The Treasure of Hidden Valley. Emerson Willis George

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СКАЧАТЬ little later, when night had fallen, the young men went out into the main street to dine and look over the town. It was right at the edge of the valley with mountains rising in a semi-circle to south and west, a typical mountain settlement.

      “You see everything is wide open,” said Grant, as he escorted Roderick along the streets, arm linked in arm. For they had just discovered that they belonged to the same college fraternity – Kappa Gamma Delta, so the bonds of friendship had been drawn tighter still.

      “You have a great town here,” observed Roderick.

      “We have about 1200 to 1500 people and 18 saloons!” laughed the other. “And every saloon has a gambling lay-out – anything from roulette to stud-poker. Over yonder is Brig Young’s place. Here is Southpaw’s Bazaar. The Red Dog is a little farther along; the Golden Eagle is one of the largest gambling houses in the town. We’ll have our supper first, and then I’ll take you over to Brig Young’s and introduce you.”

      As they turned across the street they met a man coming toward them. He was straight and tall, rather handsome, but a gray mustache made him seem older than his years.

      “Hello, here is Mr. Grady. Mr. Grady, I want to introduce you to a newcomer. This is Mr. Roderick Warfield.”

      “Glad to meet you, Mr. Warfield,” said Grady in a smooth voice and with an oleaginous smile. To Roderick the face seemed a sinister one; instinctively he felt a dislike for the man.

      “Your town is quite up-to-date, with all its brilliant electric lights,” he observed with a polite effort at conversation.

      “Yes,” replied Grady, “but it is the monthly pay roll of my big smelting company that supports the whole place.”

      There was a pomposity in the remark and the look that accompanied it which added to Roderick’s feelings of repulsion.

      “Oh, I don’t know,” interposed Grant Jones, in a laughing way. “We have about five hundred prospectors up in the hills who may not yet be producers, but their monthly expenditures run up into pretty big figures.”

      “Of course, that amounts to something; but think of my pay roll,” replied Grady, boastingly. “Almost a thousand men on my pay roll. We have the biggest copper mine in the Rocky Mountain region, Mr. War-field. Come down some day and see the smelter,” he added as he extended his hand in farewell greeting, with a leer rather than a smile on his face. “I’ll give you a pass.”

      “Thank you,” said Roderick coldly. And the two friends resumed their walk toward Brig Young’s saloon.

      “I don’t mind telling you,” remarked Grant, “that Grady is the most pompous, arrogant and all-round hated man in this mining camp.”

      “He looks the part,” replied Roderick, and they both laughed.

      A minute later they were seated in a cosy little restaurant. Ample justice was done to the succulent Wyoming porterhouse, and cigars were lighted over the cups of fragrant coffee that completed the meal. Then the young men resumed their peregrinations pursuant to the programme of visiting Brig Young’s place, certified by Grant Jones to be one of the sights of the town.

      The saloon proved to be an immense room with a bar in the corner near the entrance. Roulette tables, faro lay-outs and a dozen poker tables surrounded with feverish players were all running full blast, while half a hundred men were standing around waiting to take the place of any player who went broke or for any reason dropped out of the game.

      “I guess nearly all the gambling is done here, isn’t it?” asked Roderick.

      “Not by a big sight. There are eighteen joints of this kind, and they are all running wide open and doing business all the time.”

      “When do they close?” inquired Roderick.

      “They never close,” replied Grant. “Brig Young boasts that he threw the key away when this place opened, and the door has never been locked since.”

      As they spoke their attention was attracted to one corner of the gaming room. Seven players were grouped around a table, in the centre of which was stacked a pile of several thousand dollars in gold pieces. Grant and Roderick strolled over.

      A score of miners and cowboys were standing around watching the game. One of them said to Grant Jones: “It’s a jack pot and they’re dealing for openers.”

      Finally someone opened the pot for $500. “It’s an all-fired juicy pot and I wouldn’t think of openin’ it for less.” Tom Lester was the player’s name, as Grant whispered to Roderick.

      “I’ll stay,” said One-Eyed Joe.

      “So will I,” said another.

      The players were quickly assisted with cards – four refused to come in, and the other three, having thrown their discards into the deck, sat facing each other ready for the final struggle in determining the ownership of the big pot before them. It was a neck and neck proposition. First one would see and raise and then another would see and go better. Finally, the showdown came, and it created consternation when it was discovered that there were five aces in sight.

      Instantly Tom Lester jerked his Colt’s revolver from his belt and laid it carefully down on top of his three aces and said: “Steady, boys, don’t move a muscle or a hand until I talk.” The onlookers pushed back and quickly enlarged the circle.

      “Sit perfectly still, gentlemen,” said Tom Lester, quietly and in a low tone of voice, with his cocked revolver in front of him. “I’m not makin’ any accusations or loud talk – I’m not accusin’ anybody in particular of anything. Keep perfectly cool an’ hear a cool determined man talk. Far be it from me to accuse anyone of crooked dealin’ or holdin’ high cards up their sleeves.”

      As he spoke he looked at One-Eyed Joe who had both a reputation at card skin games and a record of several notches on his gun handle.

      “I want to say,” Lester continued, “that I recognize in the game we’re playin’ every man is a perfect gentleman and it’s not Tom Lester who suspicions any impure motives or crooked work.

      “We will now order a new deck of cards,” said Tom while fire was flashing out of his steel gray eyes. “We will play this game to a finish, by God, and the honest winner will take the stakes. But I will say here and now so there may be no misunderstandin’ and without further notice, that if a fifth ace shows up again around this table, I’ll shoot his other eye out.” And he looked straight at One-Eyed Joe, who never quivered or moved a muscle.

      “This ends my remarks concernin’ the rules. How d’ye like ‘em, Joe?”

      “Me?” said Joe, looking up in a surprised way with his one eye. “I’m ‘lowin’ you have made yer position plain – so dangnation plain that even a blind man kin see the pint.”

      The new deck was brought and the game went on in silence. After a few deals the pot was again opened, and was in due course won by a player who had taken no part in the previous mix-up, without a word falling from the lips of either Tom Lester or One-Eyed Joe.

      Roderick and Grant moved away.

      “Great guns,” exclaimed the former. “But that’s a rare glimpse of western life.”

      “Oh, there are incidents like that every night,” replied Grant, “and shooting too at times. Have a drink?” СКАЧАТЬ