Part 9 (1/2)

The week that followed was a week of almost unbroken losses for Brent.

In vain, he plunged, betting his cards more wildly, and more recklessly than ever before, in an effort to force his luck. But it only hastened the end, which came about midnight upon the Thursday following Thanksgiving Day, at the moment he looked into the eyes of Camillo Bill Waters and called a bet of fifty-thousand: ”That's good,” he announced, as Bill showed Aces-up. ”And that just finishes me--I held the claims at a million--and that's the last of it.”

CHAPTER VI

THE DEALER AT STOELL'S

On the morning after the final game of stud in which he had slipped the last dollar of his fortune across the green cloth, Brent threw back his blankets and robes and sat upon the edge of his bunk. He had long since discarded his tent for a cabin and his eyes took in the details of the rough furnis.h.i.+ngs in the grey light that filtered through the heavily frosted window panes. He drew on his s.h.i.+rt and trousers and glanced at his watch. It was ten o'clock. He built a roaring fire, broke the ice that had formed upon the surface of a huge pail of water, filled his coffee-pot, and set his wash pan beside it upon the stove. Then he returned to his bunk and, feeling beneath his pillow, withdrew a flat quart bottle and took a long drink. When the water had warmed in the pan, he shaved before a small mirror that hung above his rude wash stand. Twice during the process he returned to the bottle for a swallow of liquor.

”Kitty was right,” he confided to his reflection in the gla.s.s, ”My luck did turn--and now, I'm broke.”

He finished shaving and, as he was about to turn from the wash stand paused, and thrusting his face close to the mirror, subjected it to careful scrutiny.

”Eyes _are_ a little muddy,” he grudgingly admitted, ”And face a little pouchy and red, but, h.e.l.l, it isn't the hooch!--I don't drink enough to hurt me any. It's being indoors so much, and the smoke. Two days on the trail will fix that. I've got to slip out and make another strike. And when I come back--that bunch will be in for an awful cleaning.”

He threw a handful of coffee into the pot, and sliced some bacon into a frying pan, and when the grease ran, he broke a half-dozen eggs and scrambled them with the bacon.

”She said I wouldn't have the nerve nor the muscles to hit out and locate another claim,” he grinned as he swallowed a draught of scalding coffee. ”I'll show her!”

He finished his meal, washed the dishes, and drew on his mukluks and blanket coat. As he opened the door he was met by a blast of wind-driven snow that fairly took his breath, and drawing back into the room he shut the door.

”I thought it was pretty dark in here for this time of day--some blizzard!”

He drew down the ear-flaps of his fur cap, hunted up his heavy mittens, and once more opening the door, pushed out into the storm.

Twenty minutes later he entered Stoell's place, and as he stamped the snow from his garments, and beat it from his cap and mittens, Camillo Bill greeted him from the bar.

”h.e.l.lo, Ace-In-The-Hole! I'm buyin' a drink.” The room was deserted except for the bartender who promptly set out bottle and gla.s.ses. ”Let's go over here,” suggested Camillo Bill, when the empty gla.s.ses had been returned to the bar. He led the way to a small table.

”Bring the bottle and gla.s.ses!” called Brent over his shoulder, and Camillo Bill seconded the order with a nod.

”Now,” he began, as Brent filled his gla.s.s, ”Let's get this here deal straightened out. In the first place, is them two claims of yourn worth a million?”

Brent flushed, hotly, but Camillo Bill forestalled his reply. ”Hold on, now. I didn't mean what you're thinkin' about--an' you ort to know me well enough to know I didn't. When you said them two claims was worth a million, not me, nor no one else questioned your word, did we? Well, what I'm gettin' at is are they worth more than a million, 'n' how much more?”

Brent laughed: ”They're worth more than a million. How much more I don't know. I took out a half a million last summer, and I don't think I'm half way to bed-rock at the deepest.”

Camillo Bill nodded: ”All right, that's what I wanted to know. You see, there's five or six of us holds your slips an' markers that totals a million over an' above what was in Stoell's safe. I'll jest cash them slips an' markers, an' take over the claims.”

Brent shrugged, ”Go ahead. It don't make any difference to me how you divide them up.”

Camillo Bill grinned: ”It does make a h.e.l.l of a lot of difference to you how we divide 'em up,” he said. ”It's like this: I like your style.

You're a _tillic.u.m_--a natural borned sourdough. You're white clean through. When you said there's so and so much in Stoell's safe, the dust was there. An' when you know'd yer claims was worth more than a million, you says a million instead of stretchin' it to two million, an' maybe stickin' some one. Now when I cash them markers that's out agin the claims, an' figger in the slips an' markers I hold myself, I'll have a million invested, won't I? An', that's what I won--a million--not a million an' a half, or two million--just a million. Well, when I get that million back--you get the claims back--see?”

Brent stared at the man in amazement: ”What do you mean? I lost the claims--lost them fair and square----”

”No you didn't,” interrupted the other, ”You lose just what yer slips an' markers says you lose--an' not a d.a.m.n cent more. The claims was only a sort of security for the dust. C'latteral the banks would call it. Am I right, or wrong?”

Brent drank the whiskey in his gla.s.s and refilling it, shoved the bottle toward Camillo Bill, but the man shook his head. ”No more for me. Too much of that stuff ain't no good. But about them claims--am I right, or wrong?”