Gambling Man

by Clifton Adams

  “I can remember,” Nathan said slowly, “when there wasn't a foot of barbed wire in this part of Texas. Blackjack corrals and a few rawhide branding pens were all the fences we had.”

  Jeff had not thought of his father as an old man, and still didn't. Things just happened fast in Texas. It seemed that the squatters had come overnight, almost, and had hemmed the big outfits in and pushed them back toward the hills to the north.

  But Nathan Blaine remembered when Sam Baxter's store was the only one around. The dry run to the east of town had been a flowing stream then, and a man from Kansas had put up a water wheel and ground flour on the shares. Those two buildings and a blacksmith shop had been all there was to Plainsville in those days, before the big outfits began coming here and the town started to grow.

  Jeff found himself listening with interest to what his pa had to say. It gave him a funny feeling to remember he was twelve years old and knew practically nothing about his own father.

  Jeff said, “That must have been a long time ago.”

  “Yes, I guess it was. I was about the age you are now, I guess, when my family started down from Missouri to settle in Texas. Not much more than squatters we were, if the truth were told. My ma was set on getting the family a piece of land and living on it. She never did get the land, though, that she had wanted so much.”

  “Why not?” Jeff wanted to know.

  Nathan Blaine turned his head slowly and gazed to the north. “Osages,” he said. “White trash had them stirred up and they were raiding settler wagons coming through the Territory.”

  “Your ma was killed?”

  “And two brothers. Me and my pa were the only ones to get to Texas, finally. Not that it did us much good.”

  “Why not?”

  Nathan looked at his son. “Never mind. It's not important now.”

  Man and boy, they sat their horses proudly and gazed thoughtfully into the distance.

  “Would you like to ride a piece down the fence?” Nathan asked.

  And Jeff said, “I don't care,” meaning that he was itching to.

  They touched their horses and rode along the stretched barbed wire. Beyond was a stand of cottonwood marching green and proud across the prairie, following the banks of the narrow stream called Crowder's Creek.

  The sun was still an hour away from the western edge of the world, and they rode all the way to Crowder's Creek before pulling up. “There used to be yellow cats down there,” Nathan said, gazing down at the ripply ribbon of water.

  “There aren't any more,” Jeff complained. “The squatters built fish dams upcreek and cleaned them out. Were you in Plainsville when the hands from the big outfits used to come in to trade?”

  “Yes. The town was different then.”

  “I remember,” Jeff said, nodding, and Nathan Blaine smiled that thin smile of his.

  Suddenly Jeff's pa threw himself out of the saddle and walked a little way toward the stream. Staring out past the creek, he said, “I guess I wouldn't be much surprised if you didn't like me. I sure haven't been much of a pa to you, and that's the gospel.”

  Jeff was surprised that the talk had taken this kind of turn. He would have preferred to keep it impersonal. Now he felt uncomfortable, as though he had done something wrong, and he didn't know exactly what kind of reaction was expected of him.

  “I never said I didn't like you.”

  He thought he saw his pa stand just a little straighter. “Well, you've got a right to, and I don't deny it. I guess I can't rightly explain just why I ran off from you when you was just a tyke. I've thought about it at times— but I don't know.”

  He was still looking across the creek, as though he spotted something interesting on the other side. But he went on in the same quiet, thoughtful voice.

  “Once several years ago I was down south with the Mexicans, and right out of the clear it dawned on me that I'd had enough chasing, and what I really wanted was to come back to Plainsville and see my boy. That very night I got packed and rode clear up from Chihuahua. Then, when I got about an hour's ride from town, I turned around and went back again. I don't know just why I did it.”

  Jeff said nothing, for he knew that his father expected no answer. This was the first time a grown person had ever talked to him like an adult. It was flattering in a way, and he was proud to be talked to as an equal; but still it was confusing.

  Then Nathan Blaine turned away from the creek and looked at his son. “Well, I'm glad you don't hate me, anyway. That's about all I can rightly expect.” Suddenly he smiled, and walked over and stroked the bay's neck. “That's enough talk about me for a spell. Jeff, why don't you tell me about yourself?”

  He didn't ask, “Have you been a good boy?” or “Do you have a girl?” or “Do you like your teacher?” Jeff hated those questions, and they were the ones adults always asked.

  Not Nathan Blaine. He had come right out and asked, “Tell me about yourself.” Man to man.

  It gave the boy a warm feeling to be taken in and treated as though he had some sense, even though he was only twelve.

  “Well,” he said importantly, “I'm pretty good at figures at the academy. Uncle Wirt says I'll be taking over the tin shop books before long, if I keep it up.”

  “I see. What else are you good at, Jeff?”

  “I'm a pretty good tin worker; Uncle Wirt teaches me a lot of things about it. I made a bucket for Aunt Beulah that she says is the best she ever saw, and I can roll and rivet stovepipe as good as anybody.”

  Nathan Blaine continued to stroke the bay's neck, but he no longer looked up at his son. “Your uncle taught you all that?”

  “Sure,” Jeff said. “He taught me to braid rawhide lariats, and make slingshots and willow whistles—a lot of things. He's been pretty good to me, I guess.”

  There was a sagging to Nathan Blaine's face, and suddenly he stopped stroking the bay and clinched his fist as though he were about to hit someone. “So your uncle taught you a lot of things, did he?”

  Jeff didn't like the look on his pa's face. He wasn't smiling now. He looked grim and almost angry.

  “Well,” Nathan said, “here's something I'll bet he never taught you. Do you see that glistening stone across the creek, just at the edge of the cottonwood shade?”

  Puzzled, Jeff nodded. The stone looked about the size of a buggy hub.

  Nathan Blaine's hand moved almost faster than the eye could follow. As if by magic, his Colt's .45 jumped from his holster to his hand. The revolver exploded twice in quick succession, and Jeff stared dumbly as the glistening rock on the other side of the creek leaped into the air like a frightened cottontail.

  Nathan's dark eyes were blazing as he wheeled to face his son. “Your Uncle Wirt never taught you to do a thing like that, did he?”

  Jeff swallowed hard. He discovered that his voice was missing; he could make no sound. He shook his head.

  “I didn't think so,” his pa said proudly. “You don't see shooting like that around Plainsville, do you?”

  Still dumb, Jeff shook his head again.

  “Well, where I've been you have to learn to shoot that way or you don't stay alive.” His mouth was not so grim now, and some of the fire left his eyes. He laughed shortly. “I didn't scare you, did I?”

  At the very bottom of his stomach Jeff found his voice. “No. It didn't scare me a bit!”

  “That's good,” his pa said. “I'd hate to think a Blaine let himself be scared by a little noise.”

  It seemed to Jeff that he could still hear the sound of those shots rolling through the cottonwoods. It had not sounded like the cowhands shooting off their guns as they raced their horses through Plainsville. This had been sudden. And there had been no laughter to go with it.

  “One of these days,” Nathan told his son, “I'll show you how it's done. Let me see your hands.”

  Jeff held out his hands, and his pa whistled softly. “Good and big. That's good. You need big hands to squeeze the butt and catch the hammer.” He held the
revolver out to the boy, butt first. “Would you like to try it?”

  Jeff blinked in disbelief. He had seen guns all his life, of course, but he had never had a chance to hold one.

  “You mean I can shoot it?”

  “Sure.” His pa laughed. “Go on, take it.”

  Eagerly, Jeff reached for the revolver. Then, with the suddenness of lightning, the revolver blurred in Nathan Blaine's hand and the butt smacked into his palm. Hammer cocked, the muzzle snapped into position directly in front of Jeff's startled eyes.

  Jeff had never known pure terror before that moment, with the muzzle so close to his nose that he could smell the burned powder, could feel the heat of the smoking barrel. He felt the blood drain from his face.

  Nathan Blaine said, “The muzzle of a gun is not a pretty thing to look into, is it?”

  His voice was deadly serious as he lowered the revolver. “Well, that's the first lesson a man has to learn, Jeff, if he wants to stay alive. Don't let yourself get in a position like that again.”

  Nathan held the revolver as he had before, by the barrel, upside down, butt extended forward. With one finger hooked in the trigger guard, he gave the gun a flip with his other fingers and wrist. The butt snapped into his palm and the hammer came back on the crook of his thumb at the same moment, and the gun was ready to fire.

  “That's called the road agents' spin by some,” Nathan said. “It's sudden death in any language. There's only one way to disarm a man, and that's to make him drop his gun to the ground. When a gunshark makes to hand you his gun, even when it's butt first, you're just a split second away from death.”

  Jeff cleared his throat. “I'll—I'll remember.”

  “I know you will.” Nathan Blaine smiled quietly. “Do you still want to try it?”

  Jeff stared at his father as though he had never seen him before. The boy was not afraid of him, but he understood that the dark look of danger was never far behind Nathan Blaine's black eyes.

  “Do you mean it?” Jeff asked.

  “I mean it. No tricks this time.”

  Jeff jumped from the saddle and took the heavy revolver. That thing of glued steel and polished walnut seemed almost alive, and he had never known that such a thrill of power could come from merely holding a cold, inanimate object. He had not guessed, either, that a .45 could be so heavy. He could hardly keep his arm from trembling as he held the revolver out in front of him. “What'll I shoot at?”

  Nathan laughed. “It makes no difference; you won't hit it anyway. This is just to show you what it feels like to have a gun go off in your hand.”

  Jeff picked out a cottonwood trunk across the creek. He had to wrestle the hammer back with both hands; then he held the revolver in front of him, aimed it and pulled the trigger.

  He had not been prepared for the violent reaction in his hand. He almost dropped the gun. He could feel the shock of the explosion all the way to his shoulder. When the hammer fell, his gun hand leaped up almost over his head, and the roar was deafening.

  He had no idea where the bullet went, but the cotton-wood was standing solid and unshaken.

  “Try it again,” Nathan said mildly.

  This time Jeff was better prepared for the violence of the. recoil. He planted his bare feet solid on the ground, raised his arm slowly and sighted along the barrel, but after the explosion there was no sign that he had hit anything on the other bank. There wasn't even a spray of dust to show where the bullet hit the ground.

  “Once more,” his pa said quietly. “This time don't pull the trigger with your finger; just squeeze the butt with your whole hand.”

  Jeff tried it the way his pa said, and this time he was delighted to see dirt kick up near the base of the cotton-wood.

  “Not bad!” his father said, taking the revolver. He punched out the empty cartridge cases and reloaded the chambers with five rounds from his belt. The hammer went down on the empty chamber and the Colt's went into its holster.

  “Could I try it again?” Jeff asked eagerly. “I bet I could hit it the next time!”

  But Nathan shook his head. “You've had enough for one day. Just think over what I told you—-that'll do you more good than burnin' up a wagonload of ammunition.”

  Jeff noticed that his pa was smiling and seemed to be in high spirits. “Yes, sir,” he said, stepping up to the saddle, “Wirt Sewell is all right as a tinsmith, I guess, but I'll bet he can't teach you to shoot the way your pa can!”

  “Shucks,” Jeff said, “Uncle Wirt doesn't even own a gun.

  Nathan Blaine laughed. And from the sound, it was easy to tell that he was not a man who laughed often. But now he looked upon his boy with a gentleness that was surprising; the tense line of his mouth was relaxed and the fire behind his eyes was almost invisible.

  Jeff climbed up on the bay feeling more a man than he had ever felt in his life. He had felt a good horse between his legs, he had felt the buck of a .45 in his hand, and he had heard a savage music more enticing than a siren's song.

  He rode erect arid proud beside the tall figure of his pa.

  Nathan was still smiling to himself when they reached the pasture gate. Jeff was put out because this was the one day that Bessie had to be waiting at the gate for him, robbing him of his chance to ride after her on his fine bay mare.

  “Seems to me that mare's taken a liking to you, son,” Nathan said. “What do you say I make arrangements to keep her for a while?”

  Jeff knew that his eyes were bugging. “You really mean it?”

  “Sure I mean it. Look, we'll have a fine time together. Why, you'll be the best rider and the best pistol shot in this part of Texas when your pa gets through with you. And I'll teach you other things, too. Things your Uncle Wirt never even heard about!”

  Jeff was stupefied with pleasure. A fine horse to ride all the time! A real Colt's revolver to shoot! Who could tell, maybe his pa would even buy him some thin-soled boots. It seemed that all good things had come at once!

  They jogged Bessie almost all the way home. Aunt Beulah was going to raise ned when she found out about it, but Jeff didn't care. Within Jeff's chest there was a kind of pleasant swelling he had never known before. And once his pa reached out and punched him very gently on the shoulder, grinning. It was the only time Nathan had touched him, except for that cool handshake when they had first met in Aunt Beulah's parlor.

  Chapter Four

  AT ONE TIME OR ANOTHER during his span of thirty years Nathan Blaine had tried his hand at many things. He had mauled spikes with a railroad construction gang in Missouri, hired out as a soldier with Mexican revolutionaries, trailed cattle to Wichita and Dodge. He had traveled the whole Southwest trading horses, he had served as special marshal at an end-of-track shantytown in Indian Territory. At times he had been with the law, at times against it, depending on which current he was drifting with.

  His profession now was gambling.

  He had learned his trade in many schools and from many teachers. He had plied his art in cow camps and on the trail, in the deadfalls of Dodge, around mess fires of the Mexican Army, unconsciously increasing his knowledge of faro, stud, twenty-one and all the other gambling games.

  His natural, aptitude for cards was excellent; he had patience, stamina, an alert brain and a long memory. He had never used a holdout harness, and he never wore one of those deadly little derringers tucked away in his vest.

  He depended on his skill and knowledge of cards to provide a winning margin in poker, as he depended on his nerve and speed with guns to provide the winning margin in a far more deadly game.

  Nathan Blaine could not recall the exact moment when his handling of cards and firearms had acquired the polish of a professional. His school had been a violent one and only the quickest and the toughest had lived—there was a grave in Sonora to mark the success of his first examination, and another in the Indian country, near the end-of-track shantytown, and in New Mexico still another.

  There were many places in the Southwest where the
name of Nathan Blaine had meaning and was respected and even feared. He had hoped that Plainsville would be different.

  This was a town of squatters who never looked beyond their own barbed-wire fences. He had returned to Plainsville just because it was the kind of place it was. To tell the truth, he was tired and needed rest.

  Now he sat day after day in Bert Surratt's saloon, stark and bleak as a squatter's barn, turning a dollar now and then with the “grangers,” as the newspapers were beginning to call them. When he fled the town twelve years ago, he hadn't thought he would ever return. When Lilie died he had not imagined that the black despair would ever lift, or that some day he would want to look upon the baby that had killed her.

  He had never amounted to much in Plainsville. A livery boy, a part-time rider for the big outfits. Only Lilie had believed in him, had seen anything in him.