Max Brand (4 page)

Suddenly the dealer stopped and held up his left hand as a warning.
With his right, very slowly, inch by inch lest anyone should suspect
him of a gunplay, he drew out a heavy forty-five and laid it on the
table with the belt of cartridges. "Three years she's been on my hip
through thick and thin, stranger. Three years she's shot close an'
true. There ain't a butt in the world that hugs your hand tighter.
There ain't a cylinder that spins easier. Shoot? Lad, even a kid like
you could be a killer with that six-gun. What will you lay ag'in' it?"

And his red-stained eyes glanced covetously at the yellow heap of
Pierre's money.

"How much?" said Pierre eagerly. "Is there enough on the table to buy
the gun?"

"Buy?" said the other fiercely. "There ain't enough coin west of the
Rockies to buy that gun. D'you think I'm yaller enough to sell my six?
No, but I'll risk it in a fair bet. There ain't no disgrace in that;
eh, pals?"

There was a chorus of low grunts of assent.

"All right," said Pierre. "That pile against the gun."

"All of it?"

"All."

"Look here, kid, if you're tryin' to play a charity game with me—"

"Charity?"

The frank surprise of that look disarmed the other. He swept up the
dice-box, and shook it furiously, while his lips stirred. It was as if
he murmured an incantation for success. The dice rolled out, winking
in the light, spun over, and the owner of the gun stood with both
hands braced against the edge of the table, and stared hopelessly down.

A moment before his pockets had sagged with a precious weight, and
there had been a significant drag of the belt over his right hip. Now
both burdens were gone.

He looked up with a short laugh.

"I'm dry. Who'll stake me to a drink?"

Pierre scooped up a dozen pieces of the gold.

"Here."

The other drew back. "You're very welcome to it. Here's more, if
you'll have it."

"The coin I've lost to you? Take back a gamblin' debt?"

"Easy there," said one of the men. "Don't you see the kid's green?
Here's a five-spot."

The loser accepted the coin as carelessly as if he were conferring a
favor by taking it, cast another scowl in the direction of Pierre, and
went out toward the bar. Pierre, very hot in the face, pocketed his
winnings and belted on the gun. It hung low on his thigh, just in easy
gripping distance of his hand, and he fingered the butt with a smile.

"The kid's feelin' most a man," remarked a sarcastic voice. "Say, kid,
why don't you try your luck with Mac Hurley? He's almost through with
poor old Cochrane."

Following the direction of the pointing finger, Pierre saw one of
those mute tragedies of the gambling hall. Cochrane, an old cattleman
whose carefully trimmed, pointed white beard and slender, tapering
fingers set him apart from the others in the room, was rather far gone
with liquor. He was still stiffly erect in his chair, and would be
till the very moment consciousness left him, but his eyes were misty,
and when he spoke his lips moved slowly, as though numbed by cold.

Beside him stood a tall, black bottle with a little whisky glass to
flank it. He made his bets with apparent carelessness, but with a real
and deepening gloom. Once or twice he glanced up sharply as though
reckoning his losses, though it seemed to Pierre le Rouge almost like
an appeal.

And what appeal could affect Mac Hurley? There was no color in the
man, either body or soul. No emotion could show in those pale, small
eyes or change the color of the flabby cheeks. If his hands had been
cut off, he might have seemed some sodden victim of a drug habit, but
the hands saved him.

They seemed to belong to another body—beautiful, swift, and strong,
and grafted by some foul mischance onto this rotten hulk. Very white
they were, and long, with a nervous uneasiness in every motion,
continually hovering around the cards with little touches which were
almost caresses.

"It ain't a game," said the man who had first pointed out the group to
Pierre, "it's just a slaughter. Cochrane's too far gone to see
straight. Look at that deal now! A kid could see that he's crooking
the cards!"

It was blackjack, and Hurley, as usual, was dealing. He dealt with one
hand, flipping the cards out with a snap of the wrist, the fingers
working rapidly over the pack. Now and then he glanced over to the
crowd, as if to enjoy their admiration of his skill. He was showing it
now, not so much by the deftness of his cheating as by the openness
with which he exposed his tricks.

As the stranger remarked to Pierre, a child could have discovered that
the cards were being dealt at will from the top and the bottom of the
pack, but the gambler was enjoying himself by keeping his game just
open enough to be apparent to every other man in the room—just covert
enough to deceive the drink-misted brain of Cochrane. And the pale,
swinish eyes twinkled as they stared across the dull sorrow of the old
man. There was an ominous sound from Pierre: "Do you let a thing like
that happen in this country?" he asked fiercely.

The other turned to him with a sneer.

"
Let
it happen? Who'll stop him? Say, partner, you ain't meanin' to
say that you don't know who Hurley is?"

"I don't need telling. I can see."

"What you can't see means a lot more than what you can. I've been in
the same room when Hurley worked his gun once. It wasn't any killin',
but it was the prettiest bit of cheatin' I ever seen. But even if
Hurley wasn't enough, what about Carl Diaz?"

He glared his triumph at Pierre, but the latter was too puzzled to
quail, and too stirred by the pale, gloomy face of Cochrane to turn
toward the other.

"What of Diaz?"

"Look here, boy. You're a kid, all right, but you ain't that young.
D'you mean to say that you ain't heard of Carlos Diaz?"

It came back to Pierre then, for even into the snowbound seclusion of
the north country the shadow of the name of Diaz had gone. He could
not remember just what they were, but he seemed to recollect grim
tales through which that name figured.

The other went on: "But if you ain't ever seen him before, look him
over now. They's some says he's faster on the draw than Bob McGurk,
but, of course, that's stretchin' him out a size too much. What's the
matter, kid; you've met McGurk?"

"No, but I'm going to."

"Might even be carried to him, eh—feet first?"

Pierre turned and laid a hand on the shoulder of the other.

"Don't talk like that," he said gently. "I don't like it."

The other reached up to snatch the hand from his shoulder, but he
stayed his arm.

He said after an uncomfortable moment of that silent staring: "Well,
partner, there ain't a hell of a lot to get sore over, is there? You
don't figure you're a mate for McGurk, do you?"

He seemed oddly relieved when the eyes of Pierre moved away from him
and returned to the figure of Carlos Diaz. The Mexican was a perfect
model for a painting of a melodramatic villain. He had waxed and
twirled the end of his black mustache so that it thrust out a little
spur on either side of his long face. His habitual expression was a
scowl; his habitual position was with a cigarette in the fingers of
his left hand, and his right hand resting on his hip. He sat in a
chair directly behind that of Hurley, and Pierre's new-found
acquaintance explained: "He's the bodyguard for Hurley. Maybe there's
some who could down Hurley in a straight gunfight; maybe there's one
or two like McGurk that could down Diaz—damn his yellow hide—but
there ain't no one can buck the two of 'em. It ain't in reason. So
they play the game together. Hurley works the cards and Diaz covers up
the retreat. Can't beat that, can you?"

Pierre le Rouge slipped his left hand once more inside his shirt until
the fingers touched the cross.

"Nevertheless, that game has to stop."

"Who'll—say, kid, are you stringin' me, or are you drunk? Look me in
the eye!"

Pierre turned and looked calmly upon the other.

And the man whispered in a sort of awe: "Well, I'll be damned!"

"Stand aside!"

The other fell back a pace, and Pierre went straight to the table and
said to Cochrane: "Sir, I have come to take you home."

The old man looked up and rubbed his eyes as though waking from a
sleep.

"Stand back from the table!" warned Hurley.

"By the Lord, have they been missing me?" queried old Cochrane. "You
are waited for," answered Pierre le Rouge, "and I've been sent to take
you home."

"If that's the case—"

"It ain't the case. The kid's lying."

"Lying?" repeated Cochrane, as if he had never heard the word before,
and he peered with clearing eyes toward Pierre. "No, I think this boy
has never lied."

Silence had spread through the place like a vapor. Even the slight
sounds in the gaming-room were done now, and one pair after another of
eyes swung toward the table of Cochrane and Hurley. The wave of the
silence reached to the barroom. No one could have carried the tidings
so soon, but the air was surcharged with the consciousness of an
impending crisis.

Half a dozen men started to make their way on tiptoe toward the back
room. One stood with his whisky glass suspended in midair, and tilted
back his head to listen. In the gaming-room Hurley pushed back his
chair and leaned to the left, giving him a free sweep for his right
hand. The Mexican smiled with a slow and deep content.

"Thank you," answered Pierre, "but I am waiting still, sir."

The left hand of Hurley played impatiently on the table.

He said: "Of course, if you have enough—"

"I—enough?" flared the old aristocrat.

Pierre le Rouge turned fairly upon Hurley.

"In the name of God," he said calmly, "make an end of your game.
You're playing for money, but I think this man is playing for his
eternal soul."

The solemn, bookish phraseology came smoothly from his tongue. He knew
no other. It drew a murmur of amusement from the room and a snarl
from Hurley.

"Put on skirts, kid, and join the Salvation Army, but don't get
yourself messed all up in here. This is my party, and I'm damned
particular who I invite! Now, run along!" The head of Pierre tilted
back, and he burst into laughter which troubled even Hurley.

The gambler blurted: "What's happening to you, kid?"

"I've been making a lot of good resolutions, Mr. Hurley, about keeping
out of trouble; but here I am in it up to the neck."

"No trouble as long as you keep your hand out of another man's game,
kid."

"That's it. I can't see you rob Mr. Cochrane like this. You aren't
gambling—you're digging gold. The game stops now."

It was a moment before the crowd realized what was about to happen;
they saw it reflected first in the face of Hurley, which suddenly went
taut and pale, and then, even as they looked with a smile of curiosity
and derision toward Pierre le Rouge, they saw and understood.

For the moment Pierre said, "The game stops now," the calm which had
been with him was gone. It was like the scent of blood to the starved
wolf. The last word was scarcely off his tongue when he was crouched
with a devil of green fury in his eyes—the light struck his hair into
a wave of flame—his face altered by a dozen ugly years.

"D'you mean?" whispered Hurley, as if he feared to break the silence
with his full voice.

"Get out of the room."

And the impulse of Hurley, plainly enough, was to obey the order, and
go anywhere to escape from that relentless stare. His glance wavered
and flashed around the circle and then back to Red Pierre, for the
expectancy of the crowd forced him back.

When the leader of the pack springs and fails to kill, the rest of the
pack tear him to pieces. Remembering this, Mac Hurley forced his
glance back to Pierre. Moreover, there was a soft voice from behind,
and he remembered Diaz.

All this had taken place in the length of time that it takes a heavy
body to totter on the brink of a precipice or a cat to regain its feet
after a fall. After the voice of Diaz there was a sway through the
room, a pulse of silence, and then three hands shot for their
hips—Pierre, Diaz, and Hurley.

No stop-watch could have caught the differing lengths of time which
each required for the draw. The muzzle of Hurley's revolver was not
clear of the holster—the gun of Diaz was nearly at the level when
Pierre's weapon exploded at his hip. The bullet cut through the wrist
of Hurley. Never again would that slender, supple hand fly over the
cards, doing things other than they seemed. He made no effort to
escape from the next bullet, but stood looking down at his broken
wrist; horror for the moment gave him a dignity oddly out of place
with his usual appearance. He alone in all the room was moveless.

The crowd, undecided for an instant, broke for the doors at the first
shot; Pierre le Rouge pitched to the floor as Diaz leaped forward, the
revolver in either hand spitting lead and fire.

It was no bullet that downed Pierre but his own cunning. He broke his
fall with an outstretched left hand, while the bullets of Diaz pumped
into the void space which his body had filled a moment before.

Lying there at ease, he leveled the revolver, grinning with the
mirthless lust of battle, and fired over the top of the table. The
guns dropped from the hands of huge Diaz. He caught at his throat and
staggered back the full length of the room, crashing against the wall.
When he pitched forward on his face he was dead before he struck
the floor.

Pierre, now Red Pierre, indeed, rose and ran to the fallen man, and,
looking at the bulk of the giant, he wondered with a cold heart. He
knew before he slipped his hand over the breast of Diaz that this was
death. Then he rose again and watched the still fingers which seemed
to be gripping at the boards. These he saw, and nothing else, and
all he heard was the rattling of the wind of winter, wrenching at some
loose shingle on the roof, and he knew that he was alone in the world,
for he had put out a life.