Chapter Nineteen
_Stacked Cards_
The game opened slowly. The first, second, and third hands were won byJerry Smith. He tucked away his chips with a smile of satisfaction, asif the three hands were significant of the whole progress of the game.But Ronicky Doone pocketed his losses without either smile or sneer. Hehad played too often in games in the West which ran to huge prices.Miners had come in with their belts loaded with dust, eager to bet theentire sum of their winnings at once. Ranchers, fat with the profits ofa good sale of cattle, had wagered the whole amount of it in a singleevening. As far as large losses and large gains were concerned, RonickyDoone was ready to handle the bets of anyone, other than millionaires,without a smile or a wince.
The trouble with McKeever was that he was playing the game too closely.Long before, it had been a maxim with the chief that a good gamblershould only lose by a small margin. That maxim McKeever, playing for thefirst time for what he felt were important stakes in the eyes ofFernand, followed too closely. Stacking the cards, with the adeptnesswhich years of practice had given to him, he never raised the amount ofhis opponent's hand beyond its own order. A pair was beaten by a pair,three of a kind was simply beaten by three of a kind of a higher order;and, when a full house was permitted by his expert dealing to appear toexcite the other gamblers, he himself indulged in no more than asuperior grade of three of a kind.
Half a dozen times these coincidences happened without calling for anydistrust on the part of Ronicky Doone, but eventually he began to think.Steady training enabled his eyes to do what the eyes of the ordinary mancould not achieve, and, while to Jerry Smith all that happened in thedeals of McKeever was the height of correctness, Ronicky Doone, at theseventh deal, awakened to the fact that something was wrong.
He hardly dared to allow himself to think of anything for a time, butwaited and watched, hoping against hope that Jerry Smith himself woulddiscover the fraud which was being perpetrated on them. But Jerry Smithmaintained a bland interest in the game. He had won between two andthree hundred, and these winnings had been allowed by McKeever toaccumulate in little runs, here and there. For nothing encourages agambler toward reckless betting so much as a few series of high hands.He then begins to believe that he can tell, by some mysterious feelinginside, that one good hand presages another. Jerry Smith had not beenbrought to the point where he was willing to plunge, but he was veryclose to it.
McKeever was gathering the youngster in the hollow of his hand, andRonicky Doone, fully awake and aware of all that was happening, felt agathering rage accumulate in him. There was something doubly horrible inthis cheating in this place. Ronicky set his teeth and watched. Plainlyhe was the chosen victim. The winnings of Jerry Smith were carefullybalanced against the losses of Ronicky Doone. Hatred for thissmooth-faced McKeever was waxing in him, and hatred in Ronicky Doonemeant battle.
An interruption came to him from the side. It came in the form of abrief rustling of silk, like the stir of wind, and then Ruth Tolliver'scoppery hair and green-blue eyes were before him--Ruth Tolliver in anevening gown and wonderful to look at. Ronicky Doone indulged himselfwith staring eyes, as he rose to greet her. This, then, was her chosenwork under the regime of John Mark. It was as a gambler that she wasgreat. The uneasy fire was in her eyes, the same fire that he had seenin Western gold camps, in Western gaming houses. And the delicate,nervous fingers now took on a new meaning to him.
That she had won heavily this evening he saw at once. The dangerous andimpalpable flush of the gamester was on her face, and behind it burned aglow and radiance. She looked as if, having defeated men by the coolnessof her wits and the favor of luck, she had begun to think that she couldnow outguess the world. Two men trailed behind her, stirring uneasilyabout when she paused at Ronicky's alcove table.
"You've found the place so soon?" she asked. "How is your luck?"
"Not nearly as good tonight as yours."
"Oh, I can't help winning. Every card I touch turns into gold thisevening. I think I have the formula for it."
"Tell me, then," said Ronicky quickly enough, for there was just theshadow of a backward nod of her head.
"Just step aside. I'll spoil Mr. McKeever's game for him, I'm afraid."
Ronicky excused himself with a nod to the other two and followed thegirl into the next room.
"I have bad news," she whispered instantly, "but keep smiling. Laugh ifyou can. The two men with me I don't know. They may be his spies for allwe can tell. Ronicky Doone, John Mark is out for you. Why, in Heaven'sname, are you interfering with Caroline Smith and her affairs? It willbe your death, I promise you. John Mark has arrived and has placed menaround the house. Ronicky Doone, he means business. Help yourself if youcan. I'm unable to lift a hand for you. If I were you I should leave,and I should leave at once. Laugh, Ronicky Doone!"
He obeyed, laughing until the tears were glittering in his eyes, untilthe girl laughed with him.
"Good!" she whispered. "Good-by, Ronicky, and good luck."
He watched her going, saw the smiles of the two men, as they greeted heragain and closed in beside her, and watched the light flash on hershoulders, as she shrugged away some shadow from her mind--perhaps thesmall care she had given about him. But no matter how cold-hearted shemight be, how thoroughly in tune with this hard, bright world of NewYork, she at least was generous and had courage. Who could tell how muchshe risked by giving him that warning?
Ronicky went back to his place at the table, still laughing in apparentenjoyment of the jest he had just heard. He saw McKeever's ferretlikeglance of interrogation and distrust--a thief's distrust of an honestman--but Ronicky's good nature did not falter in outward seeming for aninstant. He swept up his hand, bet a hundred, with apparently foolishrecklessness, on three sevens, and then had to buy fresh chips fromMcKeever.
The coming of the girl seemed to have completely upset his equilibriumas a gambler--certainly it made him bet with the recklessness of amadman. And Frederic Fernand, glancing in from time to time, watched thedemolition of Ronicky's pile of chips, with growing complacence.
Ronicky Doone had allowed himself to take heed of the room about him,and Frederic Fernand liked him for it. His beautiful rooms were pearlscast before swine, so far as most of his visitors were concerned. Amoment later Ronicky had risen, went toward the wall and drew a daggerfrom its sheath.
It was a full twelve inches in length, that blade, and it came to apoint drawn out thinner than the eye could follow. The end was merely along glint of light. As for Ronicky Doone, he cried out in surprise andthen sat down, balancing the weapon in his hand and looking down at it,with the silent happiness of a child with a satisfying toy.
Frederic Fernand was observing him. There was something remarkablylikable in young Doone, he decided. No matter what John Mark hadsaid--no matter if John Mark was a genius in reading the characters ofmen--every genius could make mistakes. This, no doubt, was one of JohnMark's mistakes. There was the free and careless thoughtlessness of aboy about this young fellow. And, though he glanced down the glimmeringblade of the weapon, with a sort of sinister joy, Frederic Fernand didnot greatly care. There was more to admire in the workmanship of thehilt than in a thousand such blades, but a Westerner would have his eyeon the useful part of a thing.
"How much d'you think that's worth?" asked McKeever.
"Dunno," said Ronicky. "That's good steel."
He tried the point, then he snapped it under his thumb nail and a littleshiver of a ringing sound reached as far as Frederic Fernand.
Then he saw Ronicky Doone suddenly lean a little across the table,pointing toward the hand in which McKeever held the pack, ready for thedeal.
McKeever shook his head and gripped the pack more closely.
"Do you suspect me of crooked work?" asked McKeever. He pushed back hischair. Fernand, studying his lieutenant in this crisis, approved of himthoroughly. He himself was in a quandary. Westerners fight, and a fightwould be most embarrassing. "Do you think--" began McKeever.
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"I think you'll keep that hand and that same pack of cards on the tabletill I've had it looked over," said Ronicky Doone. "I've dropped a coldthousand to you, and you're winning it with stacked decks, McKeever."
There was a stifled oath from McKeever, as he jerked his hand back.Frederic Fernand was beginning to draw one breath of joy at the thoughtthat McKeever would escape without having that pack, of all packs,examined, when the long dagger flashed in the hand of Ronicky Doone.
He struck as a cat strikes when it hooks the fish out of the stream--hestruck as the snapper on the end of a whiplash doubles back. And welland truly did that steel uphold its fame.
The dull, chopping sound of the blow stood by itself for an instant.Then McKeever, looking down in horror at his hand, screamed and fellback in his chair.
That was the instant when Frederic Fernand judged his lieutenant andfound him wanting. A man who fainted in such a crisis as this was beyondthe pale.
Other people crowded past him. Frightened, desperate, he pushed on. Atlength his weight enabled him to squeeze through the rapidly gatheringcrowd of gamblers.
The only nonchalant man of the lot was he who had actually used theweapon. For Ronicky Doone stood with his shoulders propped against thewall, his hands clasped lightly behind him. For all that, it was plainthat he was not unarmed. A certain calm insolence about his expressiontold Frederic Fernand that the teeth of the dragon were not drawn.
"Gents," he was saying, in his mild voice, while his eyes ran restlesslyfrom face to face, "I sure do hate to bust up a nice little party likethis one has been, but I figure them cards are stacked. I got a pile ofreasons for knowing, and I want somebody to look over themcards--somebody that knows stacked cards when he sees 'em. Mostly itain't hard to get onto the order of them being run up. I'll leave it,gents, to the man that runs this dump."
And, leaning across the table, he pushed the pack straight to FredericFernand. The latter set his teeth. It was very cunningly done to traphim. If he said the cards were straight they might be examinedafterward; and, if he were discovered in a lie, it would mean more thanthe loss of McKeever--it would mean the ruin of everything. Did he daretake the chance? Must he give up McKeever? The work of years of carefuleducation had been squandered on McKeever.
Fernand looked up, and his eyes rested on the calm face of RonickyDoone. Why had he never met a man like that before? There was anassistant! There was a fellow with steel-cold nerve--worth a thousandtrained McKeevers! Then he glanced at the wounded man, cowering andbunched in his chair. At that moment the gambler made up his mind toplay the game in the big way and pocket his losses.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said sadly, placing the cards back on theedge of the table, "I am sorry to say that Mr. Doone is right. The packhas been run up. There it is for any of you to examine it. I don'tpretend to understand. Most of you know that McKeever has been with mefor years. Needless to say, he will be with me no more." And, turning onhis heel, the old fellow walked slowly away, his hands clasped behindhim, his head bowed.
And the crowd poured after him to shake his hand and tell him of theirunshakable confidence in his honesty. McKeever was ruined, but the houseof Frederic Fernand was more firmly established than ever, after thetrial of the night.