Old Reliable in Africa/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III
THE CROOKED DEAL
THE poker game was running eight-handed, which crowded Cap Wright's cabin. Cap could have got a bigger room, and a more comfortable table, but that savored too much of professionalism. Cap detested professional sport; friendly games paid the best; and there was less chance for a holler. Counting from Cap's left, the players were: Shields, Eaton, Spottiswoode, Castelleone, Joe Sloan, Torreale, and the Baron von Reifenstein, military attaché at Washington. Each man had some bank notes in front of him, weighted down by a little stack of sovereigns which jingled merrily on the table. Fortune swung back and forth coquettishly; so far, there seemed little difference in the stacks.
Their jovial game ran on—the men talked of that wonderful little violinist, and her luck in gaining Signorina's championship. A benefit by Signorina would amount to something. Being at the poker table, they spoke with well-bred restraint, and mentioned no names. Reifenstein seemed to understand music, and was particularly generous in praising the newly discovered artiste. Cap Wright encouraged these pauses, between deals, for a story or a drink. Drinks and stories bred an amiable carelessness in his players, and also gave Joe a good chance at the cards.
Colonel Spottiswoode was not conscious of sizing up the men; he did that unconsciously. Any student of character can tell more about a man in a single poker sitting than by serving for a life time with him on the same vestry. The yellow streak will show through his clothes, especially in the loser. The Colonel himself was in fine fettle for genial moralizing. Luck set his way, with a stream of gold clinging to her skirts. Twice when Cap dealt the Colonel raised 'em to a stand on prospects, and made his hand. "Now, gentlemen," he laughed jovially, "that's what I call breaking even." Torreale spread his second best hand and failed to appreciate the joke. Three times the Colonel held two pair against pat hands when Wright was dealing; thrice the Colonel drew one card and filled—unaccountable luck.
"Captain Wright," Spottiswoode remarked, "I've a hunch that you are my mascot."
Meanwhile Colonel Spottiswoode picked young Shields for a fine average American, and liked Reifenstein better than the other foreigners. The Italians seemed too eager to win; their eyes a gold piece so lustfully; they counted each pot as they stacked it, and were contentious about trifles.
The Colonel's luck continued, it improved, got versatile, and his stack grew taller. Now and again he changed a bank note for some less fortunate player. "Chips have no home, gentleman," he observed as he tucked the note under his stack.
Although the cards were running his way the Southerner did not quite enjoy the game. It was not his kind of game. He felt an undercurrent of hostility—vague as a chilling draft that creeps from nowhere. Once he had almost risen to quit when in a big pot he drew one card, and caught the fourth seven, beating Castelleone's pat flush. The Italian wrangled until Reifenstein laughed. Then Castelleone kept mumbling to himself about "American Luck."
Being more than a thousand dollars winner, Colonel Spottiswoode hated to jump the game. He passed off Castelleone's ill-temper, and played carelessly; it was his own carelessness that caused the final break. Every one remembered how the play came up.
Shields was dealing; he and the Colonel kept bantering each other about the story of a man who always drew one card. The Cap, being on Shields' right, had cut the deck and handed them to him. Eaton sat in "The age" at the left of Shields, with Colonel Spottiswoode next—"Under the gun," as he expressed it. Eaton had either grown reckless from drink, or he felt absolutely certain of his hand. The pot had been raised and back-raised, and raised again, until everybody dropped, except Eaton and the Colonel. Whenever the Colonel gave her "another lift" he made some jocular remark about that one card story.
"Cards, gentlemen?" asked the dealer—being Shields.
"I'll play these," said Eaton, turning to the Colonel.
"One card," promptly announced the Colonel, and Shields flipped it off the deck.
"Hold on! Hold on!" Cap Wright forgot himself and interfered. "How many cards did you say, Colonel Spotwood?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon," apologized the Colonel, "Mr. Dealer, I made a mistake. I don't want any cards, I'm pat."
Shields was already reaching out to take back the undesired card when Eaton stopped him, then spoke to the Colonel without meeting his eye, "Your card's on the table. You must take it."
"Yes, yes," Castelleone and Torreale chimed in eager chorus. "The card is called for and dealt. Under the rules"
"Perfectly correct, gentlemen, perfectly correct." Colonel Spottiswoode took a card from his hand, Buried it under his stack, and picked up the one which Shields had dealt him. Then he spread his entire hand, face upward, and nodded to Eaton: "You win, sir."
The Colonel showed three kings, a four, and a nine spot. "I drew this," he said, tossing away the four; then taking the buried card from under his stack, he matched it with the other nine; "I held a king full pat. Gentlemen, you may leave out my hand." And Colonel Spottiswoode pushed his chair from the table.
The Southerner thrust a handful of bills and gold into his trousers, then took a cigar from his pocket, lighted it and sauntered out, "Good night, gentlemen."
Joe and Cap Wright glanced at each other. Prince Jim had a peculiar way of doing business.
Colonel Spottiswoode strolled along the deck in very ill humor. "That's what I get for playing with strangers," he meditated. "Curious how luck runs. When that old ship-captain was dealing I could make any hand I drew to."
The deck-lights shone upon deserted boards and empty chairs folded back against the walls; a fog that was almost a drizzle shrouded the vessel and hid the sea. Spottiswoode stopped at the forward turn and stood gazing into leaden vacancy. A heavy step came around from the other deck, and a hand tapped him on the shoulder. The Colonel turned. It was Cap Wright. "Come, pardner," the Cap spoke with pleasant assurance, "split up."
"What do you mean?" the puzzled Colonel asked.
"You won $785.00," said Cap.
"Maybe so; I didn't count it. What of that?"
"Half for me and Joe—three ninety: two fifty. Quick settlement is our motto. We don't keep no books."
Colonel Spottiswoode stared at the gambler, "I—I do not understand."
Cap Wright stared back in bewilderment; was Prince Jim going to hog him for the whole pile? "Why don't you understand?" he argued. "Warn't it our room? Warn't they our suckers? Didn't Joe invite you there, and didn't I deal you the hands?" Cap Wright slapped him sportily on the shoulder, "Oh, hell, Prince, quit yer joshin'. You didn't think you got them hands fair, did you. Ef twarn't for my dealin' you'd a-been a thousand loser."
Deck lights glowed dimly, and fog horns gasped out their strangling cry. In his rain coat, gray as the night, Colonel Spottiswoode stood leaning against the rail where the mist blew in, until it sheathed him with silver like a fine white frost.
When the big gambler approached with his demand for a division of winnings, it was too dark for Cap to see the flush that overspread the Southerner's face. Neither did Cap Wright know the other man well enough to realize the danger in which he stood. The Colonel remembered distinctly that it was on Cap's deals that he had made various lucky draws, but never once supposed it to be anything more sinister than a caprice of the cards. It was well for both men that Spottiswoode did not understand, that he had to stop and think; well that he got control of his temper before muscles and tongue began. There was an instant, a bare moment, of silence during which old Zack came shuffling around the corner, and stopped. He saw the Colonel facing that big man, standing with both hands behind his back as if afraid he might be tempted to use them. Zack sidled up closer, and distinctly heard Cap Wright say, "Me an' Joe couldn't figure out how you happened to let that Eaton sucker get off with a six hundred dollar pot."
Then it was that the Colonel spoke, and Zack knew from his suppressed tones that something active was just about to take place. "I don't understand you." Spottiswoode almost whispered the words. "How did I let the sucker get away?" Prince Jim was beginning to talk hoss sense, and Cap warmed up. "It was jest this way: that was the only trick we turned where you made a good scoop that I didn't deal. You remember how I dealt you an ace to fill, a seven to make fours, two flushes under the whip, an' always had good hands out against 'em."
The Southerner flinched; each item in the count was perfectly true. Clenching his hands behind him, he let Cap Wright proceed: "That young feller Shields don't know a thing about cards; he never watches nobody. Joe fixed 'em up, and I slipped Shields a cold deck. That's how you got the king-full against Eaton's jack-full. We expected you to hit him for his stack. He was drinkin' an' bettin' wild."
"You infernal scoundrel!" Colonel Spottiswoode still spoke beneath his breath, but there was no mistaking what he said and no doubt that he meant it. Zack edged nearer to hear what else the Colonel was saying; "You common thief, you"
Cap Wright needed the hide of a rhinocerous—he was so accustomed to being denounced; but the suddenness of this surprised him into a movement toward his pocket.
Quicker than thought the Colonel grappled both his wrists, "No you don't; not on me."
"Cunnel! Cunnel! he's got a knife—got a knife!" Zack called from behind. Spottiswoode held Cap's wrists firmly, and whispered, "You stand still. Zack, chuck that knife in the creek." Overboard went a long knife in a leather sheath. "Now feel his pockets," the Colonel ordered.
Zack searched diligently and said, "He ain't got nuthin' else, Cunnel."
The big gambler breathed heavily; even he was no match for a seasoned bear-hunter who could sit his saddle for a week. Before the Colonel released Cap's wrists they held a one-sided, but mighty straight conversation, which ended with the Colonel's instruction, "Wright, don't you leave this deck until I come back. Understand me? Zack, watch this door, and holler if he tries to come in. I'll hear you."
"Yas, suh, Cunnel." Zack's teeth gleamed and his eyes showed white, like a runaway mustang, as he guarded the bulky Cap. "I'll sho holler."