The Spoilers (19 page)

“What do you mean?”

“You own this outfit?” He waved his hand about the room. “Well, what does it stand you?”

The gambler hesitated an instant while the crowd pricked up its ears, and the girl turned wondering, troubled eyes upon the miner. What would he do now?

“Counting bank rolls, fixtures, and all, about a hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Why?”

“I'll pick the ace to lose, my one-half interest in the Midas against your whole damned lay-out!”

There was an absolute hush while the realization of this offer smote the on-lookers. It took time to realize it. This man was insane. There were three cards to choose from—one would win, one would lose, and one would have no action.

Of all those present only Cherry Malotte divined even vaguely the real reason which prompted the man to do this. It was not “gameness,” nor altogether a brutish stubbornness which would not let him quit. It was something deeper. He was desolate and his heart was gone. Helen was lost to him—worse yet, was unworthy, and she was all he cared for. What did he want of the Midas with its lawsuits, its intrigues, and its trickery? He was sick of it all—of the whole game—and wanted to get away. If he won, very well. If he lost, the land of the Aurora would know him no more.

When he put his proposition, the Bronco Kid dropped his eyes as though debating. The girl saw that he studied the cards in his box intently and that his fingers caressed the top one ever so softly during the instant the eyes of the rest were on Glenister. The dealer looked up at last, and Cherry saw the gleam of triumph in his eye; he could not mask it from her, though his answering words were hesitating. She knew by the look that Glenister was a pauper.

“Come on,” insisted Roy, hoarsely. “Turn the cards.”

“You're on!”

The girl felt that she was fainting. She wanted to scream. The triumph of this moment stifled her—or was it triumph, after all? She heard the breath of the little man behind her rattle as though he were being throttled, and saw the lookout pass a shaking hand to his chin, then wet his parched lips. She saw the man she had helped to ruin bend forward, his lean face strained and hard, an odd look of pain and weariness in his eyes. She never forgot that look. The crowd was frozen in various attitudes of eagerness, although it had not yet recovered from the suspense of the last great wager. It knew the Midas and what it meant. Here lay half of it, hidden beneath a tawdry square of pasteboard. With maddening deliberation the Kid dealt the top card. Beneath it was the trey of spades. Glenister said no word nor made a move. Some one coughed, and it sounded like a gunshot. Slowly the dealer's fingers retraced their way. He hesitated purposely and leered at the girl, then the three-spot disappeared and beneath it lay the ace as the king had lain on that other wager. It spelled utter ruin to Glenister. He raised his eyes blindly, and then the deathlike silence of the room was shattered by a sudden crash. Cherry Malotte had closed her check-rack violently, at the same instant crying shrill and clear:

“That bet is off! The cases are wrong!

”Glenister half rose, overturning his chair; the Kid lunged forward across the table, and his wonderful hands, tense and talon-like, thrust themselves forward as though reaching for the riches she had snatched away. They worked and writhed and trembled as though in dumb fury, the nails sinking into the oilcloth table-cover. His face grew livid and cruel, while his eyes blazed at her till she shrank from him affrightedly, bracing herself away from the table with rigid arms.

Reason came slowly back to Glenister, and understanding with it. He seemed to awake from a nightmare. He could read all too plainly the gambler's look of baffled hate as the man sprawled on the table, his arms spread wide, his eyes glaring at the cowering woman, who shrank before him like a rabbit before a snake. She tried to speak, but choked. Then the dealer came to himself, and cried harshly through his teeth one word:

“Christ !”

He raised his fist and struck the table so violently that chips and coppers leaped and rolled, and Cherry closed her eyes to lose sight of his awful grimace. Glenister looked down on him and said:

“I think I understand; but the money was yours, anyhow, so I don't mind.” His meaning was plain. The Kid suddenly jerked open the drawer before him, but Glenister clenched his right hand and leaned forward. The miner could have killed him with a blow, for the gambler was seated and at his mercy. The Kid checked himself, while his face began to twitch as though the nerved underlying it had broken bondage and were dancing in a wild, ungovernable orgy.

“You have taught me a lesson,” was all that Glenister said, and with that he pushed through the crowd and out into the cool night air. Overhead the arctic stars winked at him, and the sea smells struck him, clean and fresh. As he went homeward he heard the distant, full-throated plaint of a wolf-dog. It held the mystery and sadness of the North. He paused, and, baring his thick, matted head, stood for a long time gathering himself together. Standing so, he made certain covenants with himself, and vowed solemnly never to touch another card.

At the same moment Cherry Malotte came hurrying to her cottage door, fleeing as though from pursuit or from some hateful, haunted spot. She paused before entering and flung her arms outward into the dark in a wide gesture of despair.

“Why did I do it? Oh!
why
did I do it? I can't understand myself.”

M
Y dear Helen, don't you realize that my official position carries with it a certain social obligation which it is our duty to discharge?”

“I suppose so, Uncle Arthur; but I would much rather stay at home.”

“Tut, tut! Go and have a good time.”

“Dancing doesn't appeal to me any more. I left that sort of thing back home. Now, if you would only come along—”

“No—I'm too busy. I must work to-night, and I'm not in a mood for such things, anyhow.”

“You're not well,” his niece said. “I have noticed it for weeks. Is it hard work or are you truly ill? You're nervous; you don't eat; you're growing positively gaunt. Why—you're getting wrinkles like an old man.” She rose from her seat at the breakfast-table and went to him, smoothing his silvered head with affection.

He took her cool hand and pressed it to his cheek, while the worry that haunted him habitually of late gave way to a smile.

“It's work, little girl—hard and thankless work, that's all. This country is intended for young men, and I'm too far along.” His eyes grew grave again, and he squeezed her fingers nervously as though at the thought. “It's a terrible country—this—I—I—wish we had never seen it.”

“Don't say that,” Helen cried, spiritedly. “Why, it's glorious. Think of the honor. You're a United States judge and the first one to come here. You're making history—you're building a State—people will read about you.” She stooped and kissed him; but he seemed to flinch beneath her caress.

“Of course I'll go if you think I'd better,” she said, “though I'm not fond of Alaskan society. Some of the women are nice, but the others—” She shrugged her dainty shoulders. “They talk scandal all the time. One would think that a great, clean, fresh, vigorous country like this would broaden the women as it broadens the men—but it doesn't.”

“I'll tell McNamara to call for you at nine o'clock,” said the Judge as he arose. So, later in the day she prepared her long unused finery to such good purpose that when her escort called for her that evening he believed her the loveliest of women.

Upon their arrival at the hotel he regarded her with a fresh access of pride, for the function proved to bear little resemblance to a mining-camp party. The women wore handsome gowns, and every man was in evening dress. The wide hall ran the length of the hotel and was flanked with boxes, while its floor was like polished glass and its walls effectively decorated.

“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Helen as she first caught sight of it. “It's just like home.”

“I've seen quick-rising cities before,” he said, “but nothing like this. Still, if these Northerners can build a railroad in a month and a city in a summer, why shouldn't they have symphony orchestras and Louis Quinze ballrooms?”

“I know you're a splendid dancer,” she said.

You shall be my judge and jury. I'll sign this card as often as I dare without the certainty of violence at the hands of these young men, and the rest of the time I'll smoke in the lobby. I don't care to dance with any one but you.”

After the first waltz he left her surrounded by partners and made his way out of the ballroom. This was his first relaxation since landing in the North. It was well not to become a dull boy, he mused, and as he chewed his cigar he pictured with an odd thrill, quite unusual with him, that slender, gray-eyed girl, with her coiled mass of hair, her ivory shoulders, and merry smile. He saw her float past to the measure of a two-step, and caught himself resenting the thought of another man's enjoyment of the girl's charms even for an instant.

“Hold on, Alec,” he muttered. “You're too old a bird to lose your head.” However, he was waiting for her before the time for their next dance. She seemed to have lost a part of her gayety.

‘What's the matter? Aren't you enjoying yourself?”

“Oh, yes!” she returned, brightly. “I'm having a delightful time.”

When he came for his third dance, she was more
distraite
than ever. As he led her to a seat they passed a group of women, among whom were Mrs. Champian and others whom he knew to be wives of men prominent in the town. He had seen some of them at tea in Judge Stillman's house, and therefore was astonished when they returned his greeting but ignored Helen. She shrank slightly, and he realized that there was something wrong; he could not guess what. Affairs of men he could cope with, but the subtleties of women were out of his realm.

“What ails those people? Have they offended you?”

“I don't know what it is. I have spoken to them, but they cut me.”

“Cut
you?”
he exclaimed.

“Yes.” Her voice trembled, but she held her head high. “It seems as though all the women in Nome were here and in league to ignore me. It dazes me—I do not understand.”

“Has anybody said anything to you?” he inquired, fiercely. “Any man, I mean?”

“No, no! The men are kind. It's the women.”

“Come—we'll go home.”

“Indeed, we will not,” she said, proudly. “I shall stay and face it out. I have done nothing to run away from, and I intend to find out what is the matter.”

When he had surrendered her, at the beginning of the next dance, McNamara sought for some acquaintance whom he might question. Most of the men in Nome either hated or feared him, but he espied one that he thought suited his purpose, and led him into a corner.

“I want you to answer a question. No beating about the bush. Understand? I'm blunt, and I want you to be.”

“All right.”

“Your wife has been entertained at Miss Chester's house. I've seen her there. To-night she refuses to speak to the girl. She cut her dead, and I want to know what it's about.”

“How should I know?”

“If you don't know, I'll ask you to find out.”

The other shook his head amusedly, at which McNamara flared up.

“I say you will, and you'll make your wife apologize before she leaves this hall, too, or you'll answer to me, man to man. I won't stand to have a girl like Miss Chester cold-decked by a bunch of mining-camp swells, and that goes as it lies.” In his excitement, McNamara reverted to his Western idiom.

The other did not reply at once, for it is embarrassing to deal with a person who disregards the conventions utterly, and at the same time has the inclination and force to compel obedience. The boss's reputation had gone abroad.

“Well—er—I know about it in a general way, but of course I don't go much on such things. You'd better let it drop.”

“Go on.”

“There has been a lot of talk among the ladies about—well, er—the fact is, it's that young Glenister. Mrs. Champian had the next state-room to them—er—him—I should say—on the way up from the States, and she saw things. Now, as far as I'm concerned, a girl can do what she pleases, but Mrs. Champian has her own ideas of propriety. From what my wife could learn, there's some truth in the story, too, so you can't blame her.”

With a word McNamara could have explained the gossip and made this man put his wife right, forcing through her an elucidation of the silly affair in such a way as to spare Helen's feelings and cover the busy-tongued magpies with confusion. Yet he hesitated, It is a wise skipper who trims his sails to every breeze. He thanked his informant and left him. Entering the lobby, he saw the girl hurrying towards him.

“Take me away, quick! I want to go home.”

“You've changed your mind?”

“Yes, let us go,” she panted, and when they were outside she walked so rapidly that he had difficulty in keeping pace with her. She was silent, and he knew better than to question, but when they arrived at her house he entered, took off his overcoat, and turned up the light in the tiny parlor. She flung her wraps over a chair, storming back and forth like a little fury. Her eyes were starry with tears of anger, her face was flushed, her hands worked nervously. He leaned against the mantel, watching her through his cigar smoke.

“You needn't tell me,” he said, at length. “I know all about it.”

“I am glad you do. I never could repeat what they said. Oh, it was brutal!” Her voice caught and she bit her lip. “What made me ask them? Why didn't I keep still? After you left, I went to those women and faced them. Oh, but they were brutal! Yet, why should I care?” She stamped her slippered foot.