeth
viciously when the sportive pistol-player, whose name was Carruthers,
offered to pat his head by way of apology.
As the day wore on, the male population of Brownsville, one by one,
appeared in the barroom, and Carruthers and his mate, Hopper, played the
part of hosts with great assiduity, so that the general condition of
hilarity that had prevailed on Saturday night, but which had been
greatly modified in the early morning hours, was fully reëstablished
before nightfall.
The two men told about themselves without reserve, and there seemed to
be no reason to doubt their story. They were sports, they said, frankly,
it being fully understood that the word sport was a mere euphemism for
professional gambler, and, having “made a killing” in La Crosse a few
days before, they were enjoying a trip down the river with the ultimate
purpose of getting into a big game at Vicksburg or New Orleans. Things
being too slow to suit them on the boat on which they started, they had
stopped off at the first landing-place to wait for another. Being thus
in Brownsville, they proposed to enjoy themselves as heartily as
possible, so what was the matter with all hands having another drink?
Whatever latent prejudice there was in the minds of Stumpy and one or
two others who recognized an element of peril in the situation, was of
little force against the popular enthusiasm the two strangers evoked by
their liberality. Being men of seemingly unlimited capacity themselves,
they soon discovered that Brownsville had also a few mighty drinkers,
and, while now and again some less gifted man dropped out of the bout
and made his uncertain way to some hiding-place, there were others on
whom even Sam’s brands of red liquors had no appreciable effect.
Long Mike, indeed, seemed in his element. Glass for glass with anybody
and everybody he tossed off his tipple as if it were filtered water,
and his eye grew brighter, his hand steadier, and his tongue more nimble
with each potation, so that only those who knew the awful cumulative
effect drink had on him when his limit was actually reached, could
realize that the commercial standing of Brownsville was at stake, for
without Long Mike there was no head to the community, and no prospect of
carrying on any business of importance. Therefore Stumpy--and
others--had misgivings.
Not all the boats that ply the Mississippi stop at Brownsville, and the
intervals at which some do stop are uncertain, so that Carruthers and
Hopper had no means of calculating the length of their stay. It did not
appear to trouble them much, but toward evening, no boat having
appeared, and none being expected that night, Carruthers remarked,
casually, that he could wish for a little excitement.
“Your liquor is all right,” he said, “and your society here is pleasant
enough to suit anybody, but don’t you ever do anything in Brownsville?”
“We had a cock-fight here last month,” said Hennessy, “but there’s only
one cock in town now. That was Gallagher’s afore Gallagher lit out, but
even if he was to come home there’s no way o’ fightin’ one cock. That
is, there’s no way I know on, ’thouten you put him front of a
lookin’-glass,” he added, with a foolish laugh that no one echoed.
“Don’t nobody ever play poker here?” asked Hopper.
“I knowed it,” said Stumpy, under his breath, to Sam, who nodded
understandingly.
People did play poker in Brownsville, quite a number of them, but they
had a wholesome respect for travelling sports, realizing that the
domestic variety of the game was by no means up to the standard
established on the boats by gentlemen who made a business of playing.
Liquor, however, played the mischief with Long Mike’s bump of caution,
and he was fond of poker anyhow.
It turned out as Stumpy feared, and as Hopper expressed his disdain of
a limit game, and nobody else was strong enough to put up a hundred
dollars, Long Mike was presently engaged in playing table stakes with
the two sports, each of the three having produced that sum.
“It’s not the hundred’ll break him,” said Stumpy, while Sam was getting
the chips and cards, “but he’ll buy and buy, by and by, till the divil
himself couldn’t save him.”
And this was the prevailing opinion among the score or more of men who
clustered around to watch the game. No man, however, cared to raise his
voice in protest. It would hardly have been done in any case, for a
wholesome respect obtains on the Mississippi River for the right of the
individual to go to the devil in his own chosen way, but, in the case of
Long Mike, there was an additional feeling that he would make it
extremely uncomfortable for any one who might presume to remonstrate
with him for anything.
The game was not, at first, a notable one. No particularly sensational
play marked the loss of Long Mike’s first hundred, though it went
pretty fast, and with the second hundred he managed to secure some good
pots, so that he ran up, almost even, for a few moments. But a series of
losses reduced his pile again to less than forty dollars, when he caught
a flush against Hopper’s full house, and called on Sam for two hundred
more in chips.
It was evident, then, that he had the fever, and Stumpy groaned in
spirit. There was no telling what the end would be, but he felt that it
was among the possibilities for Long Mike to ruin himself in an hour or
two, and his ruin would be disastrous to more than one in the room.
Suddenly he saw something which set his brain in a whirl. If he could
have been positive and could have given proof, he would have declared
that he saw Hopper deal himself a card from the bottom of the deck. He
knew, however, what the accusation of cheating would mean, and he
hesitated. Possibly he might have been mistaken, he thought, and anyhow
it would be his word against one other’s. It was altogether uncertain
what the result would be.
He watched the game, however, even more keenly than before, determined
to speak, regardless of consequences, if he should see anything he was
sure of. What he did not notice was that Carruthers had seen the gasp of
astonishment that he had himself been unconscious of, and was watching
him carefully. He stood opposite where Carruthers sat.
Presently there came a jack-pot that Hopper opened for five dollars.
Carruthers passed, but did not immediately throw his cards on the table.
Long Mike raised it ten dollars, it being his deal. Hopper came back at
him with ten more, and Long Mike stayed.
Hopper called for two cards, and, as he did so, Stumpy distinctly saw
Carruthers show Hopper his hand as he threw it on the table in the
discard. One of the five was an ace, and Stumpy saw it.
Watching Hopper as he moved to pick up the cards dealt to him in the
draw, he saw further that Hopper took one of them and one from the
discarded pile. It was deftly done, but he was certain this time.
Long Mike stood pat, and when Hopper pushed his whole pile forward, Long
Mike called him for all he had in front of him, a hundred and odd
dollars. Then he showed a pat straight and Hopper showed four aces.
“Hold on!” shouted Stumpy. “There’s foul play here. That--” and then he
paused.
Every man in the room was looking at him, and he was the only one who
saw the muzzle of Carruther’s pistol just above the edge of the table.
It was pointed directly at him, and the barrel looked to him as large
around as a nail-keg.
It was not necessary to explain to him that Carruthers had the drop on
him. Moreover, he knew that if he tried to finish his sentence he would
be shot before he got the words out. It was small wonder he paused.
Nobody spoke for a moment, Stumpy for the excellent reason just stated,
and the others because of their surprise. Then Carruthers said:
“Evidently the gentleman never saw four aces held before. Is that what
you meant when you spoke of foul play?”
Still all eyes were on Stumpy. No one else had seen the revolver, but he
knew that on his answer depended the question whether Carruthers should
shoot or not. Drops of sweat came out on his forehead. He drew a long
breath.
Then he saw something else, and he answered Carruthers curiously.
“Yes-s-s,” he said, prolonging the word into a curious hiss which he
knew that Peter understood.
At the instant that Carruthers, with an evil smile, was relaxing his
aim, a small, brown dog landed on his shoulders and fastened his teeth
in his throat.
No man was ever able to recall all the details of the mix-up that
followed, but after two badly damaged strangers had departed from
Brownsville on the next boat, Stumpy observed to Sam: “Sure, it would
ha’ been betther to kill thim, I don’t know.”
VI
GALLAGHER’S RETURN
When Gallagher came back to Brownsville he did not expect to be met at
the steamboat-landing by a delegation of citizens eager to welcome his
return. There was no thought in his mind of having to listen to an
address of eulogy and being obliged to reply with a few or a great many
well-chosen remarks.
The idea of a brass band and a display of fireworks tooting and blazing
in his honour had never entered his head. The most he hoped for was to
be able to sneak across the gangplank unnoticed, and to make his way
under the friendly obscurity of darkness, in case it should happen to be
after nightfall, along the edge of the levee to the neighbourhood of his
own house, where he might remain in seclusion until such time as he
should learn what the disposition of the community might be, and more
especially what Long Mike’s attitude toward him was.
The recollection of all the circumstances attending his departure from
Brownsville was sufficiently vivid in his mind to fill him with
apprehension, and the utmost caution seemed absolutely necessary when he
determined to return. He recalled distinctly that, after he had tried
Long Mike’s temper to the point at which further endurance became
impossible, that usually good-natured person became suddenly furious
with rage, and not only discharged him from his employ--that, Gallagher
was accustomed to--but strove earnestly to preclude the possibility of
hiring him again, by the simple but effective expedient of killing him.
It should be said that Long Mike seldom attempted to kill anybody.
Murder was not his habit, he being usually a tolerant person, albeit he
required a full equivalent of labour in return for the wages he paid.
On such occasions, however, as he had deemed serious enough to demand
extreme action, he had never been known to fail to get his man, until
Gallagher had eluded him by a flight that took him far from Brownsville.
Some months had elapsed since then, but Gallagher had no means of
knowing whether his boss’s wrath had cooled or not.
The caution he displayed in eluding observation when he went ashore from
the river boat was not, therefore, uncalled for. Knowing the ground
perfectly, even in the darkness, he picked his way carefully to the door
of his own house, but before lifting the latch he stopped and listened,
as one who was in great doubt. As he continued to listen he passed
through many phases and degrees of doubt, perplexity, and amazement.
It was his own house beyond a question, but many things had happened
since his sudden departure. Long Mike was impetuous, but not devoid of
generous impulses, or of a prejudice in favour of fair play. When he
realized that he had wrought injustice to Mrs. Gallagher in the fervour
of his pursuit of her husband, he had taken effective and
characteristic measures to remedy the wrong.
This was largely due to the personality of Stumpy, whose Irish blood
boiled on slight provocation, and who entertained no fear, even of his
boss, when he was moved to remonstrate against any happening which
failed to comport with his ideas of propriety. Stumpy it was who said:
“Sure, it was a blackguard’s thrick to lave Misthress Gallagher widout a
bed to lie on, or a shtove or a taable to her back.”
“Did Gallagher do that?” demanded Long Mike, indignantly.
“He did not,” said Stumpy, “but there’s them that did.”
“Who did it?” asked Long Mike.
“It was yoursilf,” said Stumpy, and stood immediately on the defensive.
The look of blank astonishment that Long Mike gave at the accusation was
at least presumptive proof that he did not realize his offence, and
seeing it, Stumpy’s wrath was somewhat assuaged. It did not right the
wrong, however, and Stumpy wanted that done.
“It was whin ye was lukkin’ f’r Gallagher,” he explained. “Belike ye was
confused wid the rage that was in ye, an’ maybe a thrifle o’ liquor,
too, but ye found his house, an’ him not bein’ there, by the mercy o’
God, ye smashed, and smashed, an’ there’s nothin’ left.”
“Did I, now?” said Long Mike, and he chuckled, whereat Stumpy’s wrath
blazed up again.
“Ye did,” he said, briefly, “an’ ’twas a blackguard act for to lave a
lone woman deshtitoot.”
“Aisy now, Stumpy, aisy now,” said Long Mike, good-naturedly. “Av that
pirut, Gallagher, has left his woman deshtitoot--”
“‘Twas you drove him away,” interrupted Stumpy.
“Yis, an’ a good job. Av he cooms back, I’ll break ivery dommed bone in
his body,” exclaimed Long Mike, with sudden fury. “But I’ll have no
woman suffer in Brownsville, Stumpy. Av that dirty pirut lift her
deshtitoot, as ye say, she’ll be took care of. Mind that.”
Taken care of, she had been, in Brownsville fashion. New furniture had
replaced the stuff that Long Mike destroyed, and, as the house contained
two rooms, or one more than Mrs. Gallagher required to live in, the
sporting element of Brownsville had established the custom of using her
extra space for a card-room.
Whenever a game was in progress, the good lady retired to her own
apartment, but after the players had departed she always found that the
kitty, established for her benefit, remained on the table. And inasmuch
as the income she derived from this source was much larger, and no more
irregular, than that which she enjoyed from Gallagher, it had come about
that she no longer felt any very keen anxiety for his return.
All this was, of course, unknown to Gallagher, as he listened, and his
surprise at the unexpected sounds he heard was natural enough.
One Harrison had been in Brownsville for two or three days, in company
with his side partner, Davis, the two being on one of their occasional
business trips down the Mississippi Valley. They had been known to play
in some of the principal cities, but for the most part they preferred
the smaller places, being of the variety of sports commonly known as
crossroads gamblers, and Brownsville was one of their favourite
stopping-places.
They had at first been inclined to question the use of a private house
for their purposes, but after the circumstances were explained, they had
acquiesced readily enough, and on this occasion they were sitting in.
Long Mike was there. It would have taken more than one Gatling gun to
keep him out of a game when one was in progress and he was in the
neighbourhood. McCarthy had a hand also, and Billy Flynn.
McCarthy was a character. He loved the game of poker with a fervour that
would have made him a large winner if he could only have learned how to
play the game. As it was, he only sat in at such times as he had
sufficient money saved up from his wages to buy a stack. And he never
sat long.
Flynn was a good player, and Long Mike was better than the average, but
neither of them knew enough of the game to detect the peculiarities of
play that gave Harrison and Davis a large percentage in their favour.
They had been playing for half an hour, and only the remnants of his
stack remained to McCarthy, when he caught a king full, pat, on Flynn’s
deal. It was a jack-pot, and Harrison, having first say, opened it for
the size of it, which was a dollar and a quarter. The game was a small
one.
McCarthy raised it all he had, which was about seven dollars more, and
the others all laid down, including the opener, who showed jacks.
McCarthy took down his two dollars and a quarter winnings, and proceeded
to make the only additional blunder that was possible under the
circumstances. He showed his hand and exulted in his winning.
It was nobody’s business to instruct him, and the others smiled grimly
as Harrison took the cards to deal. He was impatient at the smallness
and the slowness of the game and made ready for a killing.
Shuffling with extra care, he dealt good hands to everybody, making sure
of the aces at the bottom of the deck that he could utilize in the draw.
It would have been pitiful, had there been anybody there to see, to note
the way in which everybody backed his cards, and the fact that
Harrison’s full of tens on aces scooped the pot.
McCarthy was out of it, and Flynn and Long Mike had to buy again, but
they were brave, if foolish, and being well supplied with money, they
played on. McCarthy sat by watching. The fascination held him, even
though he could play no longer.
Suddenly he saw that which made his eyelids contract and his jaw set
itself like a bulldog’s. He said nothing at the moment, but watched
carefully until it came Harrison’s turn to deal again. Then he leaned a
little forward and looked a little more intently.
Again it was a jack-pot, and Long Mike opened it. Davis and Flynn
dropped, but Harrison raised it, and Long Mike stayed. When it came to
the draw he called for one card, and McCarthy spoke up.
“If it’s two pairs ye’re drawin’ to, you’d better split ’em an’ draw
three cards,” he said, and Long Mike stared at him in amazement.
“An’ what for should I do that, I don’t know?” he said, but Harrison
broke in with an oath and an angry:
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said McCarthy, very distinctly, “that you’ve stacked the cards
and--”
Further than that he did not speak, for Harrison’s gun was out and
almost in position before McCarthy could grapple him and seize his
wrist. At the same moment Flynn grabbed the pistol itself and strove to
wrench it from his fingers.
Even with two men holding him, and they were both powerful men, the
gambler struggled mightily, and for a moment seemed about to wrench
himself free. The three were all over the room.
It was harder to keep Long Mike out of a fight than to drag him away
from a bar or poker game. Moreover, though he held McCarthy in contempt
as a gambler, he knew him for a man who spoke the truth, and leaping to
his feet he started forward.
Davis, however, sprang up at the same instant, and, stretching out his
foot, he tripped the big man and threw him headlong on the floor.
Drawing a knife from his belt, he threw himself on the prostrate form
and raised his arm for a blow. In the excitement nobody noticed that the
door had been opened.
“Whurroo!” said Gallagher, and threw himself into the fray.
There was no time to find a weapon, and he carried none, but he was
handy with his feet, and a well-directed kick not only lamed Davis’s
elbow for a week, but knocked the knife from his hand half-way across
the room. It would have been between Long Mike’s ribs but for the kick.
Disarmed and disabled, the desperado was no match for the two men, one
of whom was grappling him from beneath while the other was continuing
to kick from above.