The Girl of the Golden West Part 3

"And the ace--how many times did it win?" inquired Trinidad.

"Four times," was the case-keeper's answer.

All this time a full-blooded Indian with long, blue-black hair, very thick and oily, had been watching the game with excited eyes. His dress was part Indian and part American, and he wore all kinds of imitation jewelry including a huge scarf-pin which flashed from his vivid red tie.

Furthermore, he possessed a watch,--a large, bra.s.sy-looking article,-- which he brought out on every possible occasion. When not engaged in helping himself to the dregs that remained in the gla.s.ses carelessly left about the room, he was generally to be found squatted down on the floor and playing a solitaire of his own devising. But now he reached over Sonora's shoulder and put some coins on the table in front of the dealer.

"Give Billy Jackrabbit fer two dolla' Mexican chip," he demanded in a guttural voice.

The Sidney Duck did as requested. While he was shuffling the cards for a new deal, the players beat time with their feet to the music that floated in from the dance-hall. The tune seemed to have an unusually exhilarating effect on Happy Halliday, for letting out a series of whoops he staggered off towards the adjoining room with the evident intention of getting his fill of the music, not forgetting to yell back just before he disappeared:

"Root hog or die, boys!"

Happy's boisterous exit caused a peculiar expression to appear immediately on Handsome's face, which might be interpreted as one of envy at his friend's exuberant condition; at all events, he proceeded forthwith to order several drinks, gulping them down in rapid succession.

Meanwhile, at the faro table, the luck was going decidedly against the boys. In fact, so much so, that there was a dangerous note in Sonora's voice when, presently, he blurted out:

"See here, gambolier Sid, you're too lucky!"

"You bet!" approved Trinidad, and then added:

"More chips, Australier!"

But Trinidad's comment, as well as his request, only brought forth the oily smile that The Sidney Duck always smiled when any reference was made to his game. It was his policy to fawn upon all and never permit himself to think that an insult was intended. So he gathered in Trinidad's money and gave him chips in return. For some seconds the men played on without anything disturbing the game except the loud voice of the caller of the wheel-of-fortune in the dance-hall. But the boys were to hear something more from there besides, "Round goes the wheel!" For, all at once there came to their ears the sounds of an altercation in which it was not difficult to recognise the penetrating voice of Happy Halliday.

"Now, git, you loafer!" he was saying in tones that left no doubt in the minds of his friends that Happy was hot under the collar over something.

A shot followed.

"Missed, by the Lord Harry!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Happy, deeply humiliated at his failure to increase the mortuary record of the camp.

The incident, however, pa.s.sed unnoticed by the faro players; not a man within sound of the shot, for that matter, inquired what the trouble was about; and even Nick, picking up his tray filled with gla.s.ses and a bottle, walked straightway into the dance-hall looking as if the matter were not worth a moment's thought.

At Nick's going the Indian's face brightened; it gave him the opportunity for which he had been waiting. n.o.bly he maintained his reputation as a thief by quietly going behind the bar and lifting from a box four cigars which he stowed away in his pockets. But even that, apparently did not satisfy him, for when he espied the b.u.t.t of a cigar, flung into the sawdust on the floor by a man who had just come in, he picked it up before squatting down again to resume his card playing.

The newcomer, a man of, say, forty years, came slowly into the room without a word of salutation to anyone. In common with his fellow-miners, he wore a flannel s.h.i.+rt and boots. The latter gave every evidence of age as did his clothes which, nevertheless, were neat.

His face wore a mild, gentle look and would have said that he was companionable enough; yet it was impossible not to see that he was not willingly seeking the cheer of the saloon but came there solely because he had no other place to go. In a word, he had every appearance of a man down on his luck.

Men were continually coming in and going out, but no one paid the slightest attention to him, even though a succession of audible sighs escaped his lips. At length he went over to the counter and took a sheet or two of the paper,--which was kept there for the few who desired to write home,--a quill-pen and ink; and picking up a small wooden box he seated himself upon it before a desk--which had been built from a rude packing-case--and began wearily and laboriously to write.

"The lone star now rises!"

It was the stentorian voice of the caller of the wheel-of-fortune.

One would have thought that the sound would have had the effect of a thunder-clap upon the figure at the desk; but he gave no sign whatever of having heard it; nor did he see the suspicious glance which Nick, entering at that moment, shot at Billy Jackrabbit who was stealing noiselessly towards the dance-hall where the whoops were becoming so frequent and evincing such exuberance of spirits that the ubiquitous, if generally unconcerned, Nick felt it inc.u.mbent to give an explanation of them.

"Boys from The Ridge cuttin' up a bit," he tendered apologetically, and took up a position at the end of the bar where he could command a view of both rooms.

As a partial acknowledgment that he had heard Nick's communication, Sonora turned round slightly in his seat at the faro table and shot a glance towards the dance-hall. Contempt showed on his rugged features when he turned round again and addressed the stocky, little man sitting at his elbow.

"Well, I don't dance with men for partners! When I sha.s.say, Trin, I want a feminine piece of flesh an' blood"--he sneered, and then went on to amplify--"with garters on."

"You bet!" agreed his faithful, if laconic pal, on feeling the other's playful dig in his ribs.

The subject of men dancing together was a never-ceasing topic of conversation between these two cronies. But whatever the att.i.tude of others Sonora knew that Trinidad would never fail him when it came to nice discriminations of this sort. His reference to an article of feminine apparel, however, was responsible for his recalling the fact that he had not as yet received his daily a.s.surance from the presiding genius of the bar that he stood well in the estimation of the only lady in the camp. Therefore, leaving the table, he went over to Nick and whispered:

"Has the Girl said anythin' about me to-day, Nick?"

Now the role of confidential adviser to the boys was not a new one to the barkeeper, nor was anyone in the camp more familiar than he with their good qualities as well as their failings. Every morning before going to work in the placers it was their custom to stop in at The Polka for their first drink--which was, generally, "on the house." Invariably, Nick received them in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves,--for that matter he was the proud possessor of the sole "biled s.h.i.+rt" in the camp,--and what with his red flannel unders.h.i.+rt that extended far below the line of his cuffs, his brilliantly-coloured waistcoat and tie, and his hair combed down very low in a cow-lick over his forehead, he was indeed an odd little figure of a man as he listened patiently to the boys' grievances and doled out sympathy to them. On the other hand, absolutely devoted to the fair proprietress of the saloon,--though solely in the character of a good comrade,--he never ceased trying to advance her interests; and since one and all of her customers believed themselves to be in love with her, one of his most successful methods was to flatter each one in turn into thinking that he had made a tremendous impression upon her. It was not a difficult thing to do inasmuch as long custom and repet.i.tion had made him an adept at highly-coloured lying.

"Well, you got the first chance," a.s.severated Nick, dropping his voice to a whisper.

Sonora grinned from ear to ear; he expanded his broad chest and held his head proudly; and waving his hand in lordly fas.h.i.+on he sung out:

"Cigars for all hands and drinks, too, Nick!"

The genial prevaricator could scarcely restrain himself from laughing outright as he watched the other return to his place at the faro table; and when, in due course, he served the concoctions and pa.s.sed around the high-priced cigars, there was a smile on his face which said as plainly as if spoken that Sonora was not the only person present that had reason to be pleased with himself.

Then occurred one of those terpsich.o.r.ean performances which never failed to shock old Sonora's sense of the fitness of things. For the next moment two Ridge boys, dancing together, waltzed through the opening between the two rooms and, letting out ear-piercing whoops with every rotation, whirled round and round the room until they brought up against the bar where they, breathlessly, called for drinks.

An angry lull fell upon the room; the card game stopped. However, before anyone seated there could give vent to his resentment at this boisterous intrusion of the men from the rival camp, the smooth, oily and inviting voice of the unprincipled Sidney Duck, scenting easy prey because of their inebriated condition, called out in its c.o.c.kney accent:

"'Ello, boys--'ow's things at The Ridge?"

"Wipes this camp off the earth!" returned a voice that was provocative in the extreme--a reply that instantly brought every man at the faro table to his feet. For a time, at least, it seemed as if the boys from The Ridge would get the trouble they were looking for.

A murmur of angry amazement arose, while Sonora, his watery blue eyes glinting, followed up his explosive, "What!" with a suggestive movement towards his hip. But quick as he was Nick was still quicker and had The Ridge boy, as well as Sonora, covered before their hands had even reached their guns.

"You . . .!" the little barkeeper's sentence was bristled out and contained along with the expletives some comparatively mild words which gave the would-be combatants to understand that any such foolishness would not be tolerated in The Polka unless he himself "'lowed it to be ne'ssary."

Not unnaturally The Ridge boys failed to see anything offensive in language that had a gun behind it; and realising the futility of any further attempt to get away with a successful disturbance they wisely yielded to superior quickness at the draw. With a whoop of resignation they rushed back to the dance-hall where the voice of the caller was exhorting the gents--whose partners were mostly big, husky, hairy-faced men clumsily enacting parts generally a.s.signed to members of the gentler s.e.x--to swing:

"With the right-hand gent, first partner swing with the left-hand gent, first partner swing with the right-hand gent; first partner swing with the left-hand gent, and the partner in the centre, and gents all around!"

Back at the faro table now,--the incident having pa.s.sed quickly into oblivion,--Sonora called to the dealer for "a slug's worth of chips"--a request that was promptly acceded to. But they had played only a few minutes when a thin but somewhat sweet tenor voice was heard singing:

"Wait for the waggon, Wait for the waggon, Wait for the waggon, And we'll all take a ride.

Wait for the waggon--"

"Here he is, gentlemen, just back from his triumphs of The Ridge!" broke in Nick, whose province it was to act as master of ceremonies; and coming forward as the singer emerged from the dance-hall he introduced him to the a.s.sembled company in the most approved music-hall manner: "Allow me to present to you, Jake Wallace the Camp favour-ite!" he said with an exaggeratedly low bow.

"How-dy, Jake! h.e.l.lo, Jake, old man! How be you, Jake!" were some of the greetings that were hurled at the Minstrel who, robed in a long linen duster, his face half-blacked, and banjo in hand, acknowledged the words of welcome with a broad grin as he stood bowing in the centre of the room.

That Jake Wallace was a typical camp minstrel from the top of his dusty stove-pipe hat to the sole of his flapping negro shoes, one could see with half an eye as he made his way to a small platform--a musician's stand--at one end of the bar; nor could there be any question about his being a prudent one, for the musician did not seat himself until he had carefully examined the sheet-iron s.h.i.+eld inside the railing, which was attached in such a way that it could be sprung up by working a spring in the floor and render him fairly safe from a chance shot during a fracas.

"My first selection, friends, will be 'The Little--'," announced the Minstrel with a smile as he begun to tune his instrument.

"Aw, give us 'Old Dog Tray,'" cut in Sonora, impatiently from his seat at the card table.