Acres of Unrest (14 page)

It was a liberal education in roguery to watch the progress of Mike Jarvin. Having secured that chair near the open window through which a single backward leap would carry him, fat Mike entered the game with a softness that amazed Peter. In his innocence, Peter expected wild exploits to begin at once, expected looks of wonder, envy, and, presently, of rage to be cast at the stranger. He found to his astonishment that Mike seemed the very least important person at that table. His bets were certainly not a whit larger than those of the others. Indeed, he seemed to stake his money unwillingly. As for cleverness at the cards, Jarvin surprised him by losing time and again. Whatever he did was wrong. If he bet cautiously with a powerful hand, no one cared to stay. If he tried It gallant bluff, he was sure to be called after he had pushed a quantity of cash onto the table.

There was only one way in which Mike Jarvin began to be conspicuous at that table, and this was through his successive losses. Indeed, he began to be little better than a joke. They smiled faintly—poker smiles—as he lost round after round, They looked swiftly at one another as he attacked the dealing of the pack and, in the vigor of his shuffling, spilled the cards upon the floor. Then, as he dealt slowly and clumsily around the table, perspiring, someone could
not help asking, in a mingled tone of contempt and amusement and pity: “What might your business be…when you ain’t playing cards, stranger?”

General smiles were suppressed with difficulty. Mike answered gently: “Mining is my business, friends. That’s what I do for a living. Not card playing, as you might suspect.”

The faces of the others at the gaming table turned purple with suppressed laughter at this remark. Another rancher said dryly: “Matter of fact, sir, I was sort of thinking that maybe you made a regular thing of this.”

“Oh, no,” said the innocent Mike, “I just have a fling at it now and then.”

Laughter could not be held in longer, at this point, and there was a universal shout of joy at this simplicity.

However, he was a miner. No one who digs his gold out of the ample wallet of the earth is to be given much pity, when he sits at the gamblers’ table. They looked upon Mr. Jarvin as sure prey, and, to the bewilderment of big Peter, they had what they wanted.

He did not keep a very accurate score of the game, but he was sure that by the time it had proceeded an hour, Jarvin was at least $200 or $300 out of pocket. There was an interruption here, as one of the players plunged foolishly on three aces and was neatly and briefly trimmed by the florid lumberman who sat to the left of Jarvin.

“That’s me, boys,” said the loser. “I’m done, if you don’t object.” And he left the game.

“Who’s next?” asked the red-faced lumberman as he raked in the spoils of war. “Who’s next, gents? How about you, sir?”

“Why,” said the familiar voice of Charlie Hale, “I’m not much at this sort of thing, but I’ll take a hand.” Being next to the vacant chair, he slipped into it.

Peter bit his lip in vexation. But, after all, the chair of Charlie had its back turned to him, and there was not a great chance that his cousin should turn about and see him. At least, he I profoundly hoped not.

His entrance made no great difference. It was plain by his very manner in holding his cards that he was not an expert at the game of poker, but it was equally plain that he intended to invest in the contest all his natural store of good sense and discretion. He lost his first two bets, but he recouped handsomely on the third round. Still Jarvin had not won a bet.

“You was down buying some of those Herefords of the Giveney Ranch?” asked a withered cowpuncher at the right of Charlie.

“Yes.”

“They beat everything on the range…those Herefords,” said the cowpuncher with conviction.

“I believe that they do very well, on this part of the range,” said Charles with a modesty that became his youth.

There was a general nodding of heads around the table. They respected this young man a very great deal. That was plain. They respected him just as much as they were inclined to laugh at poor Mike Jarvin who, however, suddenly won a small stake.

“First win in the last hour, ain’t it?” asked the lumberman with a broad grin.

“Yes”—Mike sighed—“luck has been ag’in’ me, a little. But maybe it’ll set my way, pretty soon, eh?”

He looked about the table with such an open and confident smile that even Peter found himself shaking his head and smiling in shame and amusement at such a foolish confidence in Dame Fortune. As for the rest, they had now reached the point where they were beginning to pass the wink openly to one another concerning Jarvin.

However, the game lapsed into its former drowsy quiet until Peter heard someone saying: “Here’s fifteen hundred to see that.”

It was the voice of Charlie—and, behold, Charles had lost. $2,000 passed from his pocket at that one stroke. It was by some hundreds higher than any betting of the evening. There was a half-frightened look on the faces of most of the others at the table. Even the red-faced lumberman—who had won again—did not seem more pleased by his victory than he was awed by it. But Charles was sitting very erect in his chair, smiling cheerfully upon the others.

There was a world of battle behind that smile, and Peter could not help guessing that his cousin was in for a little elbow rubbing with misfortune that evening.

A moment later, Charlie was betting still more hugely. Three others remained in the pot with him. The bets climbed slowly out of the hundreds, into the small thousands—until one stopped—and only the red-faced lumberman and Mike remained with Charles. And Charles won.

He had recouped all of his losses without much waste of time. It occurred to Peter that a level head and a sound set of active wits might carry a novice even over worse reefs than this. But Mike’s behavior amazed him even more than this. For he
was saying: “That’s the way! Sort of tickles me to see the money trickling out like this. Win big or lose big. That’s what I feel like this evening. What about it, boys?”

He was as good as his word. He dropped $1,500 in the very next pot, and Charles won again.

Said someone near Peter: “Now, I don’t mind seeing a greenhorn plucked but darned if there ain’t a limit. Now that poor, old fat fool whatever his name might be…he’s had enough. They’d ought to get him out of the game.”

Peter bit his lip. If only they could know the name of yonder simple old fellow.

But the game had entered upon a new phase. The red-faced lumberman was suddenly out of the match. He had lost to Charles, and then a crashing stake had gone to Jarvin, his first big winning of the evening. The lumberman ran for shelter. The others had gone there before him. There was only Mike Jarvin and Charles. And the stakes were nothing but thousands.

It occurred to Peter that this was a crime against his own blood. He should step up and whisper a word to Charles and warn him that he sat at the table with one of the biggest rogues in the world. But he restrained himself.

For one thing, his Uncle Andrew had piled up enough money to stand a very severe loss indeed, and if there was any such wildness as this in Charlie’s blood, it was far better that he should have it out before he came into all of his father’s lands.

There was no question as to how the game would run now Jarvin had begun to win. And he had managed it so that everyone looked upon him with a sort of wondering sympathy. It was, in fact, that
run of luck for which Mike had been waiting all the evening.

“Looks like I can’t lose,” honest Mike said. “A while back it looked like I couldn’t win. Now, stranger, I’ll tell you what. If I was you, I wouldn’t play any more tonight. It ain’t your lucky night for winning.”

“Never mind that,” snapped Charles. “It’s your deal, I believe.”

Oh, yes, it was the deal of Mr. Jarvin. His fat fingers seemed to have grown more clumsy than ever as they struggled with the recalcitrant pack of cards. Even so, it was a strangely lucky pack for him.

Here was Charles writing on a scrap of paper: I owe you ten thousand dollars. Signed—Charles Hale.

“Is that good with you?” he asked.

“Why, man, I dunno your name,” said Jarvin, “but your face looks honest to me. Sure your signature is good. Only…I would just like to advise you that since you have begun to lose…maybe it would be better if we quit now. You’ve lost pretty near twenty thousand dollars, Mister Hale.”

It cast a hush over the crowd. This, indeed, was gambling upon a large scale. Charles, stiff and straight in his chair, played with perfect calm. Only his face was a little pale, and his back was rigid. He was doing the usual foolish thing. He was plunging to recoup, doubling his bets. The minutes were dizzy ones that saw poor Charlie betting $5,000 on two kings. Yet he had an excellent hand the next moment. The bets passed hastily back and forth—I.O.U.s from Charlie, money and more of the same slips for Jarvin.

Then came the call—three sevens and a pair of deuces in the hand of Charlie, a pair of deuces and three jacks in the hand of Mike Jarvin.

“I congratulate you,” said Charles as he pushed back his chair. “That’s as far as I care to go this evening. I’ve finished.”

So Charles walked from the room with his head high and his eyes calm, glances of respect trailing after him, as much as to say: “There’s a man.”

But when they looked back to Mike Jarvin, they shook their heads and smiled. “A lucky old fool,” was the general comment.

“I hope,” Jarvin was saying, “that boy can stand losin’ as much money as that. Who might he be? Name of Charles Hale. Can he stand it?”

“Is that Charlie Hale?” said a bystander. “Sure he can stand it. Or his old man can stand it for him. Got millions, I guess. Rich as the devil. It won’t hurt them none.”

“Well, well!” exclaimed Mr. Jarvin. “Dog-gone me if I ever cleaned up like this before. I guess that I’d ought to shut up shop, after that, eh?”

They entreated him to stay. They knew that his pockets were loaded with a fortune, and not a small fortune, at that. If only he would sit in at a game where the stakes were not rushed over their heads—they were willing and confident enough that they could take away the last penny of his gold, by easy degrees.

But nothing could persuade him to remain. He had played out his lucky streak. Some other day, perhaps, if they still wanted to play. He waded through the crowd, and Peter found himself fol
lowing behind the other with a half smile upon his lips. In the street, he came up with Jarvin and found the miner bursting with happiness.

“I never done nothing so slick in my life,” declared Mike. “Now, sir, would you ask me what I got away from that game?”

“Over fifty thousand?” asked Peter.

“Over sixty-five thousand, or I’m a sucker,” Mike declared. “I was too smart for them. I’ve took away lots of money out of a game before this, but I never managed to do it and have the folks standing around just hankering to have a whirl at me. I never was able to manage that before. Why, Pete, this here town is a gold mine to me. They got no eyes. I could teach a dog to sit up and beg in the time that they give me for shuffling the cards and dealing them and patting them into shape. I could run up the pack every time. I was doing it with two crimps, toward the last. And that sucker sitting there like a soldier. ‘I will not leave my post,’ says the soldier. ‘Take this, then,’ says I, and saps him for another ten thousand.

“Sweet? Oh, it was sweet, Pete. I never got into anything that was half so cheerful as that game. And now they’re all in there pitying me. Heaven keep ’em from recognizing me before I get another whirl at ’em. There’s still money in that gang. And now they’re itching and anxious to pluck me. Well, I’ll lose enough thousands now to stall them along, and then I’ll clean up. You can’t tell what’ll happen the next time that I get a lucky streak.” He clasped the muscular shoulder of Peter with his fat hand and laughed like one half choked with joy.

“Let me see the I.O.U.s,” Peter said.

“Here they are,” said Jarvin. “You count them over. They come to…hey, son, what’s the main idea?”

For Peter had slipped the bits of paper into his pocket.

“That’s sixty-five thousand that you’re rumpling up and smearing around!” exclaimed Mike Jarvin.

“It’s too much,” said Peter. “You’ll have to get along with the cash that you stole out of that game.”

Mike groaned. “It ain’t possible. Are you gonna double-cross me? You, an honest man? Is that the size of your price? Pete, are you gonna double-…?”

“Stop whining,” said Peter. “Do you think that I can stand by and see you rob a cousin of mine with your dirty card tricks? No, Mike, this stuff goes back to him. Walk on…the game is up, so far as I’m concerned.”

Mike Jarvin uttered one long burst of curses; he even went so far as to reach significantly toward a hip pocket, but then he suddenly changed his mind, and, whirling on his heel, he strode off down the street.

Peter started out in search of his cousin. It was easy to find him. If Charlie had been a figure of some importance before the game, he was a celebrity after it. The clerk in the hotel took Peter instantly to the room of Charles, and in answer to his knock the door was instantly opened by that pale-faced gentleman himself.

When he saw Peter, he recoiled from him with a gasp of astonishment. “Peter! What in the world brought you? Come in.” He dragged Peter inside
and closed the door in haste. “You’ve heard about it, Pete?”

“Yes.”

“It’s the finish and the smashing of me, Peter,” Charles said huskily. He began to walk hastily up and down the room. “I’ve put in a life of hard work…you know that. I’ve played exactly the sort of a game that my father wanted me to. And now I’m floored and done for.”

“Done for?”

“Done for with Dad. He’ll have no use for me. I tell you, there’s one thing that he hates worse than poison, and that’s gambling. He says that a man who gambles deserves to take his medicine, because he’s a hopeless fool. I could have committed a murder without breaking up Dad as much as the news of this will. He’ll have no confidence in me. No more than if I were a dog. After the things that have happened between us, I suppose that you’ll be glad to see me down. But it’s a life work that I’ve thrown away.”

“A third of a life,” Peter corrected gravely. “That’s all there is to it. Why, man, you’re a child. You’ve got plenty of years ahead of you.”

“To start at the bottom…and climb?” his cousin said bitterly.

“You have something worth climbing for,” replied Peter.

“You mean Ruth, by that. I know that’s what you mean. But that’s no good. I’ve never been able to get her to talk about the future with me. I never can get her to say yes, since she got to know you. But I know that it would be very easy to have her say no. I’ve had to handle her with gloves, Pete. And now that I haven’t a thing to offer her…”

“Why, Charlie, you’re not disinherited yet.”

“Not yet,” said the gloomy Charles, “not until Father hears the news, but, five minutes after that, I’ll be a gone goose. I tell you, he’s iron. Absolute iron, and, when he knows what I’ve done, he’ll wipe me off the slate. He’ll adopt someone. He’ll give his property away.”

It seemed to Peter that there was only one side to this grief.

It was not for the broken and disappointed heart of his father that Charles had any thought, but only for the property loss that lay before Charles himself.

However, Peter could delay no longer in the business for which he had come. He drew the notes from his pocket and laid them on the table. “As a matter of fact, Charlie,” he said, “that fellow was simply having his joke with you. He knew you all the time, and he didn’t intend that he should rob you. The cash that you put in the game was enough for him. But he didn’t want to steal your money.”

Charles, taking the I.O.U.s, one by one, examined them, and turned with a stare to Peter. “I try to make it out,” he said, “but it’s no go. I try to understand, but cursed if I can. Did you hold that poor, old, fat simpleton up and rob him?”

Peter shook his head. “Let me tell you the name of that fat old simpleton. Why you haven’t known his face, I don’t quite make out. But the fact is that he’s Mike Jarvin.”

“Jarvin?” gasped Charles.

“Jarvin, the crook.”

“My heavens, and I…what a fool I’ve been!”

“It rather looks that way.”

“But what…?”

“He didn’t mean to rob you, Charlie. He simply wanted to give you a lesson, and that’s why he took your notes.”

“But Jarvin never gave back a penny he’d stolen. Not in his life!”

“Even Mike finds certain things that he can’t do. Even he wants to play the game straight, in a way. That’s a peculiar thing. I can’t explain it. But I suppose that taking that money from you was a little too easy.”

Charles struck his hands together with an exclamation. “I could have sworn that the fat man was hardly more than a simple old half-wit, who’d drifted into a bit of luck in a mine, somewhere. And now it turns out to be Jarvin. Why, Pete, I only wonder that he didn’t come to tell me about it himself. Why did he send you?” And he fixed Peter with a cold and hostile eye.

“The fact is,” said Peter, “that he had something else on his hands. He knew that you’d be here. And he sent me along…”

“Sent you?”

“I’m working for him, Charlie.”

“You’re…working…for…Jarvin?”

“Yes. Since…”

“That’s why you disappeared? And that’s why your father is nearly going crazy?”

“That’s it,” said Peter.

“But why, man? In heaven’s name, why?”

“I’ll tell you,” said Peter. “I’ve always had a touch of wild blood in me, Charlie. And I grew a bit tired of the dull life on the ranch. I hated to trouble Father. But, after all, the ranch is pretty well on its feet now. So I broke away and went up
to Jarvin’s mine, where there’s a chance of seeing life rough and in the raw, you know.”

A flash of contempt glinted in the eyes of Charles. “Very raw, indeed, I suppose,” he said.

“Yes,” said Peter, “very raw indeed.”