Riders of the Silences Page 5

  CHAPTER V

  HURLEY

  The dice clattered across the table and were swept up by the hand ofthe man behind the table before Pierre could note them. Sick at heart,he began to turn away, as he saw that hand reach out and gather in thecoins of the other two betters. It went out a third time and laidanother fifty-cent piece upon his. The heart of Pierre bounded up tohis throat.

  Again the dice rolled, and this time he saw distinctly two fives turnup. Two dollars in silver were dropped upon his, and still he let themoney lie. Again, again, and again the dice rolled. And now therewere pieces of gold among the silver that covered the square of thefive.

  The other two looked askance at him, and the owner of the game growled:"Gimme room for the coins, stranger, will you?"

  Pierre picked up his winnings. In his left hand he held them, and thecoins brimmed his cupped palm. With the free hand he placed his newwagers. But he lost now.

  "I cannot win forever," thought Pierre, and redoubled his bets in aneffort to regain the lost ground.

  Still his little fortune dwindled, till the sweat came out on hisforehead and the blood that had flushed his face ran back and left himpale with dread. And at last there remained only one gold piece. Hehesitated, holding it poised for the wager, while the owner of the gamerattled the dice loudly and looked up at the coin with hungry eyes.

  Once more Pierre closed his eyes and laid his wager, while his emptyleft hand slipped again inside his shirt and touched the metal of thecross, and once more when he opened his eyes the hand of the gamblerwas going out to lay a second coin over his.

  "It is the cross!" thought Pierre, and thrilled mightily. "It is thecross which brings me luck."

  The dice rattled out. He won. Again, and still he won. The gamblerwiped his forehead and looked up anxiously. For these were wagers ingold, and the doubling stakes were running high. About Pierre a crowdhad grown--a dozen cattlemen who watched the growing heap of gold withsilent fascination. Then they began to make wagers of their own, andthere were faint whispers of wrath and astonishment as the dice clickedout and each time the winnings of Pierre doubled.

  Suddenly the dealer stopped and held up his left hand as a warning.With his right, very slowly, inch by inch lest any one should suspecthim of a gun play, he drew out a heavy forty-five and laid it on thetable with the belt of cartridges.

  "Three years she's been on my hip through thick and thin, stranger.Three years she's shot close an' true. There ain't a butt in the worldthat hugs your hand tighter. There ain't a cylinder that spins easier.Shoot? Lad, even a kid like you could be a killer with that six-gun.What will you lay ag'in' it?"

  And his red-stained eyes glanced covetously at the yellow heap ofPierre's money.

  "How much?" said Pierre eagerly. "Is there enough on the table to buythe gun?"

  "Buy?" said the other fiercely. "There ain't enough coin west of theRockies to buy that gun. D'you think I'm yaller hound enough to sellmy six? No, but I'll risk it in a fair bet. There ain't no disgracein that; eh, pals?"

  There was a chorus of low grunts of assent.

  "All right," said Pierre. "That pile against the gun."

  "All of it?"

  "All."

  "Look here, kid, if you're tryin' to play a charity game with me--"

  "Charity?"

  The direct, frank surprise of that look disarmed the other. He sweptup the dice-box, and shook it furiously, while his lips stirred. Itwas as if he murmured an incantation for success. The dice rolled out,winking in the light, spun over, and the owner of the gun stood withboth hands braced against the edge of the table, and stared hopelesslydown.

  A moment before his pockets had sagged with a precious weight, andthere had been a significant drag of the belt over his right hip. Nowboth burdens were gone.

  He looked up with a short laugh.

  "I'm dry. Who'll stake me to a drink?"

  Pierre scooped up a dozen pieces of the gold.

  "Here."

  The other drew back.

  "You're very welcome to it. Here's more, if you'll have it."

  "The coin I've lost to you? Take back a gamblin' debt?"

  "Easy there," said one of the men. "Don't you see the kid's green?Here's a five-spot."

  The loser accepted the coin as carelessly as if he were conferring afavor by taking it, cast another scowl in the direction of Pierre, andwent out toward the bar. Pierre, very hot in the face, pocketed hiswinnings and belted on the gun. It hung low on his thigh, just in easygripping distance of his hand, and he fingered the butt with a smile.

  "The kid's feelin' most a man," remarked a sarcastic voice. "Say, kid,why don't you try your luck with Mac Hurley? He's almost through withpoor, old Cochrane."

  Following the direction of the pointing finger, Pierre saw one of thosemute tragedies of the gambling hall. Cochrane, an old cattleman whosecarefully trimmed, pointed white beard and slender, tapering fingersset him apart from the others in the room, was rather far gone withliquor. He was still stiffly erect in his chair, and would be till thevery moment consciousness left him, but his eyes were misty, and whenhe spoke the fine-cut lips moved slowly, as though numbed by cold.

  Beside him stood a tall, black bottle with a little whisky glass toflank it. He made his bets with apparent carelessness, but with a realand deepening gloom. Once or twice he glanced up sharply as thoughreckoning his losses, though it seemed to Pierre le Rouge almost likean appeal.

  And what appeal could affect Mac Hurley? There was no color in theman, either body or soul. No emotion could show in those pale, smalleyes or change the color of the flabby cheeks. If his hands had beencut off he might have seemed some sodden victim of a drug habit, butthe hands saved him.

  They seemed to belong to another body--beautiful, swift, and strong,and grafted by some foul mischance onto this rotten hulk. Very whitethey were, and long, with a nervous uneasiness in every motion,continually hovering around the cards with little touches which werealmost caresses.

  "It ain't a game," said the man who had first pointed out the group toPierre, "it's just a slaughter. Cochrane's too far gone to seestraight. Look at that deal now! A kid could see that he's crookingthe cards!"

  It was Blackjack, and Hurley, as usual, was dealing. He dealt with onehand, flipping the cards out with a snap of the wrist, the fingersworking rapidly over the pack. Now and then he glanced over to thecrowd, as if to enjoy their admiration of his skill. He was showing itnow, not so much by the deftness of his cheating as by the opennesswith which he exposed his tricks.

  As the stranger remarked to Pierre, a child could have discovered thatthe cards were being dealt at will from the top and the bottom of thepack, but the gambler was enjoying himself by keeping his game justopen enough to be apparent to every other man in the room--just covertenough to deceive the drink-misted brain of Cochrane. And the pale,swinish eyes twinkled as they stared across at the dull sorrow of theold man. There was an ominous sound from Pierre:

  "Do you let a thing like that happen in this country?" he askedfiercely.

  The other turned to him with a sneer.

  "_Let_ it happen? Who'll stop him? Say, partner, you ain't meanin' tosay that you don't know who Hurley is?"

  "I don't need telling. I can see."

  "What you can't see means a lot more than what you can. I've been inthe same room when Hurley worked his gun once. It wasn't any killin',but it was the prettiest bit of cheatin' I ever seen. But even ifHurley wasn't enough, what about Carl Diaz?"

  He glared his triumph at Pierre, but the latter was too puzzled toquail, and too stirred by the pale, gloomy face of Cochrane to turntoward the other.

  "What of Diaz?"

  "Look here, boy. You're a kid, all right, but you ain't that young.D'you mean to say that you ain't heard of Carlos Diaz?"

  It came back to Pierre then, for even into the snow-bound seclusion ofthe north country the shadow of the name of Diaz had gone. He couldnot re
member just what they were, but he seemed to recollect grim talesthrough which that name figured.

  The other went on: "But if you ain't ever seen him before, look himover now. They's some says he's faster on the draw than Bob McGurk,but, of course, that's stretchin' him out a size too much. What's thematter, kid; you've met McGurk?"

  "No, but I'm going to."

  "Might even be carried to him, eh--feet first?"

  Pierre turned and laid a hand on the shoulder of the other.

  "Don't talk like that," he said gently. "I don't like it."

  The other reached up to snatch the hand from his shoulder, but hestayed his arm.

  He said after an uncomfortable moment of that silent staring: "Well,partner, there ain't a hell of a lot to get sore over, is there? Youdon't figure you're a mate for McGurk, do you?"

  He seemed oddly relieved when the eyes of Pierre moved away from himand returned to the figure of Carlos Diaz. The Mexican was a perfectmodel for a painting of a melodramatic villain. He had waxed andtwirled the end of his black mustache so that it thrust out a littlespur on either side of his long face. His habitual expression was ascowl; his habitual position was with a cigarette in the fingers of hisleft hand, and his right hand resting on his hip.

  He sat in a chair directly behind that of Hurley, and Pierre'snew-found acquaintance explained:

  "He's the bodyguard for Hurley. Maybe there's some who could downHurley in a straight gun fight; maybe there's one or two like McGurkthat could down Diaz--damn his yellow hide--but there ain't no one canbuck the two of 'em. It ain't in reason. So they play the gametogether. Hurley works the cards and Diaz covers up the retreat.Can't beat that, can you?"

  Pierre le Rouge slipped his left hand once more Inside his shirt untilthe fingers touched the cross.

  "Nevertheless, that game has to stop."

  "Who'll--say, kid, are you stringin' me, or are you drunk? Look me inthe eye!"