While still a young man, Bill Cassity went to Colorado, worked in the mines and smelters, at high wages, and ordered the Spectator sent to him there — and later to Los Angeles. Bill came home once, told me he liked his work in Colorado, or rather the big wages—but he did not like the characters he had to associate with. In California, still on the right side of the laws of God and man, Bill pushed his penchant for righteousness a little too far for his own good. As a detective, self-appointed or otherwise, he learned much of the ways of the Los Angeles underworld—and, it was said, the boys took him for a ride and failed to bring him back.
And again, some twenty-odd years ago, Than Gustafson, a former Wetmore man, older brother of our Fred Gustafson — and in a legal way Fred’s brother was also his brother-in-law, the two Gustafson boys having married sisters, Adelia and Ophelia, daughters of S. M. Hawkins—is supposed to have been taken for a one-way ride by the Rocky Mountain crooks. He left his home in Denver, a wife and two children, one evening in line of his duties — and was never heard of again. Than Gustafson evidently knew too much for his own good.
When in gangdom, it is wise to be dumb.
Under the old system, in revivals, the first converts either appointed themselves or were delegated to work among the congregation as boosters for the minister—something like Uncle Tom’s “exhorters.” They would go out in the audience, usually in pairs, and plead with you, cry, and sniffle over you—an actual fact—in a manner that would - make you feel mighty cheap. The boy who respected them, loved them through long associations, was struck dumb.
One particularly sanctified woman—no one could ever doubt her sincerity; I had known her for years, and she was always so—with redoubled sniffling tendencies as of the moment, accompanied by the prettiest girl that ever walked down a church aisle or any other avenue in Wetmore, a girl whom I had just about given up as lost to a certain rich man’s son, on account of her papa’s preference for the other boy, and because “papa” said I played poker, made a firm stand in front of me one night. I knew before the old girl began to sniffle that, on account of the young girl, I would, sooner or later, find myself in a front row. More than one boy went forward in that meeting because he did not have the heart to disappoint them—and maybe there was also the attraction of a girl. Girls were more susceptible to the worker’s pleas.
The older woman talked rapidly, between sniffles, in terms only partly understood by me—but the girl’s radiant smile told me much. I would not permit them to march me up to the front, as other workers were doing with prospects, but I promised to sit with the young girl in the reserved corner on the following night—and see what would happen.
I hope the good people will pardon me for mixing my worldly activities with the more decent church sittings — but this seems the opportune time for me to ‘fess up. In this story I mean to come clean—tell everything, and have as little of the old hero stuff in it as is consistent with the making of a good story.
I had been to church—Methodist protracted meeting — and then dropped in on the boys in the DeForest store at the virtual close of a little poker game. Even now I hate to think what Henry DeForest would have done to us had he known his dry goods counter was serving as a poker table. One man, Willard Lynch, dropped out while the deal was in progress, and said I might play his hand.
This was to be my first poker game. Also, it should have been my last—but it wasn’t. Not that it ever became an obsession with me. But, in general, it is not an elevating attainment—and it is something which any self-respecting young man can very well do without. It was, however, my last game in Mr. Henry’s store. I wanted to retain, at all costs, his respectful opinion of me. And the other boys finally saw the error of their ways — and changed their meeting place. On the cleaner side, I will say that I never learned to shoot craps, never bet on elections, ball games, or the horses; never drank or caroused, wouldn’t feel “at “home” at the popular cocktail party; was never in court as complainant or defendant—and was only once in my whole life in court as a witness, at which time, had I told the Whole Truth as I was sworn to do, I could have been jailed for my ignorance. I was an untutored member of the Kansas Grain Dealers Association, which was under investigation. Also, I want to say in the outset that this poker stigma was not the thing which had lowered me in the opinion of “Papa.” It was the more powerful evil—money—of which I had none. But there was one bright spot in the clouded picture. The rich man’s son looked a lot better to “Papa” than he did to the girl.
Well, in this, my first poker game, I picked up four natural aces, and if you know only as much as I knew then, you would consider it a top hand. No one had told me they were playing the joker wild, “cut and slash.” I bet a nickel. Alfred Anderson called, and raised me a dime. Two of the other boys called Alfred’s fifteen-cent bet—and the dealer, Sidney Loop, (clerk in the store), dropped out of the play. I thought my four aces were good for ten cents more, and not possessing a loose dime, I dug up a five-dollar bill. Alfred was up on his toes, and said, “You aiming to bet all that?” I replied, “No—only aiming to call your dime raise.” Still upon his toes, a little higher now, he said rather anxiously, “If you want to bet it all, I’ll call it—you can’t bluff me.” I took one more look at my hand—and not one of the aces had gotten away. And then I said, “All right, I’ll just bet it all.”