Chapter VII: "where Do I Go From Here?"

From Stoell's Brent drifted to "The Nugget," where for a month, he dealt faro on percentage in a "limit" game--for with the tin-horns and the _chechakos_ had come also "limits" and "table stakes."

Here, "The Queen of the Yukon" passed and repassed his layout a dozen times in an evening on her way to and from the dance-hall in the rear, but never by even so much as a look did she admit that she recognized him.

On the afternoon of his first payday, he sat in a "table stakes" game of stud and a run of luck netted him seven hundred dollars. Whereupon he promptly went on a spree that lasted three days and when he again showed up for duty another dealer was presiding over his layout.

The next day Cuter Malone called him into a little back room and sounded him out. "Hear how yer out of a job," quoth Cuter, as he set two glasses and a bottle upon the little table between them. Brent nodded, and the other continued: "Want to keep on dealin'?"

"Why yes, I guess so. I'm going to hit the trail right after the break-up, but until that comes I might as well be doing something."

"Sure. Well I got a good percent proposition fer you. You'll draw quite a little trade--you done it at Stoell's, an' then swung the heft of it over to 'The Nugget.'"

"Is it a limit game?" asked Brent. "What percentage will you pay?"

Malone filled the glasses from the bottle, and having drank combed at his black beard with his fingers: "W-e-e-l, that's accordin'. This here game I'm figgerin' on is a sure thing--that is, o' course, lots o' turns has got to lose, but in the long run she wins big."

"What do you mean--a sure thing?"

Cuter grinned craftily: "D'ye ever hear tell of a double-slotted box? Well, I've got one, an'----"

Brent interrupted him with a short laugh: "What you mean is that because I've got the reputation for being square, you want to use me for a decoy, and when they come in, rob them on a percentage."

"Well, that's--er--talkin' it out kind of plain----"

"You can go to hell!" exclaimed Brent, "and that's talking it out kind of plain, too."

Cuter laughed: "Don't git sore about it. Business is business, an' I'm into it to git the money, one way an' another. If you don't want to deal, how about goin' behind the bar? That's a square enough game." He paused and grinned. "An' I wouldn't mind fer onct havin' someone handlin' my dust that I wouldn't feel like friskin' every time he went out the door to see how much of it had stuck to him."

And so Brent began tending bar in the notorious "Klondike Palace," and Kitty, as she faced him for the first time with her dancing partner and called for a drink, addressed him in words that to her partner meant nothing: "Your toboggan is going good, now--ain't it, Ace-In-The-Hole? You're most there, now--most to the bump that lays at the end of the trail." And Brent served the drinks, and answered nothing.

The "Klondike Palace" was the wildest and most notorious of all the dives of the big camp. Unlike Stoell's and "The Nugget," everything downstairs was in one big room. The bar occupied a whole side, the gambling tables and devices were in the rear, and the remainder of the wide floor space was given over to dancing. At the rear of the bar a flight of stairs led upward to the rooms of the painted women.

And it was concerning one of these painted women that, three weeks later, Brent had his first "run in" with Cuter Malone. It was bitter cold and snowing thickly, and Brent, with lowered head, was boring through the white smother on his way to work. He paused in the light that shone dully through the heavily frosted windows of Malone's and was about to push open the door, when from the thick darkness around the side of the building he heard a woman scream. It was a sharp, terrible scream, that ended in a half-muffled shriek. And without an instant's hesitation, Brent dashed around the corner. The "Klondike Palace" was located well upon the edge of the big camp, beyond it being only a few scattered cabins. Scarcely fifty feet from the street he came upon a man standing over a woman who was cowering in the snow. Neither saw him, and even as he looked the man struck with a coiled dog whip. Again the woman screamed, and the man jumped upon her and started to kick her first with one foot then with the other as she lay in the snow. Like an avalanche Brent hurled himself upon the man, his fist catching him squarely upon the side of the head and sending him sprawling. Without waiting for him to get up, Brent jerked the woman to her feet and pushed her toward the street. He saw then that she was one of the girls who roomed over Malone's, and that she was clad in the thinnest of silk stockings, and the flimsiest of semi-transparent gowns. One of her high-heeled slippers had been lost in the snow. Scarce able to stand, the girl staggered whimpering toward the light. Turning upon the man who had regained his feet Brent found himself looking into the muzzle of a forty-five. So close was the man that even in the darkness he could see his face. It was Johnnie Claw, and Brent saw that the recognition was mutual. Claw's thick lips writhed back in a grin of hate, and Brent could hear his breath sucking heavily between his clenched teeth. Eye to eye they stared as Brent's lips moved in a sneer: "Well--you--damned--pimp--why don't you shoot?" To his intense surprise, the gun wavered, dropped to the man's side and, jamming it into the pocket of his fur coat, Claw pushed past him toward the street, mumbling thick curses.

Later, that night, when business was a little slack during a dance Malone motioned him aside: "Say, what the hell be you buttin' in on other folks business fer?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. What did you go knockin' Johnnie Claw down fer, when he was givin' that damn Violet what was comin' to her, fer holdin' out on him?"

"Giving her what was coming! My God, man, he would have kicked her to death there in the snow--that's what he would have done!"

"Well, what if he did--she's hisn, ain't she?"

A surge of swift anger almost overcame Brent. His fists clenched, and it was with difficulty that he refrained from striking Malone down where he stood. Instead, he leaned a trifle closer to the man: "Just let this stick to you, Malone," he said, "What passes between me and Claw, or me and anyone else, when it isn't on your premises and on your time, is my business--see?"

Malone laughed, shortly, and with a shrug, turned away, while Brent served drinks to a couple who had left the dance and sauntered to the bar. The couple were Kitty, and a strapping young _chechako_ called Moosehide Charlie, the name referring to an incident that had occurred early in the winter when he had skinned out a moose and, finding himself far from camp and no blankets, had wrapped himself in the green hide and gone to sleep. In the morning he awoke to find himself encased in an iron-hard coffin of frozen moosehide unable to move hand or foot. Luckily a party of hunters found him and spent half a day thawing him out over a roaring fire.

Said Kitty to Moosehide Charlie, as she sipped at the liquid that by courtesy was called port wine: "That's Johnnie Claw over there by the door. He's one-two-three with Cuter Malone--some say they're pardners."

Her companion swallowed his liquor and glanced indifferently toward the object of the girl's remarks. "It ain't worryin' me none who he's pardners with. I don't like the looks of him, nohow."

"Sh-sh-sh," warned Kitty, "What a man learns in this country don't hurt him any. I was just telling you so if you ever happened to run foul of Claw, you'd know enough to keep your eye on Malone, too."

"Guess I ain't goin' to run foul of him. Come on, let's dance."

Kitty had not even favored him by so much as a glance, but as Brent removed the glasses from the bar, he smiled.

The days were rapidly lengthening on the Yukon. At noon each day the sun was higher in the heavens and its increased heat was heralded by little streams of snow water that trickled over the ice of the creeks.

One evening when the grip of winter had broken and the feel of spring was in the air, Moosehide Charlie stood at the bar drinking with Johnnie Claw. It was too early for the dancers and three or four of the girls sat idly along the opposite wall. As Brent served the drinks, he noticed that Claw appeared to be urging the younger man into a deal of some kind--he, caught a word now and then, of reference to dumps, slucings, and water heads. Moosehide seemed to be holding out. He was a man who drank little, and after two drinks he turned from the bar shaking his head. "Come on," urged Claw, "Have another."

"No, two or three's my limit. I don't aim to git drunk."

"Drunk, hell!" laughed Claw, "I don't nuther. You've only had two. Make it three, an' I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll throw off a leetle on that claim. I ain't got time to fool with it, noways."

Moosehide returned to the bar: "Well, one more, then, an' that's all. But you'll have to throw off more'n just a little on that property, fer me to touch it."

Claw filled his glass and pushed the bottle toward the other and as Moosehide Charlie measured his liquor, out of the tail of his eye, Brent saw Claw pour something from a small vial into his own glass and return the vial swiftly to his pocket. The next moment he was talking earnestly to Moosehide who, as he listened, toyed with his glass, rubbing into patterns the few drops of liquor he had spilled upon the bar.

Cuter Malone had himself carried a tray of drinks to be served at one of the poker tables in the rear, and just at this moment, tray and glasses struck the floor with a loud crash. Moosehide Charlie turned quickly at the sound, and as he did so Brent saw Johnnie Claw deftly switch the glasses upon the bar. Malone returned, grumbling at his clumsiness, for another tray of drinks, and Claw raised his glass. "I guess we kin deal, all right. Le's drink, an' then we'll slip into the back room there an' figger it out."

As Moosehide picked up the glass before him, Brent reached out swiftly and took it from his fingers. He looked into it for a second and tossed its contents onto the floor. "Better fill her up again," he said, "There was a fly in it." A fly on the Yukon, with the rivers still frozen, and the sodden snow three feet deep on the ground! Moosehide stared, and before Brent could move, Cuter Malone had floored him with a blow from a heavy bottle. The truth flashed upon Moosehide Charlie. One blow of his fist settled Claw, while with his other hand he reached across the bar and jerked a gun from the hand of Cuter Malone. The poker players rose from their chairs and started for the bar, but Moosehide motioned them back with the gun. "Jest go on with yer game, boys," he said meaningly. "Don't mind me." And as they settled into their places he stepped around the bar, keeping Malone covered. Kitty, who had been chatting with the girls on the opposite side of the room, darted across the floor and brushing past Moosehide, knelt beside Brent. "Jest raise up his head, girl, an' throw some water in his face," ordered Moosehide, "An' pour a little licker down his throat. If he can't swaller it, it'll make him gag an' bring him to." Then he turned to Malone: "An' you, you damn crook! You git busy an' weigh out what's comin' to him. An' weigh it damn quick--an' weigh it right. 'Cause if it ain't right, I'm a-comin' back here with about forty or ninety of my friends an' I'm tellin' it to you, we'll gut this damn joint--an' you along with it!"

Brent only partially revived under the water and choking whiskey, and between them they managed to get him out the door and onto Moosehide's sled. Then they hauled him to his cabin and put him to bed, where he lay for two weeks, delirious with fever, while Kitty stayed day and night at his side and nursed him. Another week passed, during which the girl came daily and cooked his meals, and made him get up for a little while each day while she aired and rearranged his blankets. At length came a day when he rose and dressed himself and stayed up till evening.

"You won't be needing me any more," said the girl, simply, as she stood in the doorway late in the afternoon. She pointed to two small buckskin sacks which she had laid upon the table. "There's your pay that was coming to you from Cuter Malone, and a sack that Moosehide Charlie left for you."

"Moosehide Charlie? He don't owe me anything."

"Says he owes you a whole lot, and he wanted me to give you that. He's gone off on a trip up Indian River."

Brent picked up the sack, which was a dozen times the weight of the other, and extended it toward the girl: "Give this back to him," he said shortly. "I don't need it."

Kitty did not take it: "You do too need it," she said, "How long will that pinch of dust last you? And what are you going to do when it's gone?"

"It don't make any difference what I do when it's gone. Whatever I do, I won't live on charity." And he tossed the sack past her through the doorway where it buried itself in the snow.

"You're a fool, Ace-In-The-Hole," she said, quietly, "A _damn fool_."

The man nodded, slowly: "That's right, I reckon. Anyway we won't quarrel about it. Will you do me just one more favor?"

"What is it?"

"Take this dust and get me a bottle of hooch--a quart bottle--two of them."

"No, I won't!"

Brent rose to his feet: "I'll have to go myself, then," he said, as he cast his eyes about for his hat.

"You ain't able! You're weak as a cat, and you'd fall down in the snow."

"I'll get up again, then." He found the hat and put it on.

"I'll go," the words were hurled at him, and he handed her Cuter Malone's sack. "Never mind that--"

"Take it! Or I won't touch the hooch."

Reluctantly, she took it and in half an hour she was back and without a word deposited two quart bottles upon the table.

"Will you drink with me?" Brent asked, as he drew the cork.

"No! I'm going, now."

Brent rose to his feet and held out his hand: "Good bye, Kitty," he said, gravely. "I know what you've done for me--and I won't forget it. You'll come to see me--sometimes?"

"No. I hate you! An' if you could see yourself the way I see you--knowing what you are, and what you ought to be--you'd hate yourself!"

Brent flushed under the sting of the words: "I'm as good a man as I ever was," he muttered, defiantly.

The girl sneered: "You are--like hell! Why, you ain't even got a job--now. You're a bum! You hit the bump that I told you was at the end of your trail--now, where do you go from here?" And before Brent could reply she was gone.

"Where do I go from here?" he repeated slowly, as he sank into a chair beside his table, and swallowed a stiff drink of whiskey. And, "Where do I go from here?" he babbled meaninglessly, three hours later when, very drunk, his head settled slowly forward upon his folded arms, and he slept.