Then one day he returned. He presented a slip of paper signed by Camillo Bill to the bartender at Stoell's and received therefor thirty ounces of gold—raw gold, in dust and nuggets. He bought a round of drinks glorying in the fact that at last he, too, was spending coarse gold. He bet ten ounces on an Indian foot race, and won. More drinks, and an hour later he bet his pile on a seven, a ten-spot, a deuce, and a king in a game of stud poker. Two players called the bet and he flipped over his hole card—it was a seven-spot and again he won.
He quit the game and danced for an hour, and between dances he drank whiskey. He got the hunch that this was his lucky day and that he could win, but the hunch called for quick big bets, and not for long continued play. He rode his hunch, and at Cuter Malone's wheel he tossed fifty ounces on Number 21. The ivory ball rolled slower and slower, hesitated on the 10 and then with a last turn settled into 21. He pocketed twenty-eight thousand dollars with a grin. The news of the bet spread swiftly and Brent became a man of sorts. Four times more that night he placed big bets—and three of the times he won.
One of these plays also in a game of stud earned him the name by which he became known in the North. With a king, and a queen, showing in his own hand he mercilessly raised an exposed pair of Jacks. Of the six other players in the game five dropped out. The holder of the Jacks stayed for the last draw and checked the bet. Brent laid fifty thousand dollars on his cards, a king, a queen, an eight spot and a four spot. The other stared at the hand for a long time. He was a man known for his nerve and his high play, and he knew that Brent knew this. Whispers of the big bet had gone about the room and men and women crowded the table. At length the other turned down his cards in token of surrender, and with a laugh Brent turned his hole card face up. It was the Ace of Diamonds, and an audible gasp hissed from twenty throats.
Thereafter Brent was known as Ace-In-The-Hole.
The next morning he deposited one hundred and thirty thousand dollars in Dick Stoell's safe, and his pockets still bulged with dust. For two days and nights he drank and danced, but not a card did he touch, nor did he lay any bet. When questioned he answered that his hunch was not working. The sourdoughs respected him and treated him as an equal. He spent dust lavishly but he did not throw it away.
Then suddenly he bought an outfit and disappeared. When the first snow flew he was back, and into Dick Stoell's safe went many sacks of raw gold. He drank harder than ever and spent gold more freely. His fame spread to other camps, and three men came up from Circle to relieve him of his pile. He was gambling regularly now, and in a game of stud he caught them at the trick by means of which they had won forty thousand dollars from him. Many miners, among them a goodly sprinkling of old timers, were watching the play, and many of them had already detected the swindle, but after the custom of the country they held their peace. Brent never batted an eye upon discovering the trick, but when a few moments later it was repeated, things happened in Stoell's—and they happened with the rapidity of light. One minute after the trouble started there was an ominous silence in the room. A circle of men stood and stared at the wreck of a table, across which sagged the body of
a man killed with his own gun. Another man with his jaw shattered lay on the floor, and a third lay white and still across him with a wide red mark on his forehead where a sack of gold dust had caught him fair. And over all stood Brent with one leg jammed through the rungs of a broken chair.
The incident placed Ace-In-The-Hole in the foremost ranks of the big men of the North. He was regarded as the equal of such men as Old Bettles, Camillo Bill Waters, Swiftwater Bill, and McMann. Sourdoughs sought his acquaintance and chechakos held him in awe. When the snow lay deep he bought the best string of dogs he could find, hired an Indian musher, and again disappeared. He was back at Christmas for a two weeks carousal, and when he hit the trail again he carried with him several gallons of whiskey. The sourdoughs shook their heads and exchanged glances at this, but a man's business is his own. In July he sent his Indian down for ten men to work his sluices and much whiskey. In September he came down himself and he brought with him a half million in gold.
Others had cleaned up big during the summer, and that winter saw Dawson's highest peak of wild orgies and wild spending. Riding a hunch when he first hit town Brent doubled and trebled his pile, and then with Jimmie the Rough, McMann, Camillo Bill and a few others they inaugurated such a campaign of reckless spending as the North had never seen and never again did see.
Brent was never sober, now—and men said he never slept. He was the youngest and by far the strongest of the spenders, the urge of the game was in his blood, and he rode it as he rode his hunches—to the limit of his endurance. All men liked him—open hearted, generous to the fault, and square as a die in his dealings, he spent his money like a prince. And where the men liked him the painted women worshipped him—but they worshipped from afar. For despite the utmost blandishments of the most intriguing of them, he treated all alike—even Kitty, whom men called "The Queen of the Yukon," failed to hold him in thrall. This dancing girl who had taken the North by storm, who was the North's darling and beautiful plaything, whose boast it was that she had never sought any man, fell violently in love with Brent. Men saw it and marvelled, for it was known in the camps that she had spurned men who had laid fortunes at her feet. It was not that he feared women, rather he sought them. He danced with them, frolicked with them—and then promptly forgot them. His one real passion was gambling. Any game or device whereupon big bets could be laid found him an enthusiastic devotee. And his luck became a byword in the North.