The Ox-Bow Incident (5 page)

Bartlett came over to the table and watched. He was a tall man, looking very old and tired and cross. The flesh of his face was pasty and hung in loose folds, even his lower lids sagging and showing pools of red, like those of a bloodhound. He breathed audibly through his mouth, and kept blowing his mustache. He had on boots, but a flat Spanish sombrero and a long black frock coat, such as only the old men were wearing then. When Jeff Farnley came over too, Moore invited them to sit in. Farnley had a thin face, burned brick red, stiff yellow hair and pale hostile eyes, but a quick grin on a stiff mouth. He wiped his hands on his red and white cowhide vest and sat. Bartlett sat down slowly, letting himself go the last few inches, and fumbled for a cigar in his vest. When he got to playing he would chew the cigar and forget to draw on it, so that after every hand he had to relight it.

Osgood stood behind Moore and watched Gil and me playing. We were new to him, and I had an uneasy feeling, from the way he was sizing us up, that we were due to get our souls worked over a little. There was that about Osgood; he wouldn’t know the right time from the wrong. Not that he’d try it here, but we’d have to move sharp when we left.

Then I forgot Osgood because I had something else to worry about. Gil was tight enough so I could see him squinting, sometimes two or three times, to make out what he had in his hand, but he was having a big run of luck. I knew he wasn’t cheating; Gil didn’t. Even if he’d wanted to he couldn’t, with hands like his, not even sober. But with his gripe on he wasn’t taking his winning right. He wasn’t showing any signs of being pleased, not boasting, or bulling the others along about how thin they’d have to live, the way
you would in an ordinary game with a bunch of friends. He was just sitting there with a sullen dead-pan and raking in the pots slow and contemptuous, like he expected it. The only variation he’d make would be to signal Canby to fill his glass again when he’d made a good haul. Then he’d toss the drink off in one gulp without looking at anybody or saying a “mud,” and set the glass down and flick it halfway to the middle of the table with his finger. If there hadn’t been anything else in the air you couldn’t play long with a man acting like that without getting your chin out, especially when he was winning three hands out of four. I was getting riled myself.

It didn’t seem to be bothering Moore. Once when Gil took in the chips three times running on straight poker, Moore looked at him and then at me, and shook his head a little, but that was all. A couple of other riders who’d sat in after Bartlett and Farnley, started prodding Gil about it, but they stayed good natured and Gil just looked at them and went on playing cold. But that made their jokes sound pretty hollow, and after a little they didn’t joke any more, though they didn’t seem sore either. Old Bartlett, though, was beginning to mutter at his cards; nothing you could hear, just a constant talking to himself. And he was throwing his hands in early and exasperated, and not bothering to relight his cigar any more. But it was Farnley I was really worried about. He had a flaring kind of face, and he wasn’t letting off steam in any way, not by a look or a word or a move, but staring a long time at his bad hands and then laying the cards down quietly, sliding them onto the table and keeping his fingers on them for a moment, as if he had half a mind to do something else with them.

I hoped Gil’s luck would change enough to look reasonable, but it didn’t, so I dropped out of the game, saying he’d had enough off me. I thought maybe he’d follow suit, but even if he didn’t, it would look better without his buddy in there. He didn’t, and he kept winning. I didn’t want to get
too far from him, so I did the best I could and stood right behind him, where I could see his hand, but nobody else’s.

After two more rounds Farnley said, “How about draw?” He said it quietly and watching Gil, as if changing the game would make a real difference. Gil was dealing and Farnley had no business asking for the change; it was picking the worst time he could. I knew by the set of his head that Gil was staring back at him like he’d just noticed he was there and wanted to get a clear impression. He held the cards in his fist for a moment and ruffled the edge of them with his other thumb. Moore was going to say something, and I had my fist all doubled to persuade Gil, but then Gil said,

“Sure. Why not?” So I saw the muscles bunch on Farnley’s jaws; and Gil began to deal them out.

“Double draw, for a real change,” Farnley said.

That’s no poker player’s game; draw’s bad enough, but double draw’s for old ladies playing with matches.

“Wait, Jeff,” Moore started. Farnley looked at him quick, like he’d paste him if he said another word.

“Double draw it is,” Gil said, without breaking his deal.

“Look ’em over careful, boys,” he said; when they were all out. “Maybe somebody has two aces of spades.”

Farnley let it go. He picked up his cards, and his face didn’t change from its set look, but I could tell from the way he looked them all over again, and then bunched them together with his other hand before fanning them to stay, that he thought he had something this time. He drew two cards out and slid them onto the table face down, and this time didn’t keep his fingers on them.

I looked at Gil’s hand. He had the queen, jack and ten of spades, the ten of clubs and the four of hearts. He looked at it for a moment, but this was double draw. He threw off the club and the heart.

“How many?” he asked.

They drew around, Gil dropping Farnley’s cards where he had to reach for them. Farnley looked at them longer
this time. Then he put one down very slowly, like he wasn’t sure. Four of a kind played cute, or keeping one for luck, I thought.

“Come again,” he said.

“Don’t hurry me,” Gil said, putting down the deck to look at his own draw. He had the nine of spades and the queen of hearts. He thought again, but threw off the queen.

“Place your bets,” he said sharp.

Moore, on his left, tossed his hand in. So did the next man. Farnley bet the limit. Bartlett and the other puncher, a fellow with curly black sideburns like wire-hair, stayed, though Bartlett muttered.

Gil threw a half dollar out on top of his quarter so it clinked.

“Double,” he said.

“There’s a limit,” Moore said.

“How about it?” Gil asked Farnley, as if the other two weren’t in the game.

Farnley put in the quarter, then threw a silver dollar after it.

“Again,” he said.

Bartlett balked, but I guess he had something too. When they didn’t pay any attention to him he stayed. So did the other man, but sheepishly.

Gil matched the dollar.

“How many?” he asked again.

Moore pushed his chair back from the table to get his legs clear. The change in the game had got to the men at the bar. Five or six of them came over to watch, and the others turned around, leaning on the bar with their elbows, and were quiet too. Canby stood in the ring with his towel over his shoulder and that dry look of malicious pleasure on his face, but watching Gil and Farnley just the same.

“One,” Farnley said. It was quiet enough so his voice sounded loud, and we could hear Gil slide the card off, and its tap on the table.

“You?” he asked Bartlett.

The old man had changed his mind. He’d taken just one the first time, but now he took two.

Farnley picked up his card slowly and looked at it. Then he put it slowly into the hand, closed the hand up, fanned it again, and sat there waiting for Gil to finish. The man standing behind Farnley couldn’t help lifting his eyebrows and looking at Canby, who could see the hand too. Canby didn’t appear to notice, but glanced at Gil. Gil was tending to business. He didn’t even look up when Bartlett snorted violently and slapped his hand down, face up.

“Cover them cards,” Moore said. Bartlett glared at him, but then turned the hand over.

The sheepish man took two.

“I’m taking one,” Gil said, and put the deck down away from his hand, and slid one off the top and rubbed it back and forth on the felt for Farnley to see it was only one. Even at that Farnley didn’t give any sign. Gil drew the card into his hand and picked them all up. He’d drawn the king of spades.

The sheepish man plucked at his mustache a couple of times and threw in.

“Your bet,” Gil told Farnley.

Farnley tossed out another silver dollar. Gil threw out two. Farnley raised it another. Men stirred uneasily, but were careful to be quiet. Only when Farnley made it five Canby said, “Enough’s enough. See him, Carter, or I’ll close up the game.”

Gil put out the dollar to see, and we started to relax, when he counted five more off the top of his pile and shoved them out.

“And five,” he said.

That still didn’t make it any sky-limit game, but it was mean for the kind of a game this had started out to be. There was plenty left in Gil’s stack, but when Farnley had counted out the five there was only one dollar left on the green by his hand.

“Make it six,” Gil said, and put in the extra one.

“Pick it up, Gil,” I said. “You were seen at five.”

There was some muttering from others too. Gil didn’t pay any attention. He sat looking at Farnley. Farnley was breathing hard, and his eyes were narrowed, but he looked at his hand, not Gil.

“That’s enough,” Canby said, and started to pick up. It was Farnley, not Gil, who looked at him.

“Your funeral,” Canby said.

“Maybe,” Farnley said, and threw in the sixth dollar.

“I’m seeing you,” he said, and laid out his hand carefully in a nice fan in front of him but opening toward Gil. We craned to see it. It was a full house, kings and jacks.

Gil tossed his cards into the center so they fell part covered and reached for the pot.

“Hold it,” Moore said. Gil leaned back and watched Moore as if he was being patient with a fool. Moore spread the cards out so everybody could see them. One of the watchers whistled.

“Suit you?” Gil asked Moore.

Moore nodded and Gil reached the money in and began to put it in neat stacks, slowly and with pleasure.

Farnley sat staring at Gil’s cards for a moment.

“Jesus,” he said, “that’s damned long luck,” and suddenly let off by banging the table with his fist so hard that Gil’s stacks slid down again into a loose pile. Gil had the canvas sack out of his jeans and was just ready to scoop the silver into it. He stopped and held the sack in the air. But Farnley wasn’t going to start anything. He got up and turned toward the bar. He was doing well, I thought; you could tell by his face he was near crazy mad. Gil was the fool.

“Wouldn’t suggest it was anything but luck, would you?” he asked, still holding the sack out in the air.

At first Farnley stood there with his back turned. Then he came back to the table, but slow enough so Moore had time to get to his feet before he spoke.

“I wasn’t going to,” he said; “but now you mention it.”

Gil stood up too, letting the sack drop onto the coins on the table.

“Make it clear,” he said, his voice thick and happy.

Gil was taller and a lot more solid than Farnley, and Farnley was so far gone I was scared. He had the look of a kill-fighter, not a man who was happy to rough it up. I saw his hand start for his belt, and I reached too. Gil doesn’t think of a gun when he gets like that; he wants to slug. And he was drunk. But Farnley didn’t have a gun; no belt on. He remembered it too, before he’d reached all the way, and wiped both hands on his seat to cover.

“There’s a lot of things around here aren’t clear,” he said.

And then Gil had to say, “You’re talking about cows now, maybe?”

I got set to hit him. There wasn’t any use grabbing. “You’re saying it this time too,” Farnley told him.

“Come on, boys, the game’s over,” Canby put in. “The drinks are on you, Carter. You’re heavy winner.”

He took my mind off what I was doing. I swung, but Gil was already part way round the table. In spite of his weight and all he’d had to drink, he was quick, clumsy quick, like a bear. Canby reached but missed. Gil shoved Moore nearly off his feet and was on Farnley in three jumps, letting go a right that would have broken Farnley’s neck. Farnley got under that one, but ducked right into a wild left that caught him on the corner of the mouth. He spun part way around, crashed across two chairs, and folded up under the front window, banging his head against the sill. Gil stood swaying and laughing as if he loved it. Then his face straightened and got that deadly pleased look again.

“Called me a rustler, did he?” he said thickly, as if somebody had just reminded him of it again. I knew the look; he was going to pile Farnley and hammer him. Nobody seemed to move. They were standing back leaving Gil alone by the table. I yelled something and started around,
bumping into Moore, who was just getting set on his feet again. But I was too far behind. Canby turned the trick. Without even looking excited, he reached back to the bar, got hold of a bottle, and rapped Gil, not too hard either, right under the base of skull. He must have done it a thousand times to be that careful about it. For a moment Gil’s tension held him up. Then his knees bellied like cloth and he came down in a heap and rolled over onto his back, where he lay with a silly, surprised grin on his face and his eyes rolled up so only the whites showed. He slid against the table when he fell, and jarred it, so some of the coins and one glass of whisky slipped off, while another glass tipped over and the whisky streamed briefly, and then dribbled into a little pool by Gil’s head. One of the coins lit on its edge and started rolling away by itself, and a man jumped out of the way of it like it was a snake. There was a little laughing.

“Looks happy, don’t he?” Canby said, standing over Gil with the bottle in his hand.

“He’ll be all right,” he told me. “I just gave him a touch of it.”

“It was neat,” I said, and laughed. Others laughed too, and the talk began.

I helped Canby with Gil, who was heavy and limp and hard to prop in a chair. When we had him there I turned to the table to get some whisky to throw in his face, and had to laugh again. Bartlett was still sitting there, with a look on his face as if he didn’t know yet what had happened, and the edge of the table shoved into him so it creased his big middle.