Thicker than water

by W. C. Tuttle

CHAPTER IV—CHUCKWALLA MAKES A MISTAKE

In spite of the fact that the town of Red Arrow was on a transcontinental railroad, and with the advantages of being a county seat, it had never grown beyond its original cow-town stage. Perhaps it was because no one was interested in Red Arrow, except those who lived there before the railroad came through the valley. It was not a division point, and many of the trains only stopped on flag.

Red Arrow Valley was about ten miles wide at this point, with the Little Smoky range on the west and the old lava beds on the east. The valley ran southeast, and the Red Arrow River ambled its way down through the valley with many a twist and turn.

The nearest town to Red Arrow was Welcome, fifteen miles to the southeast. Between Red Arrow and Welcome was the Curlew Spur, where loading-pens had long been installed for the convenience of the cattlemen south of Red Arrow.

The Circle Spade ranch was about six miles slightly south of east from Red Arrow. Directly south, and about the same distance from town, was Butch Reimer’s Half-Box R. Northeast, five miles from town, was the JML outfit, owned by Jim Langley, and about three miles north of town, on Coyote Creek, was the 77 horse outfit, owned by Henry Cave.

Red Arrow town had a business district which was really only about one long block in length by a short block in width. The buildings were all of weather-beaten frame structure, sans paint. The Valley Hotel and the courthouse were two-story buildings, but the biggest structure was the livery stable. The streets were of three varieties—dust, snow, or mud, according to the season.

The long arm of the law was represented by Slim Caldwell, sheriff, and two deputies, “Chuck” Ring and “Scotty” McKay. Prior to becoming a citizen of Red Arrow and getting himself elected sheriff of the county, Caldwell had been a Texas Ranger. Scotty McKay almost became a member of the famous Royal Northwest Mounted Police. The only thing that kept him out was the fact that he wasn’t able to qualify. Scotty was a bow-legged little Scot, with a tilted nose, a bushy head of sandy hair, and an exalted opinion of Scotty McKay.

Chuck Ring was a huge figure of a man, with a voice like a bull, a huge mop of black hair, and about as gentle as a playful grizzly. Chuck was prone to gross exaggerations. A single rattlesnake, according to Chuck, became a “million of the darned things.” At times his imagination soared to such heights that he even astonished Caldwell, who was no second-rate liar himself.

It was nearing the middle of the afternoon when Rance McCoy and Chuckwalla Ike came to Red Arrow. They tied their horses at the Eagle hitch-rack and went across the street to the Cattlemen’s Bank, where Rance McCoy drew enough money to cause the cashier considerable wonder.

“You’re pullin’ out quite a hunk, ain’tcha?” queried Chuckwalla, rather amazed at Rance.

“Why not?” asked Rance gloomily. “It ain’t worth nothin’ to me—now.”

Chuckwalla understood. Old Rance had saved for Lila. He had given Angel his share of the Circle Spade; so now there was no inducement left for him to make or save money. He gave Chuckwalla eighty dollars, and they went back to the street, where they stood on the edge of the wooden sidewalk and studied the situation.

“Whatcha want to do?” asked Rance.

“Git drunk,” said Chuckwalla. “O-o-o-oh, there is a land of co-o-o-orn and wi-i-i-ine, and all its riches truly mi-i-i-ine.”

“Don’t sing.”

“I forgot, Rance.”

They stepped off the sidewalk and went diagonally across the street and up to the Red Arrow Saloon. Rance had never been in the Eagle Saloon since Angel had bought it.

Butch Reimer was standing at the bar, talking with the bartender when Rance and Chuckwalla came in. Butch had been drinking quite heavily, and his tongue was noticeably thick.

“Hyah, Rance,” he said, grinning broadly. “Well, if here ain’t old Chuckwalla Ike! What’r yuh doin’—celebratin’ a birthday?”

“Yuh might say we are,” agreed Chuckwalla, yanking hard on one side of his mustache. “What’r yuh absorbin’, Butch?”

“Cawn juice,” drawled Butch. “Say, Rance, I heard yuh was lookin’ for Billy DuMond.”

Old Rance shot him a sidelong glance.

“Didja?”

“Yeah.”

They drank thirstily and clattered their glasses on the bar.

“Holy hell!” snorted Chuckwalla. “Either I’m gettin’ awful neck-tender, or they’re puttin’ dynamite in the hooch. I jist laid m’self a blister from gullet to gut. Whooee-e-e!”

“That stuff is twenty year old,” declared the bartender.

“Yeah, it’s shore got all its teeth.”

“You’re gettin’ old,” declared Butch, laughing.

“Like hell, I am!” flared Chuckwalla. “When I left Gila Flats I was the best man in a radius of fifty miles, and I been gettin’ better every day. I ain’t never run, and I ain’t never been whipped. Gimme more of that venom.”

For more than an hour they leaned against the bar and drank what was commonly known as “rot-gut.” Chuckwalla grew mellow, but it did not seem to affect old Rance. He became just a trifle more serious, more polite. Several times he hitched his holster to a more convenient position, and Butch blinked thoughtfully.

“You spoke about Billy DuMond,” reminded old Rance.

“Yeah, I did,” admitted Butch.

“He’s still with yuh, ain’t he?”

“Oh, sure.”

“Yeah.”

That was all. Old Rance took his drinks calmly. Chuckwalla sang bits of songs, using the same tune for all of them. Butch wondered if it wouldn’t be a good idea for him to warn Billy DuMond to keep out of Red Arrow. But Butch was getting rather drunk, and his friendship with DuMond became of less consequence with each successive drink.

Finally old Rance sighed deeply and announced his intentions of going to the Eagle Saloon.

“Tha’s a good idea,” agreed Chuckwalla. “Le’s have a little action. C’mon.”

They went down the street to the Eagle, and went inside. Angel was in a poker game, and he looked curiously at his father and his two undeniably drunk companions. He felt that his father had absorbed just as much liquor as the other two.

They had a drink. Old Rance hooked his elbows over the top of the bar and gazed around his son’s premises. It was the first time he had ever been in there since Angel had owned it. Angel, apparently absorbed in his game, kept an eye on the old man, who walked steadily over to a black-jack table, where one cowboy was making two-bit bets, and threw down a twenty-dollar bill.

His two cards showed an ace and a jack—a natural—and the dealer paid him thirty dollars. Old Rance left the fifty on the board. He won on the next deal, and let the hundred ride. The dealer looked curiously at the hard-faced old man. Hundred-dollar bets were uncommon at black-jack.

Another ace and a jack fell to the old man, and the dealer counted out a hundred and fifty. That was left with the hundred, and again the old man won. There was now five hundred in front of old Rance.

“You playin’ for the pile?” queried the dealer.

Old Rance nodded. His two cards showed two kings. After a moment of inspection he drew out his roll of bills, counted out another five hundred, split the two kings, and indicated that he would make a double bet. His next two cards were an ace and a queen, making him twenty-one and twenty. The best the dealer could do was to make eighteen.

Slowly he counted out the money to old Rance—one thousand dollars. There was now two thousand on the board. The dealer wet his lips and stared at the old man. He shifted his gaze and looked at Angel, who got up from the poker game and came over to the black-jack layout.

“Deal,” said the old man. The dealer looked at Angel for some kind of a signal.

“Two-thousand-dollar bet,” said the dealer nervously.

“Hundred dollars is the limit,” said Angel softly.

Old Rance looked coldly upon his son.

“I thought yuh run a gamblin’-house,” he said. “Yuh can play for a hundred in the bunk-houses.”

“I’ve got sixty dollars in the bank,” said the dealer.

“Take yore money and go home,” said Angel.

“No nerve, eh?”

“I don’t want yore money.”

“You’re a liar—you’re jist scared.”

Angel flushed hotly and shoved the dealer aside, picking up the deck, facing the cards, and began shuffling them. The poker-players halted their game and came over to the layout.

“Two thousand dollars that you get the ace of spades,” said old Rance softly.

Angel did not look up from the cards, as he said:

“This is black-jack; place yore bets.”

“Two thousand,” said old Rance.

Angel dealt snappily, and old Rance’s hand showed a six and a deuce. Quickly he covered the cards, indicating that he would not draw. Angel turned over a king and a five. He studied them thoughtfully. He did not think there was a chance in a thousand that his father would stand pat on less than seventeen. Then he drew his card—a seven-spot—making him twenty-two.

With a flip of his fingers he turned over the old man’s cards—six and a deuce; a total of eight. For several moments he stared at his father. If he had stood on his original fifteen, he would have won the money.

“Mebby I’ll git a natural next deal,” said the old man. “Gimme my two thousand, and deal for the pile.”

“Four thousand?” whispered Angel haltingly.

“Shore. A natural would win me six thousand.”

Angel hesitated. Four thousand dollars was more than the Eagle could afford to lose. Still, he might win. It was against the law of averages for the old man to continue winning. He had won six times straight already.

“Deal ’em,” growled the old man.

Slowly Angel dealt the four cards. Old Rance turned his two cards face-up on the table—a ten and a five.

“Hit ’em,” he said.

Angel flipped the card to the table. It was a six, making old Rance’s count twenty-one. Angel turned over his cards, disclosing a jack and a seven, making a count of seventeen. If old Rance had not disclosed his hand, Angel would not have drawn. But now he was obliged to draw. His first card was a deuce. Angel swallowed heavily and flipped the next card. It was an ace. His hand counted twenty. Another ace would give him a tie with the old man.

With an exaggerated motion of his two hands holding the deck, he quickly stripped off a card and flipped it over. It was the ace of spades. Not a word was spoken for several moments.

“The house takes half of all ties,” said Angel coldly.

“You’ve got yore half,” said old Rance dully. “You never put up yore two thousand. Deal ’em ag’in.”

Angel shuffled them carefully, taking plenty of time, and when the old man cut the cards, no one seemed to know that Angel slipped the cut, and the cards were back where they were before the cut.

Old Rance drew a queen and a trey, while Angel’s hand showed an ace and a jack—a natural. He swept in the two thousand, a grin of derision on his lips. For a long time the old man looked down at the green top of the table. He heaved a deep sigh and dug down in his pocket, drawing out the money he had received from the bank. It totaled nineteen hundred and eighty dollars—what was left of his twenty-five hundred. He spread the bills out on the table.

“Deal,” he said softly.

“One bet?” asked Angel.

“Jist one.”

“You ort to deal, Rance,” said Chuckwalla.

Angel looked quickly at the old cook.

“Where do you come in on this?” he demanded.

“Jist the same, I think he ort to deal.”

“Oh, all right.”

Angel shoved the deck over to old Rance, who shuffled them carefully, and dealt himself a count of sixteen.

“You draw first,” said Angel. “You’re playin’ against the house.”

“I’m set. How many do yuh need.”

“I pay eighteen,” said Angel hoarsely, indicating that he had seventeen.

Old Rance shook his head sadly and turned away from the table. Angel smiled and looked for the deck of cards, as he picked up the money, but the deck had disappeared. The only cards on the table were the two two-card hands, with only old Rance’s two face-up.

“Who took that deck?” demanded Angel quickly.

But no one seemed to know. Old Rance and Chuckwalla were already outside the place.

“That’s damned funny!” snorted Angel hotly.

“You got damned well paid for it,” laughed one of the men.

“Yeah?” Angel swept up the money and went to the rear of the room. The loss of that deck seemed to annoy him. He came back and walked to a front window, where he looked out. Old Rance had gone into the Shanghai Cafe, but Chuckwalla was sitting on the sidewalk, looking through what appeared to be a deck of cards.

Old Chuckwalla was drunkenly deliberate. He sorted out the different suits, holding them between his knees. Chuck Ring and Scotty McKay came along, and stopped to watch the old cook.

“Ar-re ye fixin’ to tr-r-rim somebody?” asked Scotty.

“Betcher life,” grunted Chuckwalla.

“You’re drunk, Chuckwalla,” boomed Chuck Ring. “Lemme fix up yore deck. I shore can mingle a cold deck, if I’ve got plenty time.”

“Let ’em alone,” said Chuckwalla seriously. He put all the suits together, got unsteadily to his feet, and went into the cafe, where he found old Rance seated at a table. Chuckwalla sat down heavily at the opposite side of the table and leaned on his elbows.

“Rance,” he said solemnly, “you’re a fool.”

Old Rance squinted painfully at Chuckwalla, but said nothing.

“’F I remember rightly, yuh never even seen the seventeen that Angel had in his last hand.”

Rance shook his head slowly.

“Yuh had the king of clubs and the six of hearts, Rance. Look at this.”

Chuckwalla took the deck from his pocket and spread out the club and heart suits. It showed a missing king and a six-spot. Rance lifted his eyes and looked inquiringly at Chuckwalla, who spread the other two suits. The ten of diamonds, trey of spades, and the ace of spades were missing.

“He had the ten of diamonds and the trey of spades in his last hand,” said Chuckwalla angrily.

“What about that ace of spades?” asked old Rance.

“He held that out, you danged fool!” exploded Chuckwalla. “He stole that ace of spades to keep yuh from winnin’ four thousand dollars from him, and he stole it ag’in, t’ use in case he needed it.”

Old Rance shifted his eyes thoughtfully.

“’F I was you, I’d go back and kill him, Rance,” declared Chuckwalla. “Son or no son—he’s a thief.”

Old Rance turned his eyes back to Chuckwalla.

“He didn’t steal that last pot, Chuckwalla. He miscounted his hand. I should have looked at it.”

“He stole the ace of spades on yuh.”

“Did yuh see him steal it?”

“No, but he did.”

“Yuh can’t prove it, Chuckwalla.”

“I can’t prove he did—no! But it ain’t in the deck; so he must ’a’ stole it ag’in.”

“And that’s yore only evidence that he played crooked?”

“What more do yuh want?”

Old Rance slowly reached in his pocket and took out the ace of spades.

“The ace of spades is a fav’rite card of mine,” he said slowly. “And I don’t like to have folks use it ag’in’ me. What are yuh goin’ to eat, Chuckwalla?”

The old cook lifted his eyes from the ace of spades and looked at the bland-faced Chinaman, who was waiting to take their order.

“Got any crow, Charley?”

“Clow?” The Chinaman blinked.

“Big, black bird, Charley.”

“Oh, yessa; I sabe clow. Me no got. You like clow?”

“Sometimes I have t’ eat it, Charley. Better bring me some ham and aigs.”