Chapter XXXIII: High Stakes

At times before this the corporal had faced death without a tremor of fear. Now, as he looked into the malignant face, hideous and bestial, looming before him in the shadow of the fireplace, he felt loathing and disgust, but he was not afraid. Crill outweighed him by nearly a hundred pounds; he was crippled, unarmed, defenseless. Yet as he felt the logs behind him, and knew there was no further retreat, the beat of his pulse grew slow and regular and an icy calmness gripped him.

His hand was still in his pocket, and he kept it there. "Stop!" he said in a low, chilling voice.

The outlaw checked himself in mid-stride, and as though drawn by hypnotic force, his glance wavered and focussed itself upon the pocket of the corporal's jacket. He balanced on his feet for an instant with tensely drawn muscles, torn between the madness to kill and the craven dread of taking a chance.

"Back!" commanded Dexter, his hand gripped rigidly in his lifted pocket.

For the length of a breath the murderer hesitated; a shifty, furtive look crept into his squinting eyes; his hands closed and opened again, and his arms fell slowly against his sides; and then, with a hoarse sound in his throat, his gross body relaxed, and he half stumbled backwards on his heel.

A hot thrill of exultance surged through Dexter's veins as he realized that he had won; but his voice remained frigid and the expression of his face did not change. "Pick up that table!" he ordered.

A sullen red color surged up over Crill's neck and ears, and his lips drew apart in a wolfish snarl; but something in Dexter's glance schooled him to silence. Without a word he turned on his heel, slouched back across the room, stooped over the table, and turned it back on its four legs.

"All right!" said Dexter, the note of triumph erased from his speech. "Also the dishes, if you don't mind!"

Knowing now that the man would obey him, he turned aside and sauntered across the floor to confront Alison. And it needed but a glance at her frightened, guilty face to tell him what had become of his revolver. He recalled now how she had leaned against him when she gave him his cup of coffee. As he remembered, he had the gun a few minutes before when he sat down at the table. She must have made the opportunity deliberately, and extracted the revolver from his pocket without his knowledge.

He scrutinized her for a moment in grim questioning, wondering what her purpose might have been. Was it her intention to strip him of his only means of defense, and leave him at the mercy of his enemies? The supposition was unthinkable, and with his first glimpse of Alison's eyes he dismissed it as an unworthy and horrible thought. There were two other possibilities: either she wanted the revolver for her own protection, or else she had taken it to get rid of evidence that might some day be used against her.

He knew that she must have the gun concealed about her person, but he dared not try to get it back again, or ask her why she had taken it. His life was an insurable risk only as long as Crill might be kept in ignorance of the truth.

"Your boarders owe you an apology," he remarked with a sardonic smile. "It isn't polite to be jumping up and down from the dinner table. But we'll both try to behave ourselves in the future." Alison was crouching by the fireplace with a smoking skillet in her hand, staring at the corporal with wide, awe-stricken eyes. She had seen him coerce a madman by sheer force of nerve, and the swift frustration of tragedy had left her breathless and trembling.

"If you don't mind," resumed Dexter in faint mockery, "we'll go on with the next course. The loss of the first is irreparable, but we'll try to forget it."

"I--there's enough left in the pot--I can fill your plates again," the girl stammered, and he knew that she had no sense of what she was saying.

The corporal nodded quietly, crossed the room and took his place at the table, opposite the glowering Crill. Alison came forward in trepidation to remove the empty plates; and for the present at least, the incident was closed.

Dexter returned to his dinner with unaffected appetite, quite as though nothing had happened; and when he had finished he pushed back his stool and invited his sulky companion to go outside with him for a walk.

The branching creek still rushed in swollen torrents around the little island, boiling and roaring among the rocks, carrying masses of ice and gyrating tree trunks along with the currents. The flood ran level with the high-water mark of the afternoon, and apparently the spring rise had reached its highest stage. From now on the water probably would gradually recede, but Dexter knew by previous experience with wilderness freshets, it might take two or three days longer before he could expect to recross the ford. He scanned the length of turbulent rapids, and shook his head. If Stark's party failed to show up in the meanwhile, and if he could force himself to stay awake for two more days and nights, he might escape from the island. But at that moment the prospects were not cheering.

When he went back to the cabin, he ordered Crill to retire into his marked circle before the fireplace. "I'm not going to stand for any more foolishness," he remarked with an assurance he was far from feeling. "That's your spot, and I advise you to stay in it."

Alison had already crept into her bunk. Her soft hair was tumbled over her face, and her head lay pillowed on her extended arm. She seemed to be asleep. Dexter looked down at her, and his lips quivered into a wistful, tender smile. For a moment he stood motionless in the concealing shadow by the bunk, and then, with a slow-drawn breath he tiptoed across the floor to dim the light of the lantern. A brief inspection of the inner premises assured him that the door and window shutters were fastened, and he retreated to his own corner of the room to take up his second night's vigil.

The fear that he might go to sleep had grown like a haunting specter in his mind. He knew that if he once allowed himself to drop off, he would sink into a deep slumber, from which there would be no awakening. Afraid to lie down, he planted himself on a stool, leaned his head and shoulders against the wall, and made himself as comfortable as he dared.

So he spent the night, listening as in an evil dream to the mutter of the rapids outside, nodding and dozing, but arousing himself each time he felt the muscles of his body begin to sag; conning over all the fragments of verse he could remember, doing sums in mental arithmetic; somehow forcing his reluctant brain to keep on functioning. He managed to watch out the night, but dawn found him slumping on his stool, haggard and hollow-eyed, knowing that he could not stick it out for many hours more.

By the exertion of all his will power, he managed to hold his leaden eyes open through the interminable hours of daylight. The forking waters had begun to fall, inch by inch. The channel, however, was still too deep for wading. By morning, perhaps, he might venture the crossing. He had not quite decided what he would do if he succeeded in reaching the open shore opposite, but his common sense advised him to let Crill escape. At least he could then creep off in hiding and sleep. Even if he lost a day or two it would not be too late to take up the trail again. But for the present he was in the situation of the trapper who caught the grizzly by the tail. He had his prisoner captive, and he couldn't let go.

The prospect of fighting off sleep through another night appalled him. Coffee had lost the power to stimulate his nerves, and he found himself moving about in a sort of daze, obsessed by the fear that he might doze off, even while he stood on his feet. He had read and re-read all the magazines in the cabin, and out of desperation that evening he sought about him for something to occupy his mind. On the back of one of the shelves he discovered a greasy pack of playing cards. He riffled the deck under his thumb, and cast a speculative glance towards Crill.

"Ever play any cards?" he inquired.

The outlaw looked over his shoulder with a twisted grin. "Sure," he said--"when they make it interesting. But no piker stuff!"

"What do you call piker stuff?"

"Slipping 'em off for dimes." Crill fixed the officer with his beady glance. "How much you got on you?"

Dexter shook his head depreciatingly. Money was of no use to a man in the wilderness, and when he had ridden out from Crooked Forks on long patrol, nearly a year ago, he carried in his pocket only a few dollars in cash that had been left from his last August's pay.

He produced two small bills, and at sight of the numerals Crill laughed raucously. "You don't think I'm going to fool around any with crockery marbles, do you?" he jeered. He started to turn away, but checked himself instantly, and faced the corporal with a sobered expression. "At that," he added, "you've got something I could use," he added. "If you want to get away from the little boy stuff, maybe we can talk."

"Yes?" said the corporal, a little puzzled. "What have I got?"

"Me!"

"What?"

"You get me." Crill's thick lips parted in a crafty smile. "I got three thousand in gold in my belt, and ten coarse notes that bring the total to fifteen grand. That's something for you to shoot at. And all you got to put up is something that don't cost you anything."

"Let's get this straight," said Dexter, his eyes narrowing. "You wish to play cards with me, you putting up money, I staking--your freedom?"

"You said it," replied the other tensely. "You got it quick."

"Just how would such a game be played?" asked Dexter in a smooth, milky tone.

"Poker--Jacks--the draw to fill--and a show-down." The outlaw drew a breath of kindling excitement. "Five hundred bucks at a smash--you swearing to let me go if you lose. If you win you've got some velvet to go on. And we keep going until you break me or I break you. Simple?"

"Quite!" Dexter stood for a moment in meditative silence. He had already decided to let his prisoner go, if he ever got the chance. So whether he should win or lose in this game of strangely matched stakes, the police were out nothing. There was no point of honor involved. The main consideration was the game itself. There ought to be enough interest in such an encounter to keep him awake, and no matter what the cost, he must not sleep to-night.

"If I should agree to release you," he said after a pause, "the promise goes only that far. I would give you only a day's start, and then I go after you again."

"A day's start is enough for me to shake any cop," returned Crill with a sneer.

"Another thing," pursued the corporal quietly: "If we play, we play fair. I want you to be entirely satisfied--as I know you wish me to be--that fortune alone governs the turn. An impartial third person deals the cards."

"Eh?" The outlaw looked up with an ugly scowl. "Who, for instance?"

"Miss Rayne, I'm sure, wouldn't mind dealing for each of us in turn."

Crill shifted his lowering glance from Dexter to the girl and his scowl changed gradually to an oily smirk. "All right, lady, you do it," he said. He snapped his fingers, devil-may-care. "Let's go!" he invited.