Part 24 (1/2)
He drew out a money-order ring that he had won in a mountain poker game, and flashed the stone in the sun.
”It's a genuwine, eighteen-carat diamond,” he announced. ”Come over hyer and let's see which finger it fits. If it fits yore third finger, you know----”
”Well, I like your nerve,” observed Dixie Lee, smiling tolerantly with Gloomy Gus. ”'Come over hyer!' eh? It's a wonder you wouldn't come over here--but I don't want your old ring, so don't come.”
”W'y, what's the matter?” inquired Hardy Atkins, who loved to do his courting in public. ”You ain't goin' back on me, are you, Dix?”
”Well, if I went very far back on _your_ trail,” answered Dixie, ”I reckon I'd find where you _got_ that ring. What's the matter? Wouldn't she have it? Or did that other girl give it back?”
She turned away with a curl on her lips, and when he saw that she meant it, Hardy Atkins was filled with chagrin. From a man now, that would be a good joke; but from Dixie--well, somebody must have blabbed! He turned a darkly inquiring eye upon Bowles, and looked no farther; but Henry Lee had spoken, and all that rough work was barred. Still there were ways and ways, and after thinking over all the dubious tricks of the cow camp he called in his faithful friends and they went into executive session.
”Now, hyer,” expounded the ex-twister, as they got together over the butchering of a beef, ”the way to b.u.mp that Hinglishman off is to make a monkey of 'im--skeer 'im up and laugh 'im out o' camp. He's so stuck on himse'f he cain't stand to be showed up--what's the matter with a fake killin'? Here's lots of blood.”
He cupped up a handful of blood from the viscera of the newly killed beef, and his side partners chuckled at the thought.
”Let me do the shootin', and I'll throw in with ye,” rumbled Buck Buchanan.
”I'll hold the door on 'im,” volunteered Poker Bill.
”Well, who's goin' to play dead?” grinned Happy Jack. ”Me? All right.
Git some flour to put on my face, and watch me make the fall--I done that once back on the Pecos.”
So they laid their plans, very mysteriously, and when the big poker game began that night there was no one else in on the plot. Buck had the pistol he had killed the beef with tucked away in the slack of his belt; Jack had changed to a light s.h.i.+rt, the better to show the blood; and Hardy Atkins was a make-up man, with bottled blood and a pinch of flour in his pockets to use when the lights went out.
The game was straight draw poker, and the prize a private horse. Ten dollars apiece was the price of a chance, and it was freeze-out at four-bits a chip. That served to draw the whole crowd, and as the contest narrowed down to Buck Buchanan and Happy Jack, the table was lined three deep.
”How many?” asked Buck, picking up the deck.
”Gimme one!” said Jack, and when he got it he looked grave and turned down his hand, the way all good poker players do when they have tried to fill a flush and failed.
”I bet ye ten!” challenged Jack.
”Go you--and ten more!” came back Buck.
”Raise ye twenty!”
”What ye got?” demanded Buck, shoving his beans to the center, and then, with a sudden roar, he leaped up and seized the stakes. ”Keep yore hands off that discyard!” he bellowed, hammering furiously on the table. ”You lie, you----”
_Whack!_ came Happy Jack's hand across his face, and Buchanan grabbed for his gun. Then, as the crowd scattered wildly, he thrust out his pistol and shot a great flash of powder between Happy Jack's arm and his ribs.
”Uh!” grunted Jack, and went over backward, chair and all.
Then Hardy Atkins blew out the lamp, and the riot went on in the dark.
Bowles was only one of ten frantic punchers who struggled to get out the door; Brigham Clark was one of as many more who burrowed beneath the beds; and when Hardy Atkins lit the lamp and threw the dim light on Happy Jack's wan face he was just in time to save his audience. True, the older punchers had been in fake fights before; but they had been in real ones, too--where the bullets flew wide of the mark--and this had seemed mighty real. In fact, if one were to criticize such a finished production, it was a little too real for the purpose, for the conduct of Bowles was in no wise different from the rest. There had been a little too much secrecy and not quite enough team-work about the play, but Poker-face Bill was still at his post and the victim was caught in the crowd.
”Oh, my Gawd!” moaned Hardy Atkins, kneeling down and tearing aside Jack's coat. ”Are you hurt bad, Jack?”
The red splotch on his s.h.i.+rt gave the answer, and the room was silent as death. Then Poker Bill began to whisper and push; delighted grins were pa.s.sed and stilled; and, moving in a ma.s.s, with Bowles up near the front, the crowd closed in on the corpse.