“It’s me, too,” said Gallagher. “I have a touch o’ the same complaint, but I don’t see nothin’ ahead till th’ ice breaks up, an’ the boats run again.”
“Oi do,” said Long Mike. “Jim Bixby was tellin’ me yesterday that some o’ thim shports in La Crosse was goin’ dead, loike us, f’r the lack o’ things to do, an’ Oi told him to tell thim to come over to Brownsville the next trip o’ the stage. An’ the stage is due now. Oi do be thinkin’ there’ll be some comin’ the day.”
The event proved that the big man had not miscalculated, for even as he spoke the jingle of sleigh-bells came up from the frozen surface of the river, and, as they all looked out, they saw Bixby driving, not the usual span, but a team of four horses over the thick ice, and bringing a big stage-load of men wrapped in furs and smoking furiously to keep the keen, cold air from their lungs.
It was one of the community visits with which men broke the monotony of the long winters in what was then called the great Northwest, and, because of the habits of the two communities, it seemed more than likely that there would be excitement enough before the La Crosse contingent should be ready to return.
Of the visiting delegation there were ten in all, but the most conspicuous among them, as Long Mike was the principal figure in Brownsville, was one Tom Krags, a man of more than local fame, who had amassed a competence on the Mississippi boats by his success at the card-table, and had settled in La Crosse as the proprietor of what he called the “only first-class second-rate hotel in Wisconsin.” It was a flourishing hostelry, with a large cardroom adjoining the barroom.
Krags was a quiet man, usually, with pleasant manners and a large chest measurement. At least a foot shorter than the big man of Brownsville, he was, in all his other dimensions, a worthy match, and one of the dreams of delight among the river men was the thought that sometime there might be a physical encounter between the two.
No set programme having been arranged for the festivities, the first ceremony was the usual tender of liquid hospitality. Sam became busy without special instructions, and for a long half-hour exerted himself manfully in response to the demands that came in rapid succession from this one and that who felt eager to uphold his part of the burden of hospitality or pay his share of the tax of reciprocity.
A temporary lull in this exercise was filled with conversation, in which the dearth of news in both communities was duly discussed, and the day wore on toward a close with no special outbreak of excitement. It appeared, however, that three of the guests had brought certain pet game-cocks with them, so a series of cock-fights was arranged after a long discussion of terms, and by nightfall the floor of the barroom was sadly in need of a thorough cleansing. Then, after the lamps were lighted, and a hearty supper had been discussed, a game of draw-poker was proposed.
This, it was felt, was, after all, the main event of the day. Brownsville was not especially addicted to poker except on occasions when outside talent appeared, but there was enough local pride to justify a contest when a challenge was issued. And there was an overweening confidence in Brownsville in Long Mike’s luck.
The two leaders arranged the terms and virtually chose the players, so that the game was table stakes, each man to buy a hundred dollars’ worth of chips for a starter, and six men to constitute the party. Long Mike took Stumpy and Hennessy, and Krags named Smithers, a beetle-browed Englishman in his party, and Jack Bains, a capable-looking lumberman from the upper river, to represent the visiting talent. Sam set out the chips and cards and served a preliminary drink, and the game was on.