Ben Blair | Page 2

the softened light.
With the coming of Fall frosts, the premonition of Winter, the
frequenters of the place gathered earlier, remained later, emptied more
of the showily labelled bottles behind the bar, and augmented when
possible their well-established reputation for recklessness. About the
soiled tables the fringe of bleared faces and keen hawk-like eyes was
more closely drawn. The dull rattle of poker-chips lasted longer,
frequently far into the night, and even after the tardy light of morning
had come to the rescue of the sputtering stumps in the candlesticks.
On such a morning, early in November, daylight broadened upon a
characteristic scene. Only one table was in use, and around it sat four
men. One by one the other players had cashed out and left the game.
One of them was snoring in a corner, his head resting upon the sawdust.
Another leaned heavily upon the bar, a half-drained glass before him.
Even the four at the table were not as upon the night before. The hands
which held the greasy cards and toyed with the stacks of chips were

steady, but the heads controlling them wavered uncertainly; and the
hawk eyes were bloodshot.
A man with a full beard, roughly trimmed into the travesty of a
Vandyke, was dealing. He tossed out the cards, carefully inclining their
faces downward, and returned the remainder of the pack softly to the
table.
"Pass, damn it!" growled the man at the left.
"Pass," came from the next man.
"Pass," echoed the last of the quartette.
Five blue chips dropped in a row upon the cloth.
"I open it."
The dealer took up the pack lovingly.
"Cards?"
The man at the left, tall, gaunt, ill-kempt, flicked the pasteboards in his
hand to the floor and ground them beneath his heavy boots.
"Give me five."
The point of the Vandyke beard was aimed straight past the speaker.
"Cards?" repeated the dealer.
"Five! Can't you hear?"
The man braced against the bar looked around with interest. In the
mask of Mick Kennedy the single eye closed almost imperceptibly.
Slowly the face of the dealer turned.
"I can hear you pretty well when you cash into the game. You already
owe me forty blues, Blair."

The long figure stiffened, the face went pale.
"You--mean--you--" the tongue was very thick. "You cut me out?"
For a moment there was silence; then once more the beard pointed to
the player next beyond.
"Cards?" for the third time.
Five chips ranged in a row beside their predecessors.
"Three."
A hand, almost the hand of a gentleman, went instinctively to the gaunt
throat of the ignored gambler and jerked at the close flannel shirt; then
without a word the owner got unsteadily to his feet and followed an
irregular trail toward the interested spectator at the bar.
"Have a drink with me, pard," said the gambler, as he regarded the
immovable Mick. "Two whiskeys, there!"
Kennedy did not stir, and for five seconds Blair blinked his dulled eyes
in wordless surprise; then his fist came down upon the cottonwood
board with a mighty crash.
"Wake up there, Mick!" he roared. "I'm speaking to you! A couple of
'ryes' for the gentleman here and myself."
Another pause, momentary but effective.
"I heard you." The barkeeper spoke quietly but without the slightest
change of expression, even of the eye. "I heard you, but I'm not dealing
out drinks to deadbeats. Pay up, and I'll be glad to serve you."
Swift as thought Blair's hand went to his hip, and the rattle of
poker-chips sympathetically ceased. A second, and a big revolver was
trained fair at the dispenser of liquors.
"Curse you, Mick Kennedy!" muttered a choking voice, "when I order

drinks I want drinks. Dig up there, and be lively!"
The man by the speaker's side, surprised out of his intoxication, edged
away to a discreet distance; but even yet the Irishman made no move.
Only the single headlight shifted in its socket until it looked
unblinkingly into the blazing eyes of the gambler.
"Tom Blair," commanded an even voice, "Tom Blair, you white livered
bully, put up that gun!"
Slowly, very slowly, the speaker turned,--all but the terrible Cyclopean
eye,--and moved forward until his body leaned upon the bar, his face
protruding over it.
"Put up that gun, I tell you!" A smile almost fiendish broke over the
furrows of the rugged face. "You wouldn't dast shoot, unless perhaps it
was a woman, you coward!"
For a fraction of a minute there was silence, while over the visage of
the challenged there flashed, faded, recurred the expression we pay
good dollars to watch playing upon the features of an accomplished
actor; then the yellow streak beneath the bravado showed, and the
menacing hand dropped to the holster at the hip. Once again Kennedy,