"Like it?" he repeated, breathless with his surprise.
"All of it!” she answered, and made an all-embracing gesture. "The dirt, the vulgarity, the cheating, the danger. They're men — all men — and all in action, Will!"
"But such an impossible gang of swine —" he began, and then he stopped short and some of her own fire lighted his eyes.
His blood ran with a thrill, warm and then cold. As she had said, here were men, real men, and all in action. It was the old lure of the desert, stronger, wilder, sharper, but the same. The chances bigger than in the north, the danger greater, and also the reward. And, somewhere among those men, he felt he should find a place for himself. It was the New World, the undiscovered country — himself and these. Three centuries of culture surrounded William Kirk, three generations of gentlemanly traditions. At this moment the first century of these traditions dropped away and he tossed it aside as a man might toss off an encumbering cloak when he is about to enter a fight for his life.
Chapter 20
By luck, they found a place to live in within an hour after they reached the town of Kirby Creek. It was on the outskirts of the town and the most commodious dwelling in the place. It had been inhabited by a prospector and his family, but a few days before his eldest son had been killed by a blow with a pick handle in a drunken brawl, and the prospector, in consequence, was leaving the camp. He sold his rights at an outrageous price and the three spent the rest of the day purchasing household furniture at prices running up to ten times that of the real value. Also they secured an old crippled Texan, Hugh Williams, for the housework and by nightfall they were eating their first meal in their new residence.
The house had been thrown together rather than built. Nevertheless it was a shelter and gave them privacy. Furthermore, it was on the extreme outskirts of the town, up the ravine, and the noise of the brawling, drunken miners would disturb them less in this spot.
Hugh Williams cooked amazingly well considering the rickety tin stove with which he had to work; and after supper, when it was decided that they should venture forth into the night life of the wild camp, they asked Hugh Williams to direct them to the best place. His answer was prompt and decisive.
"The only fit place,” said Hugh Williams, "is that gambling house Yo Chai, the Chinaman, runs. Nobody ever called his games crooked, but such luck I've never seen. I was there when he won the house from Skinny Wallace."
"Won the whole place gambling?” asked Sampson.
"Draw poker,” said Hugh Williams, and drew in a reverent breath. "The gold it was stacked all over that table, and the Chink, he wins one hand and then loses one, but the ones he lose don't amount to nothin’ , and the ones he win just bring in the gold in heaps. Nobody played much that night but just stood round and watched them two; and old Skinny Wallace, he kept right on drinkin’ and playin’ and losin’ . Till finally he went bust!
"Then Yo Chai took the place and the next day he asked all the folks to come in and look at Skinny Wallace's machines, and they was all crooked — a brake on the roulette wheel and down to loaded dice. And Yo Chai he asked two men to watch while he had all the games put back on the level. Since then we can all see every bit of every machine. But still Yo Chai keeps winnin'."
"Much rough stuff around Yo Chai's house?" asked Kirk.
"Rough stuff? No sir, there's no rough house around Yo Chai. It don't pay to fool with that Chinaman. But Chapman tried to shoot up Yo Chai's place, and Yo Chai threw a knife and nailed Bud's hand plumb up agin the bar. Nobody fools around Yo Chai since then."
The recommendation was too strong to pass unfollowed. They wound down the hill, following Hugh's directions, and reached in due time the gambling house of Yo Chai. It looked like a stable except that the roof at no point rose to more than twelve or fourteen feet above the ground, but it was finished as rudely as any stable, and as the lumber had given out long before the place was finished, the roof was chiefly formed of tarred canvas stretched across the rafters. Even this was lacking in one wide corner, and the gamblers played under the roof of the white, distant stars.
Through this gap, also, there came an occasional gust of wind which billowed the blue clouds of cigarette smoke in choking masses across the room — and sometimes it poured in such masses through the door that the building seemed to be on fire. The smoke in itself was enough to obscure the brightest of lights, and such illumination as there was consisted of lanterns of great size swinging from posts here and there in the wide structure. They made not a general glow of light but a number of distinct halos of brilliancy through the mist of tobacco smoke. Each halo embraced a table at which some game ran in full blast — crap, faro, chuck-a-luck, poker, every favorite of the Southwestern gambler; but beyond these halos, faces were continually passing to and fro and withdrawing into the twilight confusion like ships moving through a fog.
At one end of the room stretched a bar at which half a dozen men labored steadily to supply the demands of the customers, for drinks were served free at every table. However, since these did not come fast enough to suit many of the players at games which did not demand undivided attention, there was a continual stream of men running from tables to the bar, drinking hastily, and then turning to run back to their places. These, very often, collided with one of the Chinese servants who bore trays of drinks to the seated and more patient gamblers; each collision was announced by a shiver of glassware, a shrill clatter of Oriental rage, and the deep, booming laugh of a white man.
These were only high points in the general clamor, for the calls of the "men-on-the-sticks" and of the dealers and of the players kept up a continual monotone broken sharply here and there by a snarl of fury, a shout of delight, or the deep groan which announced that one of the players was broke. A tawdry, dim, drunken confusion, but here, as over the entire town, there was the glamor of chance which shot the smoky gloom full of rays of gold.
Winifred heard the voice of a stranger beside her saying: "Life! By God, here's raw life!"
And she turned to look up into the face of William Kirk. It was so changed by the shadows and by the hardening of the mouth and the brightening of the eyes that for the moment she hardly recognized him any more than she had known the sound of his voice. But she laughed, and throwing up her arms answered: "Life, Billy!"
The sound of her own voice startled her; it was rougher and more strained than she had ever heard it. And she knew, all at once, that the same fierce light which transfigured the eyes of Kirk was also in her own. She turned to her father, to see if he also had caught the fierce fever of the place, awe-stricken, amused, and more than half delighted.
But her father was not beside her any longer. It sobered her to coldness to miss him, and she cried out to Kirk in her alarm.
"There he is,” answered the big man, and then laughed deeply, a boom and roar of sound, exultant. "There he is; he's in the fire, Winifred!"
The comfortably plump back of her father, indeed, was at that moment settling into a chair at the central table.
Chapter 21
This central table stood apart from the rest of the gambling hall; no matter how high the riot rang through the rest of the place, in this central space voices hushed, and it was surrounded by an atmosphere of comparative quiet dignity. Whereas the rest of the floor was thickly strewn with sawdust which served the double purpose of cleanliness and of muffling the fall of heels, the central table was supported by a dais spread with Indian blankets of price and rising a foot higher than the common boards. On the dais was a round table capable of accommodating five people in comfort, and no more were ever allowed to sit there. Moreover, a man had to show at least a thousand dollars in gold currency or in dust before he was allowed to sit in on the game, which was always draw poker. One of these chairs had been recently vacated by a disgruntled loser, and into his place stepped John Sampson.
The glance of Winifred passed from her father to the loser who had just left the chair. He was a Mexican, and she saw his face was d
arkened by a black malevolent scowl which shifted back towards the table and then returned darkly to the front. The Mexican joined a compatriot who leaned against one of the posts. The lantern overhead cast a sombre shadow which swallowed up the pair immediately, but when they moved on towards the bar she made out that the second Mexican was wrapped to the ears in a gray blanket. The loser made many gestures as they walked, speaking with his lips close to the ear of his companion. Winifred turned to William Kirk.
See those two?” she asked.
The Mexicans?”
Yes. They mean mischief. One of them has lost a good deal of money, I take it, and he means to try to get some of it back. I want to get Dad out of here before any shooting starts."
At that Kirk stiffened, his big shoulders going back, and his face altered to a singular ugliness. At the best he was not a handsome man, with his heavily defined features, but now, at the mention of shooting, his lips twisted back into a mirthless laugh, like the silent grin of a wolf-hound, and his eyes lighted evilly. She remembered what he had said of practicing with his guns every day when he had been at his home in the north. She believed it now, for he made her think of the boy who has learned to box and goes about among his companions looking for trouble. His glance swept around the room, lingering an instant on the more marked faces, and then it returned to the two Mexicans, who by this time were leaning against the bar, drinking and talking earnestly, their heads close together.
"Leave this to me," said William Kirk, and his voice was dry with a peculiarly harsh command. "If there's trouble there's no reason why I can't take care of your father. In the meantime, he's robbing the robbers. Look!"
It was the end of a hand, and John Sampson was methodically raking from the center of the table a great heap of chips — a big winning. Other faces at the table turned enviously towards the new, successful player, but the dealer remained unmoved. She noticed first the yellow, slender fingers flying over the cards as he shuffled, and then the small, round wrists twisting as he dealt the next hand. She had never seen greater suppleness and grace. Looking up above the hands she encountered the face of a middle-aged Chinaman wearing a crimson skull cap with a black tassel. For the first moment she concentrated on the dress of the man — a loose robe of a color somewhere between violet and purple, and heavily brocaded with gold: the wide, trailing sleeves making the slender grace of the wrists more apparent. Here, certainly, was Yo Chai, the owner, and now she studied his face carefully. The eyebrows were highly and plaintively arched, and a purple shadow on both the upper and lower lids made his eyes seem deeply sunken. From the upper lip straggled sparse black hairs but the mouth itself was finely and thoughtfully formed and the other features delicately chiselled. His expression was so devoid of life that he seemed rather a Buddhist rapt in mystic contemplation than a Chinese gambler concentrating on a game. It seemed that Kirk had followed the steady direction of her glance, for he muttered now: "Rum old bird, isn't he? Seems to me I've seen him before. I suppose it's Yo Chai?"
As if to answer him, a miner dressed like a cowboy at that moment mounted the dais and stood beside the dealer shifting his hat awkwardly on his head. The Chinese turned and the miner leaned down to whisper in his ear. At that the dealer nodded, pulled out a long purse of wire net, embroidered with the figure of a flashing dragon, and handed the other several coins. The miner shook hands enthusiastically and departed.
"Yep,” nodded William Kirk, "that's Yo Chai. A white man wouldn't talk as respectfully as that to anyone but the boss of a place like this. Watch the play; they don't lose any time in that game; ha! there goes your father's winnings!"
For John Sampson had pushed forward a large pile of chips which were matched by the Chinese; the hands were laid down, and Yo Chai raked in the chips. John Sampson shook his head and settled a little forward in his chair like one prepared for a long session.
"After all," chuckled Kirk, "this is better than playing myself. First time I've ever seen your father lose, and I've watched him play a good many times!"
So they stood leaning against the pillar near by and watching the progress of the game. It fluctuated here and there, but on the whole there was a steady drift of chips from the other four players to Yo Chai; even during the few moments of their observance they could readily perceive this movement. It seemed to exasperate John Sampson, and repeatedly he pushed out large stacks of chips; he was beginning to lose at a rate which enriched every player at the table. He was fighting rather than gambling, and Kirk began to chuckle steadily with enjoyment.
"For,” he explained to Winifred, "your father ranks himself with the best of 'em at poker, and this will be a story I can tell a thousand times. Ha, ha, ha!"
For what followed, the exact situation of the dais and the players at the table must be borne in mind. Yo Chai sat with his back towards the bar and three-quarters towards Kirk and Winifred. Directly opposite him was John Sampson, his back, therefore, being three-quarters towards the same observers. The eyes of the two witnesses, in the meantime, were fluctuating chiefly from Sampson to the Chinese, for they seemed to be chief opponents in the game, and it was while they were watching Sampson rake in one of his rare winnings that Winifred saw her father stiffen quickly in his chair, his hand still among the chips before him. At the same instant a hubbub broke out at a neighboring table and William Kirk turned to watch it; Winifred's eyes remained fastened on her father. All that followed filled not more than one second at the most.
At the same time that John Sampson stiffened in his chair, Yo Chai, opposite, allowed his head to tilt back lazily, and a half smile stirred his lips; he seemed like a man blinking contentedly into a warm sun on a spring day. Also, he was shoving his chair back from the table with his feet. So the eyes of Winifred, following the apparent direction of her father's stare, plunged past Yo Chai and into the semi-gloom in the direction of the bar. There she saw the two Mexicans side by side. One of them was pointing towards Yo Chai, and as his arm fell, steel gleamed in the hands of both, the guns rising almost leisurely to the safe kill from behind.
It was then that the movement of Yo Chai changed from leisureliness to action as sudden as the winking of light. It should be borne in mind that all occurred so suddenly that John Sampson had not even time to cry out a warning; but the Chinese acted as if the eyes of the white man opposite him were two large, clear mirrors, in which he read the stalking danger: he swirled from the chair swifter than a dead leaf twisted by a gust of wind. The four guns of the Mexicans roared; and then there were two sharp, quick, barking reports in answer. The Mexicans sank out of Winifred's sight beyond the table.
Chapter 22
It was not a great commotion. John Sampson and another player at the table stood bolt upright, but rather as if in curiosity than in alarm. The other two turned in their chairs but did not rise. From the rest of the great gambling hall men swarmed to the point of action like water towards a whirlpool; and then Yo Chai rose from beyond the table and waved his frail hands apologetically towards his fellow players. The gun he had fired had already disappeared into the folds of his robe. His face was unchanged; he might have been rising to bid them a calm goodnight. But Winifred, watching him closely, started as though someone had shouted at her ear.
What she saw, indeed, was not so much the middle-aged face, and the rather shrunken, bowed shoulders, but the exceeding grace of the narrow wrists of the Chinaman and the transparent frailty of the hands. Already the crowd was leaving the scene of the firing and drifting back towards their original tables; William Kirk, who had run towards the spot, now returned, bringing John Sampson with him. She ran a few paces to meet them and caught her father by the arm with both her excited hands.
"Do you know who that was?” she cried. "Do you know who that was?”
Then she stopped the full tide of speech that was tumbling to her lips; a suspicion froze up her utterance.
"Who?” asked the two men at the same time.
"I don't know. I'm asking you,” sh
e answered.
"Sounded to me,” said William Kirk, "as if you were about to tell us something. Who do you want to know about?”
And she lied deliberately, for she knew all at once that she must not tell either of these men her suspicion about Yo Chai.
"I think one of those Mexicans was a fellow I’ve seen in Mortimer.”
"Really?” grunted her father. "Well, he's a dead one now.”
"Not a bit of it,” said Kirk. "That was a nice bit of gun play on the part of the Chinaman. D’ you know where he shot those two fellows?”
"Where?”
"Drilled 'em squarely through the right hip — each one. They'll both live, and they'll both be cripples for life. When you come down to it, Sampson, that's better revenge than killing the beggars, eh?"
"Maybe," said the other man, "but let's get out of here."
"Why?" said Kirk, frowning. "This place just begins to look good to me."
And: "Why?" asked Winifred. "I agree with Billy!"
"Because," said her father, "if I stay I've got to go back to that game, and this is a good excuse for me to get away from the cards. That Yo Chai has bewitched 'em, Billy!"
It was strange to see how the environment of the mining camp had gained upon these three. Each was the inheritor of centuries of pacific culture, but half a day had moved them back a thousand years towards the primitive. In their nostrils was still the scent of powder; in their minds was still the picture of the falling men through whose flesh and bones the bullets had driven: yet they had already closed their senses to the nearness of death. A tale which in the telling would have kept them agape in their drawing-rooms, in the actuality was a chance event to be seen and forgotten. Ten centuries of refinement, of polish, were brushed away, and the brute with slope forehead and fanglike teeth rose in each of them.
Brand, Max - 1924 Page 9