Gambling Man

by Clifton Adams

  Once he had heard his uncle saying, “A bit of understanding—that's fine. But don't spoil the boy, Beulah. This thing he'll have to face out himself.”

  “Not while I'm alive!” Jeff's aunt had replied.

  It was a hard thing to understand, and Jeff did not try to. He accepted their kindness and was grateful.

  He did not think about Nathan any more than he had to. At first he was sure that he hated his pa with every fiber of his soul, and he was just as sure that his pa had killed Jed Harper and robbed the bank, and no telling what else. And then he had remembered other things, like the sudden gentleness that sometimes appeared in those dark eyes, and the comforting feel of Nathan's strong, brown hand on Jeff's shoulder. When he thought of these things he became confused and could no longer tell with certainty what was true and what was false.

  When at last he did steel himself to leave the house and face the anger of the town, it was not at all the way he had imagined it in his room. Oh, they were angry, all right, but it was something more than that. The boys did not gather in gangs to devil him, as they sometimes did with others who had fallen from favor. When they looked at him, there was more than anger in their eyes.

  Their anger was tempered with fear.

  It surprised Jeff the first time he saw it. On the third day after Nathan Blaine had disappeared into the prairie night, Jeff faced the world again, wearing a mask of toughness so that the sickness inside him might not show. In the glaring light of day he plodded through the streets of Plainsville, on his way to the academy, as though nothing had happened.

  He felt their eyes upon him.

  Young Blaine, they were sneering. There goes Nate Blaine's kid.

  They could not see the swelling of his throat nor hear the pounding of his heart as he strode before them. It was then that Jeff remembered how his pa had made them cringe, how Nathan had thrown back his head and stared them down with his dark eyes. They had not sneered at his pa. They hadn't dared!

  There was something comforting and assuring in this thought. Suddenly Jeff threw back his head in the way he had seen his pa do so many times, and he looked them right in the eye as he passed by on the boardwalk. He walked like a young lion looking for a fight.

  The success of his tactics was amazing, even to Jeff. Old Seth Lewellen, whittling in a barrel chair in front of Baxter's store, was the first to break and look in another direction when Jeff passed by. Then Mac Butler, the blacksmith. From some doorway Jeff heard a whispered snarl: “That kid's too damn big for his britches!”

  Another voice said, “Maybe you're right. But Nate Blaine's his pa. One thing for sure—I don't want the job of takin' him down. Not while Nate's on the loose!”

  Then Jeff began to understand. And he knew that he had nothing to worry about because he was the son of Nathan Blaine!

  Oh, they had not forgotten Feyor Jorgenson, who had pulled out of Plainsville in the dark of night. These men who watched him from behind store windows, these clod-busters and store clerks, they would do nothing that might bring the wrath of Nathan Blaine down upon them!

  As if by magic, Jeff's sickness disappeared. He filled his lungs with clean, exciting air and suddenly felt like laughing.

  Strangely, Jeff no longer had the wish to fight the world, now that he knew it was not necessary. In some mysterious way he could feel Nathan's strong hand on his shoulder, protecting him. He knew that he would never be able to explain it to Wirt, or Beulah, or anyone, and he knew instinctively that it would be better not to try.

  His father had gone out of his life as abruptly as he had entered it. The dreamlike days of riding proud beside his pa were over, as were the hours spent in learning the violent ways of guns and the magic of cards.

  Jeff was old enough to know that Nathan could never again be a part of his life here in Plainsville. His admiration for that dark-eyed man of violence must be kept locked within himself. The Plainsville people would be a long time forgetting the bank and Jed Harper, A quiet voice in the back of Jeff's mind warned him: they are afraid of Nate Blaine—but don't rub it in.

  Chapter Eleven

  TIME DOES NOT ALWAYS move in the same direction, but sometimes curves back upon itself and strikes with the fury of a cottonmouth. So time played a perverse prank on Plainsville.

  The '70's had come to their violent end. Many of the rowdy trail towns were dying. Texas was being fenced in. The new decade was hailed as an era of peace and prosperity; and the end of outlawry and bloodshed was in sight. Then time, on a frivolous whim, reversed itself; peaceful citizens found themselves on a new frontier as violent as any of the '70's had known.

  The railroad came to Plainsville.

  Jefferson Blaine, now eighteen, watched in amazement as the settlement reverted to the loud and brassy times that he had so longed for as a boy. First came the surveyors, and there was great excitement in the town. The railroad was an unmistakable sign of progress, the storekeepers happily proclaimed.

  The railroad meant new markets for the grangers—and there was a flurry of business at the new Farmers Bank as the homesteaders hurried to replace worn-out tools and equipment. New business houses were established. There arose a new eating house—competition to the Paradise— a new barn at the public corral, and another saloon. Sam Baxter and Frank Ludlow talked of putting up a hotel.

  Then came the graders, building a raw mound of earth across the prairie; a track bed, they called it. Then came the track layers themselves, the broad-shouldered spike maulers, the Irish gandy dancers. The new depot was not even finished when the twin glistening rails were hammered to the earth directly in front of Mike Bender's feed store.

  Before the town had finished celebrating, carpenters had already gone to work building chutes and cattle pens to the south of town.

  Now, once again, there was loud laughter in Plainsville, and the cowhands raced their horses in the streets. Gunfire was no longer a rare sound, and tinny piano music clamored in the saloons. Strange women appeared from nowhere and mixed with the cowhands wherever they drank or gambled. Swift and Blackwelder, a pair of undertakers from Dodge, rented space from Doc Shipley and waited for business.

  The transformation was shocking to some, pleasing to others. Plainsville had become a shipping center for cattle, and the ranchers soon forgot their oath to stay away.

  For Jeff Blaine, the eternal noise of the place was a delight. It was like stepping from the grave into the middle of a Mexican fiesta. From the workbench in his uncle's tin shop he could see the boiling seas of cattle that descended upon Plainsville like flash floods in April. Their bawling and horn clacking and stamping added to the general din and atmosphere of excitement. Cowhands from the big outfits, heavy with guns, fresh from the new bath house and barber shop, prowled the streets, like happy tigers.

  This was an August day; the air was furnace-dry and heavy with dust. Jeff lay aside his heavy cutting shears and stood looking out with vague discontent. Since finishing his schooling at the academy he had worked here in Wirt's tin shop. Five years, almost. You'd think a man would get used to his work in that length of time.

  Sometimes he thought of his father with sadness. Nathan's name was never mentioned in the Sewell household, but stories had a way of traveling in this country, and Jeff had heard some of the them.

  They said his pa was someplace in Mexico, a personal bodyguard for a high man in the Mexican army. They said that Nate Blaine was a big man in Mexico, which was why Texas authorities couldn't try him for killing Jed Harper.

  They said a lot of things about Nate Blaine—but not to Jeff's face. Eighteen was a man's age in this country. The name of Blaine kept most of them at a distance.

  Jeff watched Elec Blasingame, a bit fatter, a bit thicker, cross the dusty street and head toward the tin shop. It seemed to Jeff that the marshal had grown old fast, since the railroad came to town. That bulldog jaw had gone flabby. It look longer to kindle the fierce fire in those pale eyes.

  Now the marshal stood in the tinshop
doorway. “Is your Uncle here, Jeff?”

  “I think he went over to Baxter's. Anything I can help you with, Marshal?”

  “No.” He wiped his face with his sleeve. Both of them remembered too much, and neither was comfortable. “If I don't run on him in the street, tell Wirt to come down to my office, will you?”

  “All right.” Jeff put a note of curiosity in the words, but Elec chose to ignore it. He glanced at Jeff for one brief moment—a strange, almost bewildered look.

  Elec said abruptly, “You like it here in the tinshop, Jeff?”

  “Sure. It's all right, I guess.”

  The marshal's fat jowls shook as he nodded. “Good business Wirt's got here. It'll be yours some day, I figure.”

  Jeff wondered what he was getting at. In five years he couldn't remember passing more than a dozen words with Blasingame. Why the sudden interest? “I hadn't thought much about it,” he said. “But I guess I'm the only one Uncle Wirt's got to leave anything to—except Aunt Beulah, of course.”

  “Of course,” Elec said, cocking his head slightly, as though he were listening for something. Then he looked directly at Jeff, with some of the old fire in his eyes. “They've been good to you,” he said bluntly. “Wirt and Beulah. I hope you don't forget it.”

  Now that was a funny thing for him to say, Jeff thought, as Elec shoved away from the door and tramped heavily up the street.

  A few minutes later Wirt came in and Jeff told him about the marshal's visit. “I wonder what Elec wants to see me about?” Wirt pondered. “Well, I guess I'll have to go to his office.”

  If Wirt Sewell could have seen the look of stark savage-ness in the marshal's eyes at that moment, he would not have been so pleased with himself as he marched primly toward the Masonic Temple building.

  But the marshal was a block away, in his office, alone, when he read the letter through for the fourth time. In a fit of helpless rage, he balled the letter in one big fist and hurled it at the wall.

  He stood spread-legged, mean as a bear, in the center of his bleak office. He looked as though he would happily kill the first man who dared come down the steps.

  But by the time Wirt Sewell reached the Masonic Temple building, Elec had control of himself. He sat heavy and expressionless at his plank desk.

  Five years hadn't done much to change Wirt Sewell. He was the same tight-wound little man that he had been since his late twenties. Today he was at peace with the world. Business was good at the tin shop and the town was booming. Of course there was the bawdy element of the town that was a curse to all respectable citizens, but Wirt allowed the town would tame down before long. He had seen it happen before. When all the ruffians were gone, or killed, Plainsville would still be standing, a thriving city.

  A faint smile played at the corners of Wirt's mouth as he crossed the street. He'd had quite a surprise today; Sam Baxter and Frank Ludlow had asked him to throw in with them on the new hotel they were planning. And Baxter and Ludlow were just about the most important businessmen in Plainsville.

  At first Wirt had been puzzled as to why they had come to him for help. “Why, Wirt,” Frank Ludlow had said, “you're one of the most successful men in this town, that's why we came to you. You started with a little hole-in-the-wall place here and made it into a big payin' tin shop. I guess you just don't realize how successful you really are!”

  Wirt could still hear those words, and the flow of well-being warmed him. Maybe Frank hadn't been so wrong, at that, he thought. He and Beulah had put some money aside. They had raised Jeff as well as they knew how, seeing the boy through that hard year after his pa had stirred up so much trouble. No sir, the Sewell's didn't have much to be ashamed of. And the boy was a big help at the shop)—a good, steady worker, once he'd set his mind to it.

  Wirt hadn't decided yet about the hotel. He'd have to talk it over with Beulah. But the fact that Frank and Sam had asked him put a new spring in his step, made him feel years younger.

  For the first time in Wirt Sewell's plodding, unexciting life, he timidly began laying the shimmering foundation for a dream.

  Now he made his way down the stone steps to the Masonic Temple basement. He walked into Elec Blasingame's office, only faintly curious as to why the marshal wanted to see him. He said pleasantly, “Hello, Elec. Jeff said you wanted to talk to me about something.”

  The marshal said bluntly, “Sit down, Wirt.”

  There was something about his tone that made Wirt blink; there was something in the steely cast of Elec's eyes that hinted trouble. Wirt realized that the marshal had not asked him here for just a friendly gab fest.

  Without hesitation, Wirt cut himself away from the pleasantness of his dream. He pulled up a chair and sat down.

  Blasingame leaned heavily on his elbows, his thick mouth drawn sharply down at the corners. “I'll come right out with it, Wirt. I've got some news you won't like to hear. I've got a letter here from the county sheriff in Landow —it didn't come from the sheriff, but from a deputy marshal up in the Choctaw Nation...”

  Wirt frowned. He thought he knew what Elec was trying to say. “It's about Nate, isn't it?”

  “Nate Blaine?” Something curious happened behind the marshal's eyes. “Yes, it has something to do with Nate, but not in the way you think, maybe. This deputy worked out of Fort Smith, but he was on the trail of a killer that had disappeared in the Nations. He found his man, finally, hiding out with the Choctaws, and had to kill him.”

  Wirt broke in. “Does this have anything to do with me?”

  “This is what it has to do with you, Wirt.” Elec's voice went harsh. “Before this hardcase died, he confessed to killing Jed Harper in that bank robbery five years back.”

  The implication left Wirt numb.

  “He still had some of the money with him,” Blasingame went on coldly. “A lone rider doesn't have much chance to spend twelve thousand dollars, I guess. Anyway, he had it, in those canvas bags that banks use.”

  The chill of dread showed on Wirt's face.

  “It's a lie!” he said tightly. “Nate Blaine killed Harper and took the money!”

  Elec's voice cut like a winter wind. “It's no lie. A deathbed confession is the strongest evidence there is, and you know it, Wirt. Besides, those canvas bags I mentioned— they were stenciled with the name of Harper's bank.”

  Wirt Sewell had ceased to be one of Plainsville's most successful businessmen; the flow of well-being no longer warmed him. He was now an old, bewildered man, his senses skating on the thin edge of panic.

  “But Beulah saw him! It had to be Nate!”

  “It wasn't Nate.” The marshal's voice was almost a snarl. “And your wife didn't see him. It was all cooked up inside her head. Out of spite, out of meanness... God only knows why a woman would do a thing like that!”

  In sudden anger, Blasingame shoved himself away from the desk and paced wildly up and down the office floor. “Five years!” he said bitterly. “That's how long it's been. Five years of hiding, of being afraid to come back to his own country, even to see his boy. How Nathan must hate us, Wirt—all of us, for I was in it, too. I was the one who took Beulah's word for it and locked him up.”

  Wirt's face was gray. His mouth moved, but no sound was made. The marshal turned on him and said harshly, “Well, that's what I wanted to tell you, Wirt. That's all there is to it.”

  The marshal took his anger in a heavy hand. He breathed deeply, giving himself time to settle down. At last he said, “I shouldn't fly off the handle like that, it's bad for my blood pressure. Just forget what I said, Wirt.”

  “Forget?” Wirt looked at him. “What am I going to do, Elec? How can Beulah stand up to a thing like this?”

  “I don't figure that's the question. How is the boy going to stand up to it?”

  It was well past sundown when Jeff came home to the Sewell house that night. He came in the front door as usual and hung his hat on the tree in the hall. At first he didn't notice the unusual silence.

  “I l
ocked the shop,” he called toward the kitchen. “When Uncle Wirt didn't come back—”

  That was when he noticed the unnatural quiet of the room—it seemed to be an uneasy hush. Jeff frowned, listening for the familiar sounds that were not there, the rattle of pans, the shaking of the grate in the cookstove. But there was only silence—and still he could feel that the house was not empty.

  He walked across the small parlor and into the kitchen, and there was Wirt sitting at the table, seeming even more shrunken and smaller than usual, his face grayer. Beulah was standing beside the cookstove staring dully straight ahead.

  Jeff's frown deepened. He shot a quick glance at Beulah, then at Wirt. “What's the matter?”

  Wirt cleared his throat, but did not look toward the door where Jeff was standing. “Jeff, you'd better sit down.”