The Third Western Megapack

by Barker, S. Omar

  Flapjack saw a flash of confidence on the gambler’s face when the show-down came a moment later; then it was gone. The trapper stood up.

  “I’m cleaned,” he announced briefly.

  A miner from the Mayo country took his place, and the game went on. Some one called for a new deck of cards, and a steerage passenger named Anthony hurried back to the news stand and returned with the new deck.

  It was then that Old Man Anderson possessed himself of the old deck. Soon thereafter his interest in the game ceased. In a secluded spot he examined the backs of the cards for the marks he knew must be there. Apparently there were none. His eyes narrowed as he recalled a test an old gambler had taught him. Bending the deck, he let the cards flutter from beneath his fingers, and figures seemed to dance over the backs of the cards.

  “I knew it!” he muttered. “Now I’ll study this business a bit, but the thing that gets me is this deck came straight from the news stand, seal unbroken, to the game, and yet it’s marked. Olson has just about taken everything the boys have! He must have cleaned up fifteen or twenty thousand dollars! I can’t understand how an unbroken deck of cards came from the news stand marked. That sure gets me!”

  Before the evening was over he possessed himself of another deck. It was marked. Then he bought a deck himself and examined it. It was unmarked. Thereupon Flapjack loafed around the news stand and when opportunity afforded, creased the stamp on several packages with his thumb-nail. Then he waited. A half hour later a new deck was called for, and the same seedy-looking individual volunteered to obtain one. Flapjack followed him, and when the cards were removed, he examined the pasteboard envelope. The stamp was broken, but there was no thumbnail crease across the face. Then it was that Flapjack whistled softly to himself, examined his .44, and called on the purser.

  The purser eyed him sharply. “What’s that, Mr. Anderson?”

  “I want them two pokes and the envelope I checked with you when I came aboard.”

  “You can have them if you want, of course, but an old chap like you should stay away from that game in. the fo’c’s’le. You haven’t a chance. Think it over; they’ll trim you!” The official was trying to save the old miner from financial disaster.

  “I’ve been thinking it over, sir,” Flapjack replied. “And I’m ready to take a little chance. I’ve played cards quite a bit in my time. I aim to take a little money off’n Olson.”

  The official opened the barred door so that he could look squarely into the old man’s face. “Anybody! Anybody but Olson, which isn’t his name at all. He’s waiting for old chaps like you.”

  “Then it’d be a shame to keep him waiting any longer,” replied Flapjack.

  With obvious reluctance and real regret the purser handed Flapjack his pokes and envelope.

  The smoke was heavier in the fo’c’s’le when Old Man Anderson returned. Olson’s manner was that of a gentleman bored over the slow game in progress. He glanced up at the old miner in the faded coat, and there was a trace of hope in his eyes. Thus far the old man had ignored the game, and the prospect of adding the supposedly twenty thousand dollars in dust to his wealth seemed slim. His manner brightened as the other seemed torn between caution and a desire to play.

  “Room for one more,” said Olson suddenly, “if you don’t mind playing for small stakes.”

  Flapjack slowly seated himself. Those in the fo’c’s’le took a sudden interest, for here was a man with a big stake; also he was an unknown quantity. He turned around quietly.

  “Let’s start with a new deck!”

  The man known as Williams was the first to respond as before, and he handed Flapjack a deck fresh from the news stand. Flapjack’s keen eyes searched for a thumb-nail crease on the stamp. There was none. He opened the package and handed the deck to the dealer. Then he opened a poke and spilled out a number of nuggets, and into Olson’s eyes came the light of greed. Gold has a stronger attraction than an equal amount of currency.

  “Gimme some chips!” Flapjack said.

  It was an hour before those in the fo’c’s’le sensed the unusual in the atmosphere. Other games died one by one, and the men crowded about and climbed on freight in order to see the progress. The old man could play poker, no doubt of it. Olson was at his best, figuratively on his toes, watching every move carefully with his cold gray eyes.

  It was about three o’clock in the morning when a challenge was given and accepted. Flapjack held a good hand, three aces, a ten, and an eight.

  “This game isn’t like the games twenty-five years ago!” he said softly, “but just for luck—raise yuh!”

  He shoved two thousand dollars’ worth of dust to the center of the table, and even the impassive faces in the fo’c’s’le widened with amazement. For the fraction of a second Olson faltered. He studied the backs of Flapjack’s cards. Three aces was his best possible hand, and by a combination of luck and clever manipulation Olson held a better hand. He met the raise, but did not call. In fact, he thrust five thousand dollars in currency to the center of the table.

  “Raise you five thousand dollars!” he said. Then it was that Flapjack opened the envelope.

  “I’m out of gold, but this paper is just as good. Go as far as you like!”

  Olson laid down his cards and motioned to Williams to watch them; then he hurried up and got the purser out of bed.

  “I’m needing that roll I deposited with you,” he said.

  Olson needing money? It was unbelievable, but the situation was so pleasant that the purser forgave the interruption.

  “That’s all of it!” he said. “Don’t spend it all in one place!”

  By all rights he should notify the skipper and stop gambling, but—the purser was human.

  Olson seated himself quietly, and for just a moment studied his cards while inwardly he gathered his courage. Of course Old Man Anderson had the right to believe three aces were good, yet, perhaps there was a catch. With a gambler’s recklessness and the comforting thought that he held a better hand, he counted out a stack of big bills.

  “I raise you just that, Mr. Anderson!” he said.

  All eyes turned toward Flapjack. Suddenly some of the hump faded from his shoulders. In the excitement he seemed to grow younger, even cooler. Perhaps it was nervousness and the heat that caused him to unfasten the lower button of his coat. Perhaps he had another reason, such as going inside for more money or—something. Nearly all of his money was in the pot when he met Olson’s huge raise.

  “There she is,” he announced, “a forty-thousand-dollar pot. I’ve seen bigger ones, and all pure gold; no paper; but this will stand good for steerage these days. Mr. Olson, I call you!”

  The fo’c’s’le was silent except for the vibration of the engines and the clanking of a pump near by. “Clink clank! Clink clank!” The pump seemed to toll the seconds. Something seemed ready to snap. Then slowly Olson laid down four queens, face up. The fifth card did not matter.

  “Four queens!” said Flapjack, leaning forward so that his coat would open.

  “Yes, four queens!” replied Olson. His fingers were curving, like claws, his eyes on the stack of gold, bills, and the silver fox pelt, for Olson had put everything into the pot in an effort to take everything the simple old miner had.

  “Four queens is good!” Flapjack said softly. “But—four aces is better!” He laid down his cards. “There’s three of ’em, and this is the fourth!” With a swift movement his .44 was on the table, the business end pointing toward Olson.

  “This is robbery!” Olson fairly screamed the words; his usually gray face was grayer.

  “Some might call it that, but I call it plain cheating. The cards are marked.”

  “I can prove they were bought from the news stand,” cried Olson. “You men here saw ’em bought.”

  “Sure; your man Will
iams bought the cards, but substituted a deck you had previously marked and resealed. It was a clever trick, and had me guessing. As I was saying, four aces beats four queens.”

  He looked about; his eyes fell bn Dick Keene, whose wife’s letter had started Flapjack in motion.

  “Flapjack Meehan!” Keene gasped out. “I didn’t know you, until I saw you handle that gun. By gosh!”

  “Come here, Keene; gather up this money and take it up to the purser’s office. I want my hands free for gun work if necessary. You gentlemen have been cheated. If you’ll come to me tomorrow and state your losses, I’ll see that you are paid. Single men only!”

  “How about us married men—”

  “A married man who would go up against a fellow like Olson doesn’t deserve any consideration, and he won’t get it from me. However, if you’ll give me a statement of your losses and your wife’s address, I’ll see that friend wife gets the amount. As I figure it, there’ll be about two thousand left over of the money Olson started on this trip with. I don’t want it, but I figure there’re poor kids in Seattle needing warmer clothes this winter, and that’s one way of purifying tainted money—spend it where it’ll do the most good.”

  Flapjack yawned. “It’s been a long night, and I guess I’ll turn in!”

  BULLION AND BULLETS, by J. Thompson Kescel

  Boom! In a thunderous salute which hurled the shattered rock high into the air and sent the roaring report far among the sunlit Arizona hills, the heavy charge of dynamite exploded.

  Then old Milt Gooding—tall, raw-boned and grizzled—who from a safe distance had waited for the dynamite to go off, started forward along the hillside, his two burros, Mercury and Zulu, tagging doglike behind him. Perhaps the shot which had blasted off the top of the outcrop had disclosed pay rock. Or possibly, eye-opening bonanza. The cleanings that Milt had scraped from the drill hole during drilling operations, had been decidedly promising.

  A prospector of pretty much his own type, was Milt Gooding. He might have been called—and accurately enough—the highbrow prospector. For he had a wide knowledge, both practical and theoretical, of chemistry, assaying, and mineralogy. Of this knowledge, though, he said little. Not because he had anything to hide, but simply because he saw no need of talking about accomplishments of which he made so little use.

  Fifteen years before, on this same day of the month, he had come to Arizona from the north. A week later he had bought two burros—calling one Mercury, the other Zulu—and had them outfitted for a trip into the hills, in search of ore—preferably gold, silver, or copper.

  Mercury was then an alert, medium sized, mouse-colored animal with great long ears that stood up proudly, and whose large, fawnlike brown eyes missed little that went on about him. While Zulu, considerably bigger than his mate, with a wiry coat much the color of dull slate, and a great, donkey head, looked solemn and wise.

  Now Mercury’s coat was much lighter, getting along to dirty white, though his ears were still erect. Zulu’s ears, though, now often drooped aimlessly, and his coat was streaked with rusty gray. Years of packing their master’s supplies over desert and mountains, and of living off the scanty pasture found on wasteland places, had left their mark on both the patient animals. Yet no more than on old Milt, whose close-cropped beard was a grizzly gray and whose bony shoulders were stooped.

  He was sixty-five, and he felt every day of his years. To many men, living with all the comforts, sixty-five was simply getting on. But for one who had led the life that old Milt had, rolled up in his blankets on the ground in all kinds of weather—well, sixty-five was time to knock off and take things easy.

  Perhaps the day was close at hand when he could do that. The outcrop, that he had just drilled into, certainly had looked good.

  As he walked along the rocky hillside, with its occasional cactus or small clump of scraggly brush, toward where he had placed the charge of dynamite, his two old pack animals still following behind, his wandering gaze suddenly lighted on a fist-sized piece of quartz upon the ground just ahead of him. He could see at a glance that the rock was freshly broken, and he immediately guessed that it had been hurled there by the blast.

  Stooping over, he picked it up. Then his kind old eyes glowed—for he was looking at rich ore. Very probably, he had at last struck it. If so, it meant ease and plenty for himself and his burros for the remainder of their days.

  Hurrying forward, he looked down into the hole made by the explosive. There was high-grade gold quartz—heart warming, eye dazzling.

  The burros ambled close and then, while looking sleepily down at the exposed pay rock, allowed the weight of their bodies to slump lazily onto three legs. Whereupon old Milt tore off his battered slouch hat, and as he playfully slapped first Mercury and then Zulu with it, he laughed.

  “We’ve finally hit it, pards. It looks as if our dream has come true. Our dream of a quiet little place near some fair-sized town. You, with green pasture all year round. While I’ll have my books—and plenty of time to study them. That has been our dream for a good many years, now.”

  Wise old Zulu only flopped his great long ears and switched his tail. It would take more than a few slaps from a soft felt hat to alarm him, especially if his kind old master were wielding the hat. But more active Mercury took a quick step away, a questioning expression in his fawnlike eyes and his lengthy, mouse-colored ears tipped forward. He was not at all afraid. Yet he never before had seen this tall, rawboned, even-tempered man, in overalls and worn cotton shirt, show so much excitement at any time during the lean years that they had knocked about together.

  Milt Gooding laughed loudly and clapped on his hat.

  “Mercury, I’m surprised at you,” he chided. “You act as if you thought I intended to do you harm. Or as if you thought I might have gone crazy. Well, I don’t know as I blame you so much, as I have always been a very undemonstrative sort of man. This time, however, there is cause enough for a breakout. Here, let me rub your head.”

  Chuckling, he stroked the old donkey’s head and muzzle. Afterward he did the same to Zulu. Then he brought his pick and shovel from behind a big boulder, where he had placed them out of danger of flying rock, and started developing his find.

  For a good half hour he worked, hard and diligently, noting the while, as he drove the pick’s sharp steel point into the fractured formation, that his discovery was proving up fast. No doubt but that he had something good.

  A moment later came the klipity-klop of horses’ hoofs. Old Milt turned around, his pick automatically dropping on his shoulder. Looking down the hillside, he saw only Mercury and Zulu, now grazing on the sparse vegetation. Yet he. continued to hear hoofbeats, and he fixed his gaze on a turn in the low, twisting cañon.

  Almost at once a man rode into sight, leading a pack horse with a bulky, canvas-covered bundle on its back; then a second and a third man, each likewise leading a pack animal. At first, owing to the distance, Milt did not recognize any of them. But as they rode on up the hill’s sloping side, he made them out, one at a time. First, Jim Jordon, of Gold Palo, a mining camp thirty miles distant. Then Tom Gaylor and Juan Obregon—the latter Arizona born, though of Mexican parents.

  Jordon, thirty-five, hard of face and mean of eye, was a man of some means—acquired questionably. Gaylor and Obregon were camp hangers-on, with reputations that would bear little probing. They were somewhat younger than their leader, though his equal in dirty work.

  “Hello, Milt!” greeted Jordon gruffly, easing himself in the saddle as his horse came to a stop within a couple of yards of the old prospector, whose hand was now resting on the pick handle, much as though it were a cane. “Me, Tom, and Juan has been ’bout ten miles beyond here, lookin’ at some ground that Juan thought purty good. A week’s scratchin’ round, though, didn’t uncover nuthin’ worth while.

  “So we wuz on our way back to Gold Palo
, when we heard your blast. Bein’ in no hurry, we switched off this way to see what wuz goin’ on. Reckon you’ve got something good there, ain’t you?”

  Hand still resting on the pick handle, old Milt looked from Jordon’s hard face to the unshaven, coarse countenance of Gaylor, and then on to Obregon, swarthy-skinned and coal-black of eye. There was no use saying that he didn’t have something good, for they all knew ore of this character. He wished that they had not come along until after he’d had his stakes up and his notice of location filed with the mining recorder. But as they had come, he must make the best of it.

  So he said, as casually as he could: “Yes, Jim, I have something pretty fair. Get down and take a look at it. Afterward, if you like, stake off some ground adjoining mine. I’m not going to take in a great deal.”

  One by one the tough-looking trio swung to the ground and looked down into the shallow hole, where broken pieces of ore littered the bottom.

  “Humph!” Jordon grunted, feasting his eyes on the pleasing sight below. “High grade! Rich! Best surface showin’ I’ve ever seen. We’ve sure got to put up stakes.

  “But—but—” and he dropped his hand on the black butt of his holstered revolver—“we’ll put up our stakes right here, with this hole as our discovery location. We wuz workin’ here when old Milt come along. Who’s to prove we wuzn’t? It’ll be the word of three ’gainst one.”

  “No! No! You can’t do that, boys!” Milt protested. “This is my discovery. You let me stake off what I want; then join on to me.”

  “Aw, shut up!” Jordon said, laughing. “We’ll take what we want. You kin have what’s left.”

  “No, boys, that’s not fair,” Milt objected vigorously. “I’m entitled to what I found. But—but—” He wanted to have at least a share in the ground. “Well, I’m willing to split it up. A fourth to each one of us.”