Flynn had got possession of the weapon, but it had been discharged in
the transfer and Gallagher’s head was directly in line. Having it,
however, Flynn used it promptly and stunned Harrison with a single blow,
practically ending the shindy, for Long Mike made short work of Davis
when he realized the situation.
“Is he kilt?” he inquired, anxiously, as Flynn and McCarthy bent over
Gallagher. “Sure he saved my life when this blackguard was shtickin’ me
like a pig.”
“I think he is,” said McCarthy. “There’s a hole in his head the size of
a shtove door.”
But the bullet had glanced, and Gallagher was only stunned. Sitting up a
moment later he said:
“Will ye’s all get out o’ my house? I have confidential affairs to
discuss wid Misthress Gallagher.”
“We will,” said the three friends, as they departed, dragging the
gamblers with them.
Then the other door opened.
“Is it you, Pat?” said a female voice.
“It is,” said Gallagher, “an’ I’d like my supper. But first ye’ll give
me a bit o’ a wet rag till I wipe my head.”
VII
GALLAGHER STRIPPED
“Sure I do be thinkin’ it’s like playin’ lotthery,” said Stumpy, as he
sat one day in meditative mood near the steamboat-landing with Deaf Dan.
It was a hot afternoon and there had been a long, sociable silence
between them when Stumpy yawned and shot off his comparison. It was
uttered in stentorian tones, for none could converse otherwise with Deaf
Dan.
“As bein’ how?” inquired Deaf Dan. “Who’s a lotthery?”
“All of us,” said Stumpy. “Iv’ry marnin’ we do put in, loike the suckers
that buys thim little printed bits o’ paper wid a big number on ’em, an’
lies. An’ thin we set around, like bumps on a log, waitin’ for to see
what the drawin’ ’ll be, the same as thim same suckers does. Mostly it’s
blanks. Sildom it is that anythin’ happens in Brownsville. But now an’
again, some wan’ll dhraw a proize. Maybe it’s a chanst at th’ red
liquor, an’ maybe it’s a shindy, an’ sometimes it’s a game of
dhraw-poker, but annyhow it’s a proize, such as it may be.”
“It’s right y’ are,” said Deaf Dan. “An’ lately it’s all blanks. Sure,
there’s nothin’ do be doin’ in th’ place since the night that Gallagher
got back.”
“Sure, that was a fine foight,” said Stumpy.
“They tell me that same,” responded Deaf Dan, “but Gallagher an’--Howly
mother o’ Moses, phwat’s that?”
“That” appeared at first to be a procession of two, emerging with great
suddenness from the door of the barroom, but, as Deaf Dan and Stumpy
rose to get a better view of the proceedings, the two who first appeared
were followed by a straggling crowd of others, all eagerly intent on
observation, so that presently the entire male population of Brownsville
was assembled on the levee, looking with interest to see the outcome of
what seemed to be a personal difficulty between two prominent citizens.
Last of all to appear was Sam, the bartender, whose appearance on his
doorstep was indisputable evidence that there was no one remaining
inside.
The leading figure in the procession was Gallagher, and judging from the
earnestness with which he was moving, it was easily to be understood
that he was desirous of putting as much vacant space as possible between
himself and the second advancing figure. He might almost be said to be
flying, rather than fleeing. And every ounce of force at his command was
devoted to the effort to keep in the lead, so that, although his mouth
was open, he emitted no sound.
His pursuer, on the other hand, though he was no less resolute in his
endeavour to cover the ground quickly, was devoting a part of his
strength to the loud utterance of many words. For the most part, these
words savoured of profanity, too enthusiastic to be well chosen, but
sufficiently impassioned to be exceedingly impressive. There was no
questioning the fact that Long Mike had lost his temper again, and small
doubt that he would do bodily harm to his foreman if he should succeed
in getting near enough to lay hands upon him.
But Gallagher succeeded, though with great difficulty, in maintaining
his position in the van of the advance until he reached the brink of the
river. Then, instead of turning, or possibly making a stand, he
surprised the onlookers beyond measure by making a flying leap, and
disappearing in the muddy flood.
Right here it may be said that no man, with the possible exception of
Gallagher or Long Mike himself, was ever able to tell just how it
happened that the long-standing difficulty between the two had blazed up
in such sudden fury. Opinions differed as to whether Gallagher’s
intemperate habits of speech had provoked the outburst or whether Long
Mike’s apprehension had been warped by his indulgence in superfluous
stimulant. All that was known was that Long Mike had aimed a sudden
blow, which the other had dodged, and that the foot-race began
forthwith.
When the pursued plunged into the river, the pursuer paused on the
brink. For a moment it seemed as if he were only waiting for his victim
to appear at the surface before leaping in after him, and Stumpy and two
or three others laid detaining hands on him. Almost immediately,
however, it appeared that he was not minded to risk himself in the
water, although his wrath was by no means assuaged, for, after a few
moments, Gallagher, who could swim like a fish, reappeared some twenty
yards from shore, and, keeping himself easily afloat, turned to his foe.
Thereupon, Long Mike, making no effort to break away from the men who
held him, opened his mouth and spoke.
“---- ---- ---- ---- ---- ----,” he said.
“---- ---- ---- ----.”
“Is that so?” responded Gallagher, mockingly. He was not devoid of
courage, though neither he nor any three men up and down the river
cared to face Long Mike in a rough-and-tumble fight.
“It is,” said Long Mike, “an’ if ye’ll come ashore, I’ll break ivery
bone in yer body.”
“Ye’ll not,” said Gallagher.
“An’ why?” demanded Long Mike.
“Because I’ll not come ashore.”
Preposterous as this proposition was, Long Mike did not appear to
recognize the fact that the other could hardly remain in the water
indefinitely, and that all he had to do was to wait. He broke out again
in language to which no polite person would willingly listen, and
concluded by saying: “I can lick the life out o’ yez.”
“Ye can,” said Gallagher, unhesitatingly. “An’ I can outdhrink yez.”
“Ye can that,” said Gallagher again.
“An’ I can outrun yez.”
“Yis.”
“An’ I can outswear yez, an’--an’--an--an’ I’m a betther man than yez in
ivery way,” sputtered Long Mike, not seeming to be able to call to mind
any more specific accomplishments.
“Y’ are not,” said Gallagher. “Whin it comes to dhraw-poker, I’ll play
ye fer years ag’in minutes, an’ bate ye the two-thirds of all eternity.”
“Draw-poker, is it?” exclaimed Long Mike. “Av ye’ll coom in out o’ the
wet an’ play a freeze-out, I’ll win yer money an’ yer house an’ lot, an’
the clo’es off yer back, till yer naked as a bald head, an’ worn out as
a burnt match.”
“I’ll go ye,” said Gallagher, “f’r all I have, ag’in everything ye have
yoursilf.”
There was a murmur of dissent and some derisive laughter from the crowd,
for Gallagher, though fairly well-to-do according to the Brownsville
standard, was the other’s employee and by no means a peer of the
principal capitalist of the town, who, in addition to his visible
resources, had money secreted in his house. But Long Mike raised his
hand.
“Let be,” he said, sternly. “I have a lesson to tache this omadhaun.
Faith, he’s growin’ too large to live in the same town wid the likes o’
me.”
And the unequal match was arranged. In half an hour’s time the two were
seated in Sam’s back room, with all the chips in the house divided in
two equal parts, and the game was begun with the clear understanding
that the winner of all the chips could claim from the other all that he
owned on earth down to his undershirt.
As there was nothing whatever to attract the attention of anybody in
Brownsville to any other point, the room was crowded with lookers-on,
and all those who could not gain entrance stood outside and discussed
the probabilities.
“If Gallagher do play close,” said Stumpy, “I’m thinkin’ he’ll win out,
for Long Mike’s the divil for bluffin’ an’ Gallagher knows it, worse
luck!” And this was the general sentiment.
In the first half-hour--for the game was a long one--Long Mike’s luck
was by no means good, and though the big man made no violent plunges,
his pile of chips dwindled until Gallagher had all but a single stack
of blues. Of course, there was no arbitrary money value to a chip, but
they called them dollars for convenience, the reds being a quarter and
the whites a nickel.
It was Long Mike’s deal and Gallagher anted the usual nickel, but the
dealer, finding nothing, threw in a blue and took his change from the
other, making a ten-cent jack. This was sweetened, a nickel at a time,
till there was a dollar in the pot. Then, Gallagher dealing, Long Mike
opened it for a dollar.
“I’ll raise you two,” said Gallagher.
“Five better,” said Long Mike, pushing in the chips.
“All you’ve got,” said Gallagher.
“Go you,” said Long Mike, and they both stood pat. Each had a flush, but
Long Mike’s was ace high and Gallagher’s best card was a jack.
The next hand was passed and another jack-pot made. Gallagher opened it,
was raised, raised back, and was raised again till once more Long Mike’s
pile was in the centre and Gallagher stood to win it all. Again they
both stood pat and showed two straights, but Long Mike’s was the better.
This gave him eighty dollars to play with, but Gallagher still had
nearly three hundred, so it took another hand like the last to put the
two on anything like even ground.
“If Long Mike wins again,” whispered Stumpy to his next neighbour in
great excitement, “he’s got his luck wid him, an’ it’s good-bye,
Gallagher.” His neighbour nodded, and their hopeful faces showed that
they shared fully in the general wish that Long Mike would win.
It was with strained attention that the crowd watched the next deal, and
a sigh of satisfaction followed the making of another jack-pot. This was
sweetened again and again till the spectators lost patience, and Long
Mike expressed his poor opinion of the cards violently and called for a
new deck.
It was brought and shuffled, and on the first deal both caught openers.
Long Mike opened and Gallagher raised, but instead of raising again,
Long Mike simply made good and called for one card. Then he chipped
without looking at his draw.
“Yer name is Mud this time,” said Gallagher. “I don’t want any cards an’
I’ll raise you the size o’ the pot.”
“Is that so?” asked Long Mike. “Well, maybe I’ve drawed an ace, I don’t
know. If I have. I’ll raise you my pile.” And he turned over the card he
had drawn, exposing it to view. It was an ace, and without a word he
shoved his chips all into the pot.
It looked like a winning, and Gallagher studied some time before
playing. But, though it looked like a winning, it also looked like one
of Long Mike’s characteristic bluffs on finding himself confronted by a
pat hand, and finally Gallagher said: “I’ve got to call you. Mine’s a
flush.”
“An’ mine’s a trey full on aces,” said Long Mike. “Faith if I’d known
you was goin’ to stand pat, I’d have taken two an’ been beat.” And a
mighty cheer went up from the crowd, for the two players were nearly
even again.
Gallagher scowled, but said nothing and played close. Winning and losing
in turn for half an hour more, he fell slightly behind, so that he had
less, instead of more, than half the chips when he caught four fours pat
in a jack-pot that Long Mike opened. He raised, of course, and was
raised in turn, till Long Mike called, and made ready to serve the draw.
“Gimme one,” said Gallagher, carelessly, and was delighted when the
other drew two. It looked like the chance of his life, and when Long
Mike bet, he raised it his pile.
But Long Mike called him again and showed down four eights.
“Now,” he said, “all ye have is mine, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Gallagher, pluckily enough.
“Shtrip, then,” said Long Mike, sternly, and the other without a word
threw off his clothes till he had on nothing but a fine Irish blush. But
he uttered no complaint, and the crowd that had jeered him unmercifully
fell into silence and turned away its eyes as he walked toward the
door.
Just as he reached it, however, Long Mike stopped him.
“Come back an’ put on yer clothes,” he said. “They do be fittin’ yez
betther nor they would me. Yer money I’ll take, for ye’ll worrk the
harder for bein’ broke, but yer house I don’t want. Yer a man, afther
all, Gallagher, an’ I’ll hire you over again. There’s a boat whistlin’
on the river now, an’ ye’ll hustle th’ men down the levee right
speedy.”
VIII
A TRIAL OF SKILL
“There’s wan thing about Brownsville,” said Stumpy, “that saves the
place from bein’ like wan o’ them asylums f’r the feeble-moinded, where
the min sews patchwork, an’ the women shmokes pipes.”
“Wot’s eatin’ you?” asked Sam, the bartender.
Sam had local pride which he held to be justified by his own prosperity,
and he was apt to be gruff when any one spoke disparagingly of
Brownsville. The two men had sat together on the levee, sociably silent
for half an hour, when the spirit moved Stumpy to speech.
Having spoken, however, he sat as one relieved in his mind, and was in
no haste for further conversation. It was therefore some minutes before
he replied, but at length he said:
“Sure, it puts me in moind o’ the great famine in Ireland me father used
to tell of. Ye’d go for a week or a day wid sorry a bit t’ ate of
annything at all, at all, an’ thin ye’d get maybe a pratie or a crusht,
that’d kape ye goin’ a bit longer.
“There do be toimes in Brownsville that’d make ye think ye was dead an’
buried. Sure, the still o’ the nights is worse nor a thundershtorm for
kapin’ a man awake, an’ the days is worse.
“An’ thin, whin ye do be goin’ melancholy mad wid the monny-tony o’
loife that isn’t livin’ at all, at all, but blue-mouldin’, somethin’ or
other’ll hit ye, loike a fri’ndly blackthorn at Donnybrook, an’ ye’ll
sit up an’ take notice. Mostly it’s Long Mike, but times it’ll be
something else.
“An’ whin it do come, ye’ll think for a time that Brownsville is wan o’
the hid cinters of all th’ excitement on the Mississippi River. Maybe
it’s a bit o’ gun-play it’ll be, wid a tin-horn gambler, loike th’
toime th’ one-eyed man cashed in, or belike it’ll be somethin’ or other
wid Gallagher, but annyhow it shtirs things oop. This toime Oi do be
thinkin’ it’ll be Hinnissy.”
“An’ why would it be Hennessy?” asked Sam.
“It wouldn’t on’y f’r Gallagher,” said Stumpy, “but thim two is like a
hammer an’ a shtick o’ dynamite, or a mule’s hind leg an’ a sthraw. Av
they do be kept apart, there’s no great harrum, but av ye bring thim
together, belike there’s friction.”
“They was playin’ cards sociable enough last night,” observed Sam.
“That’s it,” replied Stumpy. “When thim two gets sociable, ye wants to
kape yer eye open. Whin it’s a cussin’ f’m Gallagher, him bein’ foreman,
or a kick f’m Hinnissy, that bein’ his disposition, they’re good
friends. Sure they’re both of thim Oirish. But whin they get fri’ndly,
they do be two naturalized citizens, wid Oirish blood an’ Mississippi
River manners, an’ God knows.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“No, but I shmelt it, an’ this mornin’ the shmell is still in th’ air.
My dog Peter has the scint of it, shtrong. He kim out wid me for a walk,
an’ whin we passed Gallagher’s, he sniffed around loike he do for a rat.
An’ he turned back an’ lay down in the road near Hinnissy’s place. Sure
he knows more o’ some things nor a Christian.”
“Then you think there’ll be trouble?” asked Sam, somewhat jeeringly.
“Sure, Oi don’t think it,” said Stumpy, “but Oi do be tellin’ ye Oi
shmell it.”
What further discussion there might have been was cut off at this point
by the appearance of two or three citizens in the distance. They were
making their way leisurely toward Sam’s place of business, and he,
foreseeing a demand for his services, went indoors.
As if the appearance of the first comers on the street had been a
signal, others presently appeared, and in a few minutes Brownsville had
put on as much of an appearance of activity as was usual when there was
no boat expected.
The first to arrive at the barroom was Long Mike himself, and he,
looking around, conveyed with his eyes, in some almost imperceptible
fashion, an invitation to Stumpy to step inside. Accordingly that
gentleman arose, though without unseemly haste, and made one of a small
group that presently lined up in front of Sam’s bar.
Two of the group were Gallagher and Hennessy, and Stumpy was not the
only one who noted with rising spirits the exaggerated politeness with
which they spoke to each other. There had been nothing of importance
doing in the community since navigation had closed at the beginning of
winter, and as it was now almost warm weather again--warm enough, at all
events, to tempt the people out-of-doors--the prospect of some
excitement was exhilarating.
“It’s a very good game you play at shtud-poker, Mr. Gallagher,” said
Hennessy, when the drink was swallowed and the pipes were all relighted.
“You do me proud, Mr. Hinnissy,” replied Gallagher, with equal courtesy,
“an’ ye play very well yersilf, barrin’ th’ matther o’ poor luck now
an’ ag’in.”
“Oi was thinkin’ that same lasht night,” said the other. “Av the cyards
hadn’t run till ye the way they did, belike ye’d not have won the money
ye did.”
“Thot moight be, an’ again maybe not,” said Gallagher, still polite, but
with a tone of satisfaction in his voice that Hennessy detected.
“Ye know,” he said, “they run different, different toimes.”
“They do,” said Gallagher. “An’ that’s when the shkill comes in. Now yer
own game is wan that wins, av ye have the cyards, but ye lose when ye
haven’t.”
“An’ don’t ye find that same to be yer own experience?” asked Hennessy.
“Oi do not,” said Gallagher. “Whin Oi haven’t the cyards, Oi never bet.
It’s the wan thing ye have to l’arn about the game.”
The matter of seven dollars that Hennessy had lost the night before was
still rankling, and this intimation that it was his lack of ability as a
player that caused him to lose was hard to bear. He commanded himself
with a visible effort and merely said:
“Maybe ye’d loike to exercise yer shkill some more the marnin’, Oi don’
know.”
“Well,” said Gallagher, “ye may have yer revenge an yer lukkin’ for it.”
And the game was on.
There was some talk as they took their seats at the table about some of
the others joining in, but Hennessy declared that he much preferred to
play with Gallagher alone, and his wish was respected. They made it a
ten-dollar freeze-out, and the others in the room gathered around to see
the play.
For a considerable time it seemed as if Gallagher’s boasting had some
foundation in fact, for he played cautiously, and several times
abandoned the hand when he had one or even two good cards showing,
evidently believing that he was beaten by the other’s buried card, but
after he had got well ahead, Hennessy began to get good hands.
A pair of tens, back to back, he played cunningly, letting his opponent
do the betting until the last card was dealt, when Gallagher bet a
dollar on two eights in sight. Then he raised it three dollars, and, as
this looked like a bluff, Gallagher called.
A similar play when he really held a straight with the middle card
buried, against two pairs, netted him as much more, and the lucky chance
of a third ace for the last card against three queens in sight enabled
him to raise back to the extent of Gallagher’s pile after he had passed
the bet and Gallagher had shown his confidence in his queens.
He had won the freeze-out and was calmly tolerant when Gallagher said,
with something of a sneer:
“Yez can all see now what I said. Whin Mr. Hennessy has the cyards he
can play as well as the next.”
“Oi can,” he replied, loftily. “An’ Oi can do betther nor that.”
“An’ how?” demanded Gallagher.
“Oi can lick the shtuffin’ out of anny man that can’t lick the shtuffin’
out o’ me.”
“An’ is it me ye mane?” asked Gallagher, almost choking.
“It is.”
“It is foight ye mane?”
“It is.”
“Av ye’ll shtep outside,” said Gallagher, “Oi’ll shtand ye on yer head,
an’ dhrive yer body so far down in the mud they’ll be usin’ ye for an
artooshun well.”
“Ye may, thin,” said Hennessy, and two minutes later they were out on
the levee, with their coats off, locked in a grip that seemed
unbreakable.
“What did Oi say till ye the marnin’,” said Stumpy, as he and Sam stood
watching the proceedings in keenest delight, together with nearly the
entire male population of Brownsville. “There do be things happens here
sometimes.”
The excitement was so great, in fact, that for the moment no one noticed
a bareheaded woman that came running up the street, almost breathless,
but shouting as loudly as she could. When her voice reached the crowd,
they perceived that it was the voice of Mrs. Hennessy, and there was an
imperative tone in it that arrested even the attention of the two who
were fighting.
“Mike!” she screamed, “Mike! darlint. The babby fell down in the
cistern, an’ Missus Gallagher climbed down wid a rope, an’ we pulled the
babby up, an’ she’s shtuck at the bottom. Sure ye’ll coom an’ pull her
up. Hurry, for the love o’ God.”
They did hurry, all of them, and when Mrs. Gallagher was rescued, as she
speedily was, Hennessy turned to his foe:
“Oi’ll not foight you this day, Gallagher, but you’ll dhrink wid me for
the babby your good woman saved. An’ so,” he added, “will the whole o’
Brownsville this day.”
But while they drank, Stumpy remarked: “Sure it’s almost a pity they
couldn’t ha’ finished the shindy. It would ha’ been worth seein’.”
IX
A SOCIAL CALL
“Hurroo!” exclaimed Long Mike, and fired a shot through the ceiling.
Had there been any antecedent circumstances to explain his outburst,
Brownsville would have accepted it as a characteristic and perfectly
natural act, but it chanced that nothing whatever had occurred for a
full half-hour. The usual group had been sitting around the stove in the
barroom, and the usual drone of entirely uninteresting conversation had
buzzed along. Everybody had said something, but nobody knew or cared
what anybody else had said.
It was therefore a matter of some surprise that even Long Mike should
express himself with such vehemence. No one spoke for a moment or so
after the shot, but all looked interested. Presently Sam, the
bartender, inquired with some anxiety if the big man felt well.
“Oi do not,” replied Long Mike, as he put away his gun. “There do be
nothin’ at all, at all, that wears me out loike the dead shtillness o’
winter weather, an’ Oi’m thinkin’ it’s toime for a thaw. Ye’ve heard th’
oice i’ th’ river cr-rack whin it’s makin’ ready to break up. Well, Oi
feel loike cr-rackin’ thot same way. It’s toime somethin’ was did.”
“An’ it’s right y’ are,” said Stumpy, “but what? Sure, ivery j’int in me
body is blue-mouldin’ wid shtiffness from the want of excitement. Oi’ve
a cr-ravin’ for tumult that’s worse nor a cr-ravin’ for dhrink. Sure, a
flood is betther nor bein’ froze up loike this.”
“It’s me, too,” said Gallagher. “I have a touch o’ the same complaint,
but I don’t see nothin’ ahead till th’ ice breaks up, an’ the boats run
again.”
“Oi do,” said Long Mike. “Jim Bixby was tellin’ me yesterday that some
o’ thim shports in La Crosse was goin’ dead, loike us, f’r the lack o’
things to do, an’ Oi told him to tell thim to come over to Brownsville
the next trip o’ the stage. An’ the stage is due now. Oi do be thinkin’
there’ll be some comin’ the day.”
The event proved that the big man had not miscalculated, for even as he
spoke the jingle of sleigh-bells came up from the frozen surface of the
river, and, as they all looked out, they saw Bixby driving, not the
usual span, but a team of four horses over the thick ice, and bringing a
big stage-load of men wrapped in furs and smoking furiously to keep the
keen, cold air from their lungs.
It was one of the community visits with which men broke the monotony of
the long winters in what was then called the great Northwest, and,
because of the habits of the two communities, it seemed more than likely
that there would be excitement enough before the La Crosse contingent
should be ready to return.