The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  A fleeting smile crossed the gambler’s face. “Benton is bad enough, without you being foot-loose.”

  “All these camps are tough,” replied Neale.

  “I was in North Platte, Kearney, Cheyenne, and Medicine Bow during their rise,” said Hough. “They were tough. But they were not Benton. And the next camp west, which will be the last—it will be Roaring Hell. What will be its name?”

  “Why is Benton worse?” inquired Neale.

  “The big work is well under way now, with a tremendous push from behind. There are three men for every man’s work. That lays off two men each day. Drunk or dead. The place is wild—far off. There’s gold—hundreds of thousands of dollars in gold dumped off the trains. Benton has had one payday. That day was the sight of my life!… Then…there are women.”

  “I saw a few in the dance-hall,” replied Neale.

  “Then you haven’t looked in at Stanton’s?”

  “Who’s he?”

  “Stanton is not a man,” replied Hough.

  Neale glanced inquiringly over his glass.

  “Beauty Stanton, they call her,” went on Hough. “I saw her in New Orleans years ago when she was a very young woman—notorious then. She had the beauty and she led the life…did Beauty Stanton.”

  Neale made no comment, and Hough, turning to pay for the drinks, was accosted by several men. They wanted to play poker.

  “Gentlemen, I hate to take your money,” he said. “But I never refuse to sit in a game. Neale, will you join us?”

  They found a table just vacated. Neale took two of the three strangers to be prosperous merchants or ranchers from the Missouri country. The third was a gambler by profession. Neale found himself in unusually sharp company. He did not have a great deal of money. So in order to keep clear-headed he did not drink. And he began to win, not by reason of excellent judgment, but because he was lucky. He had good cards all the time, and part of the time very strong ones. It struck him presently that these remarkable hands came during Hough’s deal, and he wondered if the gambler was deliberately manipulating the cards to his advantage. At any rate, he won hundreds of dollars.

  “Mr. Neale, do you always hold such cards?” asked one of the men.

  “Why, sure,” replied Neale. He could not help being excited and elated.

  “Well, he can’t be beat,” said the other.

  “Lucky at cards, unlucky in love,” remarked the third of the trio. “I pass.”

  Hough was looking straight at Neale when this last remark was made. And Neale suddenly lost his smile, his flush. The gambler dropped his glance.

  “Play the game and don’t get personal in your remarks,” he said. “This is poker.”

  Neale continued to win, but his excitement did not return, nor his elation. A random word from a strange man had power to sting him. Unlucky in love! Alas! What was luck, gold—anything to him any more!

  By the time the game was ended Neale felt a friendly interest in Hough that was difficult to define or explain; and the conviction gained upon him that the gambler had deliberately dealt him those remarkable cards.

  “Let’s see,” said Hough, consulting his watch. “Twelve o’clock! Stanton’s will be humming. We’ll go in.”

  Neale did not want to show his reluctance, yet he did hot know just what to say. After all, he was drifting. So he went.

  It seemed that all the visitors who had been in the gambling-hall had gravitated to this other dance-hall. The entrance appeared to be through a hotel. At least Neale saw the hotel sign. The building was not made of canvas, but painted wood in sections, like the scenes of a stage. Men were coming and going; the hum of music and gaiety came from the rear; there were rugs, pictures, chairs; this place, whatever its nature, made pretensions. Neale did not see any bar.

  They entered a big room full of people, apparently doing nothing. From the opposite side, where the dance-hall opened, came a hum that seemed at once music and discordance, gaiety and wildness, with a strange, carrying undertone raw and violent.

  Hough led Neale across the room to where he could look into the dance-hall.

  Neale saw a mad, colorful flash and whirl of dancers.

  Hough whispered in Neale’s ear: “Stanton throws the drunks out of here.”

  No, it appeared the dancers were not drunk with liquor. But there was evidence of other drunkenness than that of the bottle. The floor was crowded. Looking at the mass, Neale could only see whirling, heated faces, white, clinging arms, forms swaying round and round, a wild rhythm without grace, a dance in which music played no real part, where men and women were lost. Neale had never seen a sight like that. He was stunned. There were no souls here. Only beasts of men, and women for whom there was no name. If death stalked in that camp, as Hough had intimated, and hell was there, then the two could not meet too soon.

  If the mass and the spirit and the sense of the scene dismayed Neale, the living beings, the creatures, the women—for the men were beyond him—confounded him with pity, consternation, and stinging regret. He had loved two women—his mother and Allie—so well that he ought to love all women because they were of the same sex. Yet how impossible! Had these creatures any sex? Yet they were—at least many were—young, gay, pretty, wild, full of life. They had swift suppleness, smiles, flashing eyes, a look at once intent and yet vacant. But few onlookers would have noticed that. The eyes for which the dance was meant saw the mad whirl, the bare flesh, the brazen glances, the close embrace.

  The music ended, the dancers stopped, the shuffling ceased. There were no seats unoccupied, so the dancers walked around or formed in groups.

  “Well, I see Ruby has spotted you,” observed Hough.

  Neale did not gather exactly what the gambler meant, yet he associated the remark with a girl dressed in red who had paused at the door with others and looked directly at Neale. At that moment someone engaged Hough’s attention.

  The girl would have been striking in any company. Neale thought her neither beautiful nor pretty, but he kept on looking. Her arms were bare, her dress cut very low. Her face offered vivid contrast to the carmine on her lips. It was a round, soft face, with narrow eyes, dark, seductive, bold. She tilted her head to one side and suddenly smiled at Neale. It startled him. It was a smile with the shock of a bullet. It held Neale, so that when she crossed to him he could not move. He felt rather than saw Hough return to his side. The girl took hold of the lapels of Neale’s coat. She looked up. Her eyes were dark, with what seemed red shadows deep in them. She had white teeth. The carmined lips curled in a smile—a smile, impossible to believe, of youth and sweetness, that disclosed a dimple in her cheek. She was pretty. She was holding him, pulling him a little toward her.

  “I like you!” she exclaimed.

  The suddenness of the incident, the impossibility of what was happening, made Neale dumb. He felt her, saw her as he were in a dream. Her face possessed a peculiar fascination. The sleepy, seductive eyes; the provoking half-smile, teasing, alluring; the red lips, full and young through the carmine paint; all of her seemed to breathe a different kind of a power than he had ever before experienced—unspiritual, elemental, strong as some heady wine. She represented youth, health, beauty, terribly linked with evil wisdom, and a corrupt and irresistible power, possessing a base and mysterious affinity for man.

  The breath and the charm and the pestilence of her passed over Neale like fire.

  “Sweetheart, will you dance with me?” she asked, with her head tilted to one side and her half-open veiled eyes on his.

  “No,” replied Neale. He put her from him, gently but coldly.

  She showed slow surprise. “Why not? Can’t you dance? You don’t look like a gawk.”

  “Yes, I can dance,” replied Neale.

  “Then will you dance with me?” she retorted, and red spots showed through the white on her cheeks.

  “I told you no,” replied Neale.

  His reply transported her into a sudden fury. She swung her hand viciously. Hough
caught it, saving Neale from a sounding slap in the face.

  “Ruby, don’t lose your temper,” remonstrated the gambler.

  “He insulted me!” she cried, passionately.

  “He did not. Ruby, you’re spoiled—”

  “Spoiled—hell!… Didn’t he look at me, flirt with me? That’s why I asked him to dance. Then he insulted me. I’ll make Cordy shoot him up for it.”

  “No, you won’t,” replied Hough, and he pulled her toward his companion, a tall woman with golden hair. “Stanton, shut her up.”

  The woman addressed spoke a few words in Ruby’s ear. Then the girl flounced away. But she spoke with withering scorn to Neale.

  “What in hell did you come in here for, you big handsome stiff?”

  With that she was lost amid her mirthful companions.

  Hough turned to Neale. “The girl’s a favorite. You ruffled her vanity…you see. That’s Benton. If you had happened to be alone you would have had gunplay. Be careful after this.”

  “But I didn’t flirt with her,” protested Neale. “I only looked at her—curiously, of course. And I said I wouldn’t dance.”

  Hough laughed. “You’re young in Benton. Neale, let me introduce to you the lady who saved you from some inconvenience.… Miss Stanton—Mr. Neale.”

  And that was how Neale met Beauty Stanton. It seemed she had done him a service. He thanked her. Neale’s manner with women was courteous and deferential. It showed strangely here by contrast. The Stanton woman was superb, not more than thirty years old, with a face that must have been lovely once and held the haunting ghost of beauty still. Her hair was dead gold; her eyes were large and blue, with dark circles under them; and her features had a clear-cut classic regularity.

  “Where’s Ancliffe?” asked Hough, addressing Stanton. She pointed, and Hough left them.

  “Neale, you’re new here,” affirmed the woman, rather curiously.

  “Didn’t I look like it? I can’t forget what that girl said,” replied Neale.

  “Tell me.”

  “She asked me what in the hell I came here for. And she called me—”

  “Oh, I heard what Ruby called you. It’s a wonder it wasn’t worse. She can swear like a trooper. The men are mad over Ruby. It’d be just like her to fall in love with you for snubbing her.”

  “I hope she doesn’t,” replied Neale, constrainedly.

  “May I ask—what did you come here for?”

  “You mean here to your dance-hall? Why, Hough brought me. I met him. We played cards and—”

  “No. I mean what brought you to Benton?”

  “I just drifted here.… I’m looking for a—a lost friend,” said Neale.

  “No work? But you’re no spiker or capper or boss. I know that sort. And I can spot a gambler a mile. The whole world meets out here in Benton. But not many young men like you wander into my place.”

  “Like me? How so?”

  “The men here are wolves on the scent for flesh; like bandits on the trail of gold.… But you—you’re like my friend Ancliffe.”

  “Who is he?” asked Neale, politely.

  “Who is he? God only knows. But he’s an Englishman and a gentleman. It’s a pity men like Ancliffe and you drift out here.”

  She spoke seriously. She had the accent and manner of breeding.

  “Why, Miss Stanton?” inquired Neale. He was finding another woman here and it was interesting to him.

  “Because it means wasted life. You don’t work. You’re not crooked. You can’t do any good. And only a knife in the back or a bullet from some drunken bully’s gun awaits you.”

  “That isn’t a very hopeful outlook, I’ll admit,” replied Neale, thoughtfully.

  At this point Hough returned with a pale, slender man whose clothes and gait were not American. He introduced him as Ancliffe. Neale felt another accession of interest. Benton might be hell, but he was meeting new types of men and women. Ancliffe was fair; he had a handsome face that held a story, and tired blue eyes that looked out upon the world wearily and mildly, without curiosity and without hope. An Englishman of broken fortunes.

  “Just arrived, eh?” he said to Neale. “Rather jolly here, don’t you think?”

  “A fellow’s not going to stagnate in Benton,” replied Neale.

  “Not while he’s alive,” interposed Stanton.

  “Miss Stanton, that idea seems to persist with you—the brevity of life,” said Neale, smiling. “What are the average days for a mortal in this bloody Benton?”

  “Days! You mean hours. I call the night blessed that someone is not dragged out of my place. And I don’t sell drinks.… I’ve saved Ancliffe’s life nine times I know of. Either he hasn’t any sense or he wants to get killed.”

  “I assure you it’s the former,” said the Englishman.

  “But, my friends, I’m serious,” she returned, earnestly. “This awful place is getting on my nerves.… Mr. Neale here, he would have had to face a gun already but for me.”

  “Miss Stanton, I appreciate your kindness,” replied Neale. “But it doesn’t follow that if I had to face a gun I’d be sure to go down.”

  “You can throw a gun?” questioned Hough.

  “I had a cowboy gun-thrower for a partner for years, out on the surveying of the road. He’s the friend I mentioned.”

  “Boy, you’re courting death!” exclaimed Stanton.

  Then the music started up again. Conversation was scarcely worth while during the dancing. Neale watched as before. Twice as he gazed at the whirling couples he caught the eyes of the girl Ruby bent upon him. They were expressive of pique, resentment, curiosity. Neale did not look that way any more. Besides, his attention was drawn elsewhere. Hough yelled in his ear to watch the fun. A fight had started. A strapping fellow wearing a belt containing gun and bowie-knife had jumped upon a table just as the music stopped. He was drunk. He looked like a young workman ambitious to be a desperado.

  “Ladies an’ gennelmen,” he bawled, “I been—requested t’ sing.”

  Yells and hoots answered him. He glared ferociously around, trying to pick out one of his insulters. Trouble was brewing. Something was thrown at him from behind and it struck him. He wheeled, unsteady upon his feet. Then several men, bareheaded and evidently attendants of the hall, made a rush for him. The table was upset. The would-be singer went down in a heap, and he was pounced upon, handled like a sack, and thrown out. The crowd roared its glee.

  “The worst of that is those fellows always come back drunk and ugly,” said Stanton. “Then we all begin to run or dodge.”

  “Your men didn’t lose time with that rowdy,” remarked Neale.

  “I’ve hired all kinds of men to keep order,” she replied. “Laborers, ex-sheriffs, gunmen, bad men. The Irish are the best on the job. But they won’t stick. I’ve got eight men here now, and they are a tough lot. I’m scared to death of them. I believe they rob my guests. But what can I do? Without some aid I couldn’t run the place. It’ll be the death of me.”

  Neale did not doubt that. A shadow surely hovered over this strange woman, but he was surprised at the seriousness with which she spoke. Evidently she tried to preserve order, to avert fights and bloodshed, so that licentiousness could go on unrestrained. Neale believed they must go hand in hand. He did not see how it would be possible for a place like this to last long. It could not. The life of the place brought out the worst in men. It created opportunities. Neale watched them pass, seeing the truth in the red eyes, the heavy lids, the open mouths, the look and gait and gesture. A wild frenzy had fastened upon their minds. He found an added curiosity in studying the faces of Ancliffe and Hough. The Englishman had run his race. Any place would suit him for the end. Neale saw this and marveled at the man’s ease and grace and amiability. He reminded Neale of Larry Red King—the same cool, easy, careless air. Ancliffe would die game. Hough was not affected by this sort of debauched life any more than he would have been by any other kind. He preyed on men. He looked on with cold, gray, expr
essionless face. Possibly he, too, would find an end in Benton sooner or later.

  These reflections, passing swiftly, made Neale think of himself. What was true for others must be true for him. The presence of any of these persons—of Hough and Ancliffe, of himself, in Beauty Stanton’s gaudy resort was sad proof of a disordered life.

  Some one touched him, interrupted his thought.

  “You’ve had trouble?”, asked Stanton, who had turned from the others.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Well, we’ve all had that.… You seem young to me.”

  Hough turned to speak to Stanton. “Ruby’s going to make trouble.”

  “No!” exclaimed the woman, with eyes lighting.

  Neale then saw that the girl Ruby, with a short, bold-looking fellow who packed a gun, and several companions of both sexes, had come in from the dance-hall and had taken up a position near him. Stanton went over to them. She drew Ruby aside and talked to her. The girl showed none of the passion that had marked her manner a little while before. Presently Stanton returned.

  “Ruby’s got over her temper,” she said, with evident relief, to Neale. “She asked me to say that she apologized. It’s just what I told you. She’ll fall madly in love with you for what you did.… She’s of good family, Neale. She has a sister she talks much of, and a home she could go back to if she wasn’t ashamed.”

  “That so?” replied Neale, thoughtfully. “Let me talk to her.”

  At a slight sign from Stanton, Ruby joined the group.

  “Ruby, you’ve already introduced yourself to this gentleman, but not so nicely as you might have done,” said Beauty.

  “I’m sorry,” replied Ruby. A certain wistfulness showed in her low tones.

  “Maybe I was rude,” said Neale. “I didn’t intend to be. I couldn’t dance with anyone here—or anywhere.…” Then he spoke to her in a lower tone. “But I’ll tell you what I will do. I won a thousand dollars tonight. I’ll give you half of it if you’ll go home.”

  The girl shrank as if she had received a stab. Then she stiffened.

  “Why don’t you go home?” she retorted. “We’re all going to hell out here, and the gamest will get there soonest.”