Morris Best's new partner was a square gambler, so called. People there
were who sneered at this description and considered it a contradiction
as absurd as a square circle or an elliptical cube. An elementary
knowledge of the principles of geometry and of the retail liquor
business proved the non-existence of such a thing as a straight crook,
so they maintained. But be that as it may, Ben Miller certainly
differed from the usual run of sporting-men, and he professed peculiar
ideas regarding the conduct of his trade. Those ideas were almost
puritanical in their nature. Proprietorship of recreation centers
similar to the Rialto had bred in Mr. Miller a profound distrust of
women as a sex and of his own ability successfully to deal with them;
in consequence, he refused to tolerate their presence in his immediate
vicinity. That they were valuable, nay, necessary, ingredients in the
success of an enterprise such as the present one he well knew--Miller
was, above all, a business man--but in making his deal with Best he had
insisted positively that none of the latter's song-birds were ever to
enter the front saloon. That room, Miller maintained, was to be his
own, and he proposed to exercise dominion over it. As for the
gambling-hall, that of necessity was neutral territory and he
reluctantly consented to permit the girls to patronize it so long as
they behaved themselves. For his part, he yielded all responsibility
over the theater, and what went on therein, to Best. He agreed to stay
out of it.
This division of power worked admirably, and Miller's prohibitions were
scrupulously observed. He was angered, therefore, when, one morning,
his rule was broken. At the moment he was engaged in weighing, checking
up, and sacking his previous night's receipts, he looked up with a
frown when a woman's--a girl's--voice interrupted him.
"Are you Ben Miller?" the trespasser inquired.
Miller nodded shortly. He could be colder than a frog when he chose.
"I'm looking for work," explained the visitor.
"You got the wrong door," he told her. "You want the dance-hall. We
don't allow women in here."
"So I understand."
Miller's frown deepened. "Well, then, beat it! Saloons are masculine
gender and--"
"I'm not a dance-hall girl, I'm a dealer," the other broke in.
"You're a--WHAT?" Ben's jaw dropped; he stared curiously at the
speaker. She was pretty, very pretty, in a still, dignified way; she
had a fine, intelligent face and she possessed a poise, a carriage,
that challenged attention.
"A dealer? What the deuce can you deal?" he managed to ask.
"Anything--the bank, the wheel, the tub, the cage--"
Disapproval returned to the man's countenance; there was an admonitory
sternness to his voice when he said: "It ain't very nice to see a kid
like you in a place like this. I don't know where you learned that wise
talk, but--cut it out. Go home and behave yourself, sister. If you're
broke, I'll stake you; so'll anybody, for that matter."
His visitor stirred impatiently. "Let's stick to business. I don't want
a loan. I'm a dealer and I want work."
Morris Best bustled out of the adjoining room at the moment, and,
noting a feminine figure in this forbidden territory, he exclaimed:
"Hey, miss! Theater's in the rear."
Miller summoned him with a backward jerk of his head. "Morris, this
kid's looking for a job--as dealer," said he.
"Dealer?" Best halted abruptly. "That's funny."
"What is funny about it?" demanded the girl. "My father was a gambler.
I'm Rouletta Kirby."
"Are you Sam Kirby's girl?" Miller inquired. When Rouletta nodded he
removed his hat, then he extended his hand. "Shake," said he. "Now I've
got you. You've had a hard time, haven't you? We heard about Sam and we
thought you was dead. Step in here and set down." He motioned to the
tiny little office which was curtained off from general view.
Rouletta declined with a smile. "I really want work as a dealer. That's
the only thing I can do well. I came here first because you have a good
reputation."
"Kirby's kid don't have to deal nothing. She's good for any kind of a
stake on his name."
"Dad would be glad to hear that. He was a--great man. He ran straight."
Rouletta's eyes had become misty at Miller's indirect tribute to her
father; nevertheless, she summoned a smile and went on: "He never
borrowed, and neither will I. If you can't put me to work I'll try
somewhere else."
"How did you get down from White Horse?" Miller inquired, curiously.
"'Poleon Doret brought me."
"I know Doret. He's aces."
"Can you really deal?" Best broke in.
"Come. I'll prove that I can." Rouletta started for the gambling-room
and the two men followed. Best spoke to his partner in a low voice:
"Say, Ben, if she can make a half-way bluff at it she'll be a big card.
Think of the play she'll get."
But Miller was dubious. "She's nothing but a kid," he protested. "A
dealer has got to have experience, and, besides, she ain't the kind
that belongs in a dump. Somebody'd get fresh and--I'd have to bust him."
There was little activity around the tables al this hour of the day;
the occupants of the gambling-room were, for the most part, house
employees who were waiting for business to begin. The majority of these
employees were gathered about the faro layout, where the cards were
being run in a perfunctory manner to an accompaniment of gossip and
reminiscence. The sight of Ben Miller in company with a girl evoked
some wonder. This wonder increased to amazement when Miller ordered the
dealer out of his seat; it became open-mouthed when the girl took his
place, then broke a new deck of cards, deftly shuffled them, and
slipped them into the box. At this procedure the languid lookout, who
had been comfortably resting upon his spine, uncurled his legs, hoisted
himself into an attitude of attention, and leaned forward with a
startled expression upon his face.
The gamblers crowded closer, exchanging expectant glances; Ben Miller
and Morris Best helped themselves to chips and began to play. These
were queer doings; the case-hardened onlookers prepared to enjoy a
mildly entertaining treat. Soon grins began to appear; the men
murmured, they nudged one another, they slapped one another on the
back, for what they saw astonished and delighted them. The girl dealt
swiftly, surely; she handled the paraphernalia of the faro-table with
the careless familiarity of long practice; but stranger still, she
maintained a poise, a certain reserve and feminine dignity which were
totally incongruous.
When, during a pause, she absent-mindedly shuffled a stack of chips,
the Mocha Kid permitted his feelings to get the better of him.
"Hang me for a horse-thief!" he snickered. "Will you look at that?" Now
the Mocha Kid was a ribald character, profanity was a part of him, and
blasphemy embellished his casual speech. The mildness of his
exclamation showed that he was deeply moved. He continued in the same
admiring undertone: "I seen a dame once that could deal a bank, but she
couldn't pay and take. This gal can size up a stack with her eyes shut!"
Nothing could have more deeply intrigued the attention of these men
than the sight of a modest, quiet, well-behaved young woman exhibiting
all the technic of a finished faro-dealer. It was contrary to their
experience, to their ideas of fitness. Mastery of the gaming-table
requires years of practice to acquire, and not one of these
professionals but was as proud of his own dexterity as a fine pianist;
to behold a mere girl possessed of all the knacks and tricks and
mannerisms of the craft excited their keenest risibilities. In order
the more thoroughly to test her skill several of them bought stacks of
chips and began to play in earnest; they played their bets open, they
coppered, they split, they strung them, and at the finish they called
the turn. Rouletta paid and took; she measured stacks of counters with
unerring facility, she overlooked no bets. She ran out the cards, upset
the box, and began to reshuffle the cards.
"Well, I'm a son of a gun!" declared the lookout. He doubled up in
breathless merriment, he rocked back and forth in his chair, he stamped
his feet. A shout of laughter issued from the others.
Ben Miller closed the cases with a crash. "You'll do," he announced.
"If there's anything you don't know I can't teach it to you." Then to
the bystanders he said: "This is Sam Kirby's girl. She wants work, and
if I thought you coyotes knew how to treat a lady I'd put her on."
"Say!" The Mocha Kid scowled darkly at his employer. "What kinda guys
do you take us for? What makes you think we don't know--"
He was interrupted by an angry outburst, by a chorus of resentful
protests, the indignant tone of which seemed to satisfy Miller. The
latter shrugged his shoulders and rose. Rouletta stirred as if to
follow suit, but eager hands stayed her, eager voices urged her to
remain.
"Run 'em again, miss," begged Tommy Ryan, the roulette-dealer. Mr. Ryan
was a pale-faced person whose addiction to harmful drugs was notorious;
his extreme pallor and his nervous lack of repose had gained for him
the title of "Snowbird." Tommy's hollow eyes were glowing, his
colorless lips were parted in an engaging smile. "Please run 'em once
more. I 'ain't had so much fun since my wife eloped with a drummer in
El Paso."
Rouletta agreed readily enough, and her admiring audience crowded
closer. Their interest was magnetic, their absorption and their
amusement were communicated to some new-comers who had dropped in.
Before the girl had dealt half the cards these bona-fide customers had
found seats around the table and were likewise playing. They, too,
enjoyed the novel experience, and the vehemence with which they
insisted that Rouletta retain her office proved beyond question the
success of Miller's experiment.
It was not yet midday, nevertheless the news spread quickly that a girl
was dealing bank at the Rialto, and soon other curious visitors
arrived. Among them was Big Lars Anderson. Lars did not often gamble,
but when he did he made a considerable business of it and the sporting
fraternity took him seriously. Anything in the nature of an innovation
tickled the big magnate immensely, and to evidence his interest in this
one he purchased a stack of chips. Ere long he had lost several hundred
dollars. He sent for Miller, finally, and made a good-natured complaint
that the game was too slow for him.
"Shall I raise the limit?" the proprietor asked of Rouletta. The girl
shrugged indifferently, whereupon the Mocha Kid and the Snowbird
embraced each other and exchanged admiring profanities in smothered
tones.
Big Lars stubbornly backed his luck, but the bank continued to win, and
meanwhile new arrivals dropped in. Two, three hours the play went on,
by which time all Dawson knew that a big game was running and that a
girl was in the dealer's chair. Few of the visitors got close enough to
verify the intelligence without receiving a sotto voce warning that
rough talk was taboo--Miller's ungodly clan saw to that--and on the
whole the warning was respected. Only once was it disregarded; then a
heavy loser breathed a thoughtless oath. Disapproval was marked,
punishment was condign; the lookout leisurely descended from his eyrie
and floored the offender with a blow from his fist.
When the resulting disturbance had quieted down the defender of decorum
announced with inflexible firmness, but with a total lack of heat:
"Gents, this is a sort of gospel game, and it's got a certain tone
which we're going to maintain. The limit is off, except on cussing, but
it's mighty low on that. Them of you that are indisposed to swallow
your cud of regrets will have it knocked out of you."
"Good!" shouted Big Lars. He pounded the table with the flat of his
huge palm. "By Jingo! I'll make that unanimous. If anybody has to cuss
let him take ten paces to the rear and cuss the stove."
It was well along in the afternoon when Rouletta Kirby pushed back her
chair and rose. She was very white; she passed an uncertain hand over
her face, then groped blindly at the table for support. At these signs
of distress a chorus of alarm arose.
"It's nothing," she smiled. '"I'm just--hungry. I've been pretty ill
and I'm not very strong yet."
Lars Anderson was dumfounded, appalled. "Hungry? My God!" To his
companions he shouted: "D'you hear that, boys? She's starved out!"
The boys had heard; already they had begun to scramble. Some ran for
the lunch-counter in the adjoining room, others dashed out to the
nearest restaurants. The Snowbird so far forgot his responsibilities as
to abandon the roulette-wheel and leave its bank-roll unguarded while
he scurried to the bar and demanded a drink, a tray of assorted drinks,
fit for a fainting lady. He came flying back, yelling, "Gangway!" and,
scattering the crowd ahead of him, he offered brandy, whisky, creme de
menthe, hootch, absinthe and bitters to Rouletta, all of which she
declined. He was still arguing the medicinal value of these beverages
when the swinging doors from the street burst open and in rushed the
Mocha Kid, a pie in each hand. Other eatables and drinkables appeared
as by magic, the faro-table was soon spread with the fruits of a
half-dozen hasty and hysterical forays.
Rouletta stared at the apprehensive faces about her, and what she read
therein caused her lips to quiver and her voice to break when she tried
to express her thanks.
"Gosh! Don't cry!" begged the Mocha Kid. With a counterfeit assumption
of juvenile hilarity he exclaimed: "Oh, look at the pretty pies! They
got little Christmas-trees on their lids, 'ain't they? Um-yum! Rich and
juicy! I stuck up the baker and stole his whole stock, but I slipped
and spilled 'em F. O. B.--flat on the boardwalk."
Rouletta laughed. "Let's end the game and all have lunch," she
suggested, and her invitation was accepted.
Big Lars spoke up with his mouth full of pastry: "We don't allow
anybody to go hungry in this camp," said he. "We're all your friends,
miss, and if there's anything you want and can't afford, charge it to
me."
Rouletta stopped to speak with Miller, on her way out. "Do I get the
position?" she inquired.
"Say! You know you get it!" he told her. "You go on at eight and come
off at midnight."
"What is the pay?"
"I pay my dealers an ounce a shift, but--you can write your own ticket.
How is two ounces?"
"I'll take regular wages," Rouletta smiled.
Miller nodded his approval of this attitude; then his face clouded.
"I've been wondering how you're going to protect your bank-roll. Things
won't always be like they were to-day. I s'pose I'll have to put a man
on--"
"I'll protect it," the girl asserted. "Agnes and I will do that."
The proprietor was interested. "Agnes? Holy Moses! Is there two of you?
Have you got a sister? Who's Agnes?"
"She's an old friend of my father's."
Miller shrugged. "Bring her along if you want to," he said, doubtfully,
"but those old dames are trouble-makers."
"Yes, Agnes is all of that, but"--Rouletta's eyes were dancing--"she
minds her own business and she'll guard the bank-roll."
Lucky Broad and Kid Bridges had found employment at the Rialto soon
after it opened. As they passed the gold-scales on their way to work
Pierce Phillips halted them.
"I've some good news for you, Lucky," he announced. "You've lost your
job."
"Who, me?" Broad was incredulous.
"Miller has hired a new faro-dealer, and you don't go on until
midnight." Briefly Pierce retold the story that had come to his ears
when he reported for duty that evening.
Broad and Bridges listened without comment, but they exchanged glances.
They put their heads together and began a low-pitched conversation.
They were still murmuring when Rouletta appeared, in company with
'Poleon Doret.
'Poleon's face lighted at sight of the two gamblers. He strode forward,
crying: "Hallo! I'm glad for see you some more." To the girl he said:
"You 'member dese feller'. Dey he'p save you in de rapids."
Rouletta impulsively extended her hands. "Of course! Could I forget?"
She saw Pierce Phillips behind the scales and nodded to him. "Why,
we're all here, aren't we? I'm so glad. Everywhere I go I meet friends."
Lucky and the Kid inquired respectfully regarding her health, her
journey down the river, her reasons for being here; then when they had
drawn her aside the former interrupted her flow of explanations to say:
"Listen, Letty. We got just one real question to ask and we'd like a
straight answer. Have you got any kick against this Frenchman?"
"Any kick of any kind?" queried Bridges. "We're your friends; you can
tip us off."
The sudden change in the tone of their voices caused the girl to start
and to stare at them. She saw that both men were in sober earnest; the
reason behind their solicitude she apprehended.
She laid a hand upon the arm of each. Her eyes were very bright when
she began: "'Poleon told me how you came to his tent that morning
after--you know, and he told me what you said. Well, it wasn't
necessary. He's the dearest thing that ever lived!"
"Why'd he put you to work in a place like this?" Bridges roughly
demanded.
"He didn't. He begged me not to try it. He offered me all he has--his
last dollar. He--"
Swiftly, earnestly, Rouletta told how the big woodsman had cared for
her; how tenderly, faithfully, he had nursed her back to health and
strength; how he had cast all his plans to the winds in order to bring
her down the river. "He's the best, the kindest, the most generous man
I ever knew," she concluded. "His heart is clean and--his soul is full
of music."
"'Sta bueno!" cried Lucky Broad, in genuine relief. "We had a hunch he
was right, but--you can't always trust those Asiatic races."
Ben Miller appeared and warmly greeted his new employee. "Rested up,
eh? Well, it's going to be a big night. Where's Agnes--the other one?
Has she got cold feet?"
"No, just a cold nose. Here she is." From a small bag on her arm
Rouletta drew Sam Kirby's six-shooter. "Agnes was my father's friend.
Nobody ever ran out on her."
Miller blinked, he uttered a feeble exclamation, then he burst into a
mighty laugh. He was still shaking, his face was purple, there were
tears of mirth in his eyes, when he followed Broad, Bridges, and
Rouletta into the gambling-room.
There were several players at the faro-table when the girl took her
place. Removing her gloves, she stowed them away in her bag. From this
bag she extracted the heavy Colt's revolver, then opened the drawer
before her and laid it inside. She breathed upon her fingers, rubbing
the circulation back into them, and began to shuffle the cards.
Slipping them into the box, the girl settled herself in her chair and
looked up into a circle of grinning faces. Before her level gaze eyes
that had been focused queerly upon her fell. The case-keeper's lips
were twitching, but he bit down upon them. Gravely he said:
"Well, boys, let's go!"