Riders of the Silences

The dice clattered across the table and were swept up by the hand of the 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 the coins of the other two bettors.  It went out a third time and laid another fifty-cent piece upon his.  The heart of Pierre bounded up to his throat.

Again the dice rolled, and this time he saw distinctly two fives turn up.  Two dollars in silver were dropped upon his, and still he let the money lie.  Again, again, and again the dice rolled.  And now there were pieces of gold among the silver that covered the square of the five.  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 the coins brimmed his cupped palm.  With the free hand he placed his new wagers.  But he lost now.

“I cannot win forever,” thought Pierre, and redoubled his bets in an effort to regain the lost ground.

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

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

“It is the cross!” thought Pierre.  “It is the cross which brings me luck.”

The dice rattled out.  He won.  Again, and still he won.  The gambler wiped his forehead and looked up anxiously.  For these were wagers in gold, and the doubling stakes were running high.  About Pierre a crowd had grown—­a dozen cattlemen who watched the growing heap of gold with silent fascination.  Then they began to make wagers of their own, and there were faint whispers of wrath and astonishment as the dice clicked out 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 anyone should suspect him of a gunplay, he drew out a heavy forty-five and laid it on the table 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 world that 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 of Pierre’s money.

“How much?” said Pierre eagerly.  “Is there enough on the table to buy the gun?”

“Buy?” said the other fiercely.  “There ain’t enough coin west of the Rockies to buy that gun.  D’you think I’m yaller enough to sell my six?  No, but I’ll risk it in a fair bet.  There ain’t no disgrace in 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 frank surprise of that look disarmed the other.  He swept up the dice-box, and shook it furiously, while his lips stirred.  It was 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 with both hands braced against the edge of the table, and stared hopelessly down.

A moment before his pockets had sagged with a precious weight, and there had been a significant drag of the belt over his right hip.  Now both 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 a favor by taking it, cast another scowl in the direction of Pierre, and went out toward the bar.  Pierre, very hot in the face, pocketed his winnings and belted on the gun.  It hung low on his thigh, just in easy gripping 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 with poor old Cochrane.”

Following the direction of the pointing finger, Pierre saw one of those mute tragedies of the gambling hall.  Cochrane, an old cattleman whose carefully trimmed, pointed white beard and slender, tapering fingers set him apart from the others in the room, was rather far gone with liquor.  He was still stiffly erect in his chair, and would be till the very moment consciousness left him, but his eyes were misty, and when he spoke his lips moved slowly, as though numbed by cold.

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

And what appeal could affect Mac Hurley?  There was no color in the man, either body or soul.  No emotion could show in those pale, small eyes or change the color of the flabby cheeks.  If his hands had been cut off, he might have seemed some sodden victim of a drug habit, but the 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 white they were, and long, with a nervous uneasiness in every motion, continually hovering around the cards with little touches which were almost caresses.

“It ain’t a game,” said the man who had first pointed out the group to Pierre, “it’s just a slaughter.  Cochrane’s too far gone to see straight.  Look at that deal now!  A kid could see that he’s crooking the cards!”

It was blackjack, and Hurley, as usual, was dealing.  He dealt with one hand, flipping the cards out with a snap of the wrist, the fingers working rapidly over the pack.  Now and then he glanced over to the crowd, as if to enjoy their admiration of his skill.  He was showing it now, not so much by the deftness of his cheating as by the openness with which he exposed his tricks.

As the stranger remarked to Pierre, a child could have discovered that the cards were being dealt at will from the top and the bottom of the pack, but the gambler was enjoying himself by keeping his game just open enough to be apparent to every other man in the room—­just covert enough to deceive the drink-misted brain of Cochrane.  And the pale, swinish eyes twinkled as they stared across the dull sorrow of the old man.  There was an ominous sound from Pierre:  “Do you let a thing like that happen in this country?” he asked fiercely.

The other turned to him with a sneer.

“Let it happen?  Who’ll stop him?  Say, partner, you ain’t meanin’ to say 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 in the 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 if Hurley wasn’t enough, what about Carl Diaz?”

He glared his triumph at Pierre, but the latter was too puzzled to quail, and too stirred by the pale, gloomy face of Cochrane to turn toward 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 snowbound seclusion of the north country the shadow of the name of Diaz had gone.  He could not remember just what they were, but he seemed to recollect grim tales through which that name figured.

The other went on:  “But if you ain’t ever seen him before, look him over 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 the matter, 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 he stayed 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?  You don’t figure you’re a mate for McGurk, do you?”

He seemed oddly relieved when the eyes of Pierre moved away from him and returned to the figure of Carlos Diaz.  The Mexican was a perfect model for a painting of a melodramatic villain.  He had waxed and twirled the end of his black mustache so that it thrust out a little spur on either side of his long face.  His habitual expression was a scowl; his habitual position was with a cigarette in the fingers of his left hand, and his right hand resting on his hip.  He sat in a chair directly behind that of Hurley, and Pierre’s new-found acquaintance explained:  “He’s the bodyguard for Hurley.  Maybe there’s some who could down Hurley in a straight gunfight; maybe there’s one or two like McGurk that could down Diaz—­damn his yellow hide—­but there ain’t no one can buck the two of ’em.  It ain’t in reason.  So they play the game together.  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 until the fingers touched the cross.

“Nevertheless, that game has to stop.”

“Who’ll—­say, kid, are you stringin’ me, or are you drunk?  Look me in the eye!”