CHAPTER VI
"WAYS THAT ARE DARK"
It was less than a quarter of a mile from the Allandales' house to thesaloon--a den of reeking atmosphere and fouler spirits.
The saloon at Foss River was no better and no worse than hundreds ofothers in the North-West at the time of which we write. It was a fairlylarge wooden building standing at the opposite end of the open spacewhich answered the purpose of a market-place, and facing Lablache'sstore. Inside, it was gloomy, and the air invariably reeked of staletobacco and drink. The bar was large, and at one end stood a piano keptfor the purpose of "sing-songs"--nightly occurrences when the execrablewhisky had done its work. Passing through the bar one finds a largedining-room on one side of a passage, and, on the other, a number ofsmaller rooms devoted to the use of those who wished to play poker.
It was towards this place that the Hon. Bunning-Ford was riding in theleisurely manner of one to whom time is no object.
His thoughts were far from matters pertaining to his destination, and hewould gladly have welcomed anything which could have interfered with hisprojected game. For the moment poker had lost its charm.
This man was at no time given to vacillation. All his methods were, as arule, very direct. Underneath his easy nonchalance he was of a verydecided nature. His thin face at times could suddenly become very keen.His true character was hidden by the cultivated lazy expression of hiseyes. Bunning-Ford was one of those men who are at their best inemergency. At all other times life was a thing which it was impossiblefor him to take seriously. He valued money as little as he valuedanything in the world. Poker he looked upon as a means to an end. He hadno religious principles, but firmly believed in doing as he would bedone by. Honesty and truth he loved, because to him they were clean. Itmattered nothing to him what his surroundings might be, for, thoughliving in them, he was not of them. He would as soon sit down to playcards with three known murderers as play in the best club in London, andhe would treat them honestly and expect the same in return--but a loadedrevolver would be slung upon his hip and the holster would be open andhandy.
As he neared the saloon he recognized the figures of two men walking inthe direction of the saloon. They were the doctor and John Allandale. Herode towards them.
"Hallo, Bill, whither bound?" said the old rancher, as the younger mancame up. "Going to join us in the parlor of Smith's fragrant hostelry?The spider is already there weaving the web in which he hopes to ensnareus."
Bunning-Ford shook his head.
"Who's the spider--Lablache?"
"Yes, we're going to play. It's the first time for some days. Guesswe've all been too busy with the round-up. Won't you really join us?"
"Can't. I've promised Mancha and 'Pickles' revenge for a game we playedthe other night, when I happened to relieve them of a few dollars."
"Sensible man--Lablache is too consistent," put in the doctor, quietly.
"Nonsense," said "Poker" John, optimistically. "You're always carpingabout the man's luck. We must break it soon."
"Yes, we've suggested that before."
Bill spoke with meaning and finished up with a purse of the lips.
They were near the saloon.
"How long are you going to play?" he went on quietly.
"Right through the evening," replied "Poker" John, with keensatisfaction. "And you?"
"Only until four o'clock. I am going to take tea up at your place."
The old man offered no comment and Bill dismounted and tied the horse toa post, and the three men entered the stuffy bar. The room was half fullof people. They were mostly cow-boys or men connected with the variousranches about the neighborhood. Words of greeting hailed the new-comerson all sides, but old John, who led the way, took little or no notice ofthose whom he recognized. The lust of gambling was upon him, and, as adipsomaniac craves for drink, so he was longing to feel the smoothsurface of pasteboard between his fingers. While Bunning-Ford stopped toexchange a word with some of those he met, the other two men wentstraight up to the bar. Smith himself, a grizzled old man, with atobacco-stained gray moustache and beard, and the possessor of a pair ofnarrow, wicked-looking eyes, was serving out whisky to a couple ofworse-looking half-breeds. It was noticeable that every man present woreat his waist either a revolver or a long sheath knife. Even theproprietor was fully armed. The half-breeds wore knives.
"Poker" John was apparently a man of distinction here. Possibly theknowledge that he played a big game elicited for him a sort ofindifferent respect. Anyway, the half-breeds moved to allow him toapproach the bar.
"Lablache here?" asked the rancher, eagerly.
"He is," replied Mr. Smith, in a drawling voice, as he pushed the twowhiskies across to the waiting half-breeds. "Been here half an hour.Jest pass right through, mister. Maybe you'll find him located in numbertwo."
There was no doubt that John B. Smith hailed from America. Although theCanadian is not devoid of the American accent there is not much doubt ofnationality when one hears the real thing.
"Good; come on, Doc. No, thanks, Smith," as the man behind the barreached towards a bottle with a white seal. "We'll have something lateron. Number two on the right, I think you said."
The two men passed on into the back part of the premises.
"Guess dollars'll be flyin' 'fore the night's out," said Smith,addressing any who cared to listen, and indicating "Poker" John with ajerk of the head in the direction of the door through which the two menhad just passed. "Make the banks hum when they raise the 'bid.' Guessther' ain't many o' ther' likes roun' these parts. Rye or Scotch?" to"Lord" Bill and three other men who came up at that moment. Mancha and"Pickles" were with him, and a fourth player--the deposed captain of the"round-up," Sim Lory.
"Scotch, you old heathen, of course," replied Bill, with a tolerantlaugh. "You don't expect us to drink fire-water. If you kept decent Ryeit would be different. We're going to have a flutter. Any room?"
"Number two, I guess. Chock-a-block in the others. Tolerable run onpoker these times. All the round-up hands been gettin' advances, I takeit. Say when."
The four men said "when" in due course, and each watered his own whisky.The proprietor went on, with a quick twinkle of his beady eyes,--
"Ther's Mr. Allandale an' Lablache and company in number two. Nobodyelse, I guess. I've a notion you'll find plenty of room. Chips, no? Allright; goin' to play a tidy game? Good!"
The four men, having swallowed their drink, followed in the footsteps ofthe others.
There was something very brisk and business-like about thisgambling-hell. Early settlers doubtless remember in the days of"prohibition," when four per cent. beer was supposed to be the onlybeverage of the country, and before rigid legislation, backed by thearmed force of the North-West Mounted Police, swept these frightfulpollutions from the fair face of the prairie, how they thrived on theencouragement of gambling and the sale of contraband spirits. The Westis a cleaner country now, thanks to the untiring efforts of the police.
In number two "Poker" John and his companions were already getting towork when Bill and his friends entered. Beyond a casual remark theyseemed to take little notice of each other. One and all were eager tobegin the play.
A deep silence quickly fell upon the room. It was the silence ofsuppressed excitement. A silence only broken by monosyllabic and almostwhispered betting and "raising" as the games proceeded. An hour passedthus. At the table where Lablache and John Allandale were playing theusual luck prevailed. The money-lender seemed unable to do wrong, and atthe other table Bunning-Ford was faring correspondingly badly. PedroMancha, the Mexican, a man of obscure past and who lived no one quiteknew how, but who always appeared to find the necessary to gamble with,was the favored one of dame Fortune. Already he had heaped before him apile of "bills" and I.O.U.'s most of which bore "Lord" Bill's signature.Looking on at either table, no one from outward signs could have saidwhich way the luck was going. Only the scribblings of the pencils uponthe memo pads and the gradual accumulation of the precious sli
ps ofpaper before Lablache at one table and the wild-eyed, dark-skinnedMexican at the other, told the story of the ruin which was surely beingaccomplished.
At length, with a loser's privilege, Bunning-Ford, after glancing at hiswatch, rose from the table. His lean face was in no way disturbed. Heseemed quite indifferent to his losses.
"I'll quit you, Pedro," he said, smiling lazily down at the Mexican."You're a bit too hot for me to-day."
The dark-skinned man smiled a vague, non-committing smile and displayeda double row of immaculate teeth.
"Good. You shall have your revenge. Doubtless you would like some ofthese papers back," he said, as he swept them leisurely into hispocket-book, and then sugar-bagging a cigarette paper he poured a fewgrains of granulated tobacco into it.
"Yes, I daresay I shall relieve you of some later on," replied Bill,quietly. Then he turned to the other table and stood watching the play.
He glanced anxiously at the bare table in front of the old rancher. EvenDr. Abbot was well stocked with slips of paper. Then his gaze fell uponthe money-lender, behind whose huge back he was standing.
He moved slightly to one side. It is an unwritten law amongst pokerplayers, in a public place in the west of the American continent, thatno onlooker should stand immediately behind any player. He moved toLablache's right. The money-lender was dealing. "Lord" Bill lit acigarette.
The cards were dealt round. Then the draw. Then Lablache laid the packdown. Bunning-Ford had noted these things mechanically. Then somethingcaught his attention. It was his very indifference which caused hissudden attention. Had he been following the game with his usual keennesshe would only have been thinking of the betting.
Lablache was writing upon his memo, pad, which was a gorgeous effort insilver mounting. One of those oblong blocks with a broad band ofburnished silver at the binding of the perforated leaves. He knew thatthis was the pad the money-lender always used; anyway, it was similar inall respects to his usual memorandum pads.
How it was his attention had become fixed upon that pad he could nothave told, but now an inspiration came to him. His face remainedunchanged in its expression, but those lazy eyes of his gleamed wickedlyas he leisurely puffed at his cigarette.
The bet went round. Lablache raised and raised again. Eventually therancher "saw" him. The other took the pool. No word was spoken, but"Lord" Bill gritted his teeth and viciously pitched his cigarette tothe other end of the room.
During the next two deals he allowed his attention to wander. Lablachedropped out one hand, and, in the next, he merely "filled" his "ante"and allowed the doctor to take in the pool. John Allandale's face wasserious. The nervous twitching of the cheek was still, but the drawnlines around his mouth were in no way hidden by his gray mustache, nordid the eager light which burned luridly in his eyes for one momentdeceive the onlooker as to the anxiety of mind which his featuresmasked.
Now it was Lablache's deal. "Lord" Bill concentrated his attention uponthe dealer. The money-lender was left-handed. He held the pack in hisright, and, in dealing, he was slow and slightly clumsy. The object ofBunning-Ford's attention quickly became apparent. Each card as it leftthe pack was passed over the burnished silver of the dealer's memorandumpad. It was smartly done, and Lablache was assisted by the fact that thepiece of metal was inclined towards him. There was no necessity to lookdown deliberately to see the reflection of each card as it passed on itsway to its recipient, a glance--just the glance necessary when dealingcards--and the money-lender, by a slight effort of memory, knew everyhand that was out. Lablache was cheating.
To say that "Lord" Bill was astonished would be wrong. He was not. Hehad long suspected it. The steady run of luck which Lablache hadpersisted in was too phenomenal. It was enough to set the densestthinking. Now everything was plain. Standing where he was, Bill hadalmost been able to read the index numerals himself. He gave no sign ofhis discovery. Apparently the matter was of no consequence to him, forhe merely lit a fresh cigarette and walked towards the door. He turnedas he was about to pass out.
"What time shall I tell Jacky to expect you home, John?" he saidquietly, addressing the old rancher.
Lablache looked up with a swift, malevolent glance, but he said nothing.Old John turned a drawn face to the speaker.
"Supper, I guess," he said in a thick voice, husky from long silence."And tell Smith to send me in a bottle of 'white seal' and someglasses."
"Right you are." Then "Lord" Bill passed out. "Poker without whisky isbad," he muttered as he made his way back to the bar, "but poker andwhisky together can only be the beginning of the end. We'll see. Poorold John!"
The Story of the Foss River Ranch: A Tale of the Northwest Page 6
