The Girl of the Golden West (9 page)

"Girl, I'll give you a thousand dollars on the spot for a kiss,"
which offer met with no response other than a nervous little laugh
and the words:

"Some men invite bein' played."

The gambler shrugged his shoulders.

"Well, what are men made for?" said he, flinging the gold piece
down on the bar in payment for the cigar.

"That's true," placidly commented the Girl, making the
change.

Rance tried another tack.

"You can't keep on running this place alone; it's getting too
big for you; too much money circulating through The Polka. You need
a man behind you." All this was said in short, jerky sentences;
moreover, when she placed his change in front of him he pushed it
back almost angrily.

"Come now, marry me," again he pleaded.

"Nope."

"My wife won't know it."

"Nope."

"Now, see here, there's just one—"

"Nope—take it straight, Jack, nope…" interrupted the Girl. She
had made up her mind that he had gone far enough; and firmly
grabbing his hand she slipped his change into it.

Without a word the Sheriff dropped the coins into the cuspidor.
The Girl saw the action and her eyes flashed with anger. The next
moment, however, she looked up at him and said more gently than any
time yet:

"No, Jack, I can't marry you. Ah, come along—start your game
again—go on, Jack." And so saying she came out from behind the bar
and went over to the faro table with: "Whoop la! Mula! Go! Good
Lord, look at that faro table!"

But Rance was on the verge of losing control of himself. There
was passion in his steely grey eyes when he advanced towards her,
but although the Girl saw the look she did not flinch, and met it
in a clear, straight glance.

"Look here, Jack Rance," she said, "let's have it out right now.
I run The Polka 'cause I like it. My father taught me the business
an', well, don't you worry 'bout me—I can look after m'self. I
carry my little wepping"—and with that she touched significantly
the little pocket of her dress. "I'm independent, I'm happy, The
Polka's payin', an' it's bully!" she wound up, laughing. Then, with
one of her quick changes of mood, she turned upon him angrily and
demanded: "Say, what the devil do you mean by proposin' to me with
a wife in Noo Orleans? Now, this is a respectable saloon, an' I
don't want no more of it."

A look of gloom came into Rance's eyes.

"I didn't say anything—" he began.

"Push me that Queen," interrupted the Girl, sharply, gathering
up the cards at the faro table, and pointing to one that was just
beyond her reach. But when Rance handed it to her and was moving
silently away, she added: "Ah, no offence, Jack, but I got other
idees o' married life from what you have."

"Aw, nonsense!" came from the Sheriff in a voice that was not
free from irritation.

The Girl glanced up at him quickly. Her mind was not the abode
of hardened convictions, but was tender to sentiment, and something
in his manner at once softening her, she said:

"Nonsense? I dunno 'bout that. You see—" and her eyes took on a
far away look—"I had a home once an' I ain't forgot it—a home up
over our little saloon down in Soledad. I ain't forgot my father
an' my mother an' what a happy kepple they were. Lord, how they
loved each other—it was beautiful!"

Despite his seemingly callous exterior, there was a soft spot in
the gambler's heart. Every word that the Girl uttered had its
effect on him. Now his hands, which had been clenched, opened out
and a new light came into his eyes. Suddenly, however, it was
replaced by one of anger, for the door, at that moment, was
hesitatingly pushed open, and The Sidney Duck stood with his hand
on the knob, snivelling:

"Oh, Miss, I—"

The Girl fairly flew over to him.

"Say, I've heard about you! You git!" she cried; and when she
was certain that he was gone she came back and took a seat at the
table where she continued, in the same reminiscent vein as before:
"I can see mother now fussin' over father an' pettin' 'im, an'
father dealin' faro—Ah, he was square! An' me a kid, as little as a
kitten, under the table sneakin' chips for candy. Talk 'bout
married life—that was a little heaven! Why, mother tho't so much o'
that man, she was so much heart an' soul with 'im that she learned
to be the best case-keeper you ever saw. Many a sleeper she caught!
You see, when she played, she was playin' for the ol' man." She
stopped as if overcome with emotion, and then added with great
feeling: "I guess everybody's got some remembrance o' their mother
tucked away. I always see mine at the faro table with her foot
snuggled up to Dad's, an' the light o' lovin' in her eyes. Ah, she
was a lady…!" Impulsively she rose and walked over to the bar.

"No," she went on, when behind it once more, "I couldn't share
that table an' The Polka with any man—unless there was a heap o'
carin' back of it. No, I couldn't, Jack, I couldn't…"

By this time the Sheriff's anger had completely vanished;
dejection was plainly written on every line of his face.

"Well, I guess the boys were right; I am a Chinaman," he drawled
out.

At once the Girl was all sympathy.

"Oh, no you're not, Jack!" she protested, speaking as tenderly
as she dared without encouraging him.

Rance was quick to detect the change in her voice. Now he leaned
over the end of the bar and said in tones that still held hope:

"Once when I rode in here it was nothing but Jack, Jack, Jack
Rance. By the Eternal, I nearly got you then!"

"Did you?" The Girl was her saucy self again.

Rance ignored her manner, and went on:

"Then you went on that trip to Sacramento and Monterey and you
were different."

In spite of herself the Girl started, which Rance's quick eye
did not fail to note.

"Who's the man?" he blazed.

For answer the Girl burst out into a peal of laughter. It was
forced, and the man knew it.

"I suppose he's one o' them high-toned, Sacramento shrimps!" he
burst out gruffly; then he added meaningly: "Do you think he'd have
you?"

At those words a wondering look shone in the Girl's eyes, and
she asked in all seriousness:

"What's the matter with me? Is there anythin' 'bout me a
high-toned gent would object to?" And then as the full force of the
insult was borne in upon her she stepped out from behind the bar,
and demanded: "Look here, Jack Rance, ain't I always been a perfect
lady?"

Rance laughed discordantly.

"Oh, heaven knows your character's all right!" And so saying he
seated himself again at the table.

The girl flared up still more at this; she retorted:

"Well, that ain't your fault, Jack Rance!" But the words were
hardly out of her mouth than she regretted having spoken them. She
waited a moment, and then as he did not speak she murmured an
"Adios, Jack," and took up her position behind the bar where, if
Rance had been looking, he would have seen her start on hearing a
voice in the next room and fix her eyes in a sort of fascinated
wonder, on a man who, after parting the pelt curtain, came into the
saloon with just a suggestion of swagger in his bearing.

"Where's the man who wanted to curl my hair?"

Incisive and harsh, with scarcely a trace of the musical tones
she recollected so well, as was Johnson's voice, it deceived the
Girl not an instant. Even before she was able to get a glimpse of
his face it did not fail to tell her that the
handsome 
caballero
, with whom she had ridden on that
never-to-be-forgotten day on the Monterey road, was standing before
her. That his attire now, as might be expected, was wholly
different from what it had been then, it never occurred to her to
note; for, to tell the truth, she was vainly struggling to suppress
the joy that she felt at seeing him again, and before she was aware
of it there slipped through her lips:

"Why, howdy do, stranger!"

At the sound of her voice Johnson wheeled round in glad surprise
and amazement; but the quick look of recognition that he flashed
upon her wholly escaped the Sheriff whose attitude was indicative
of keen resentment at this intrusion, and whose eyes were taking in
the newcomer from head to foot.

"We're not much on strangers here," he blurted out at last.

Johnson turned on his heel and faced the speaker. An angry
retort rose to his lips, but he checked it. Although, perhaps, not
fully appreciating his action, he was, nevertheless, not unaware
that, from the point of view of the Polka, his refusal to take his
whisky straight might be regarded as nothing less than an insult.
And now that it was too late he was inclined, however much he
resented an attempt to interfere in a matter which he believed
concerned himself solely, to regret the provocation and challenging
words of his entrance if only because of a realisation that a
quarrel would be likely to upset his plans. On the other hand, with
every fraction of a second that passed he was conscious of becoming
more and more desirous of humbling the man standing before him and
scrutinising him so insolently; moreover, he felt intuitively that
the eyes of the Girl were on him as well as on the other principal
to this silent but no less ominous conflict going on, and such
being the case it was obviously impossible for him to withdraw from
the position he had taken. As a sort of compromise, therefore, he
said, tentatively:

"I'm the man who wanted water in his whisky."

"You!" exclaimed the Girl; and then added reprovingly: "Oh,
Nick, this gentleman takes his whisky as he likes it!"

And this from the Girl! The little barkeeper had all the
appearance of a man who thought the world was coming to an end. He
did not accept the Girl's ultimatum until he had drawn down his
face into an expression of mock solemnity and ejaculated
half-aloud:

"Moses, what's come over 'er!"

Johnson took a few steps nearer the Girl and bowed low.

"In the presence of a lady I will take nothing," he said
impressively. "But pardon me, you seem to be almost at home
here."

The girl leaned her elbows on the bar and her chin in her hands,
and answered with a tantalising little laugh:

"Who—me?"

After a loud guffaw Nick took it upon himself to explain
matters; turning to Johnson he said:

"Why, she's the Girl who runs The Polka!"

Johnson's face wore a look of puzzled consternation; he saw no
reason for levity.

"You…?"

"Yep," nodded the Girl with a merry twinkle in her eyes.

Johnson's face fell.

"She runs The Polka," he murmured to himself. Of all places to
have chosen—this! So the thing he had dreaded had happened!

For odd as it unquestionably seemed to him that she should turn
up as the proprietress of a saloon after months of searching high
and low for her, it was not this reflection that was uppermost in
his mind; on the contrary, it was the deeply humiliating thought
that he had come upon her when about to ply his vocation. Regret
came swiftly that he had not thought to inquire who was the owner
of The Polka Saloon. Bitterly he cursed himself for his dense
stupidity. And yet, it was doubtful whether any of his band could
have informed him. All that they knew of the place was that the
miners of Cloudy Mountain Camp were said to keep a large amount of
placer gold there; all that he had done was to acquaint himself
with the best means of getting it. But his ruminations were soon
dissipated by Rance, who had come so close that their feet almost
touched, and was speaking in a voice that showed the quarrelsome
frame of mind that he was in.

"You're from The Crossing, the barkeeper said—" he began, and
then added pointedly: "I don't remember you."

Johnson slowly turned from the Girl to the speaker and calmly
corrected:

"You're mistaken; I said I rode over from The Crossing." And
turning his back on the man he faced the Girl with: "So, you run
The Polka?"

"I'm the Girl—the girl that runs The Polka," she said, and to
his astonishment seemed to glory in her occupation.

Presently, much to their delight, an opportunity came to them to
exchange a word or two with each other without interruption. For,
Rance, as if revolving some plan of action in his mind, had turned
on his heel and walked off a little way. A moment more, however,
and he was back again and more malevolently aggressive than
ever.

"No strangers are allowed in this camp," he said, glowering at
Johnson; and then, his remark having passed unheeded by the other,
he sneered: "Perhaps you're off the road; men often get mixed up
when they're visiting Nina Micheltoreña on the back trail."

"Oh, Rance!" protested the Girl.

But Johnson, though angered, let the insinuation pass unnoticed,
and went on to say that he had stopped in to rest his horse and,
perhaps, if invited, try his luck at a game of cards. And with this
intimation he crossed over to the poker table where he picked up
the deck that Rance had been using.

Rance hesitated, and finally followed up the stranger until he
brought up face to face with him.

"You want a game, eh?" he drawled, coolly impudent. "I haven't
heard your name, young man."

"Name," echoed the Girl with a cynical laugh. "Oh, names out
here—"

"My name's Johnson—" spoke up the man, throwing down the cards
on the table.

"Is what?" laughed the Girl, saucily, and, apparently, trying to
relieve the strained situation by her bantering tone.

"—Of Sacramento," he finished easily.

"Of Sacramento," repeated the Girl in the same jesting manner as
before; then, quickly coming out from behind the bar, she went over
to him and put out her hand, saying:

"I admire to know you, Mr. Johnson o' Sacramento."

Johnson bowed low over her hand.

"Thank you," he said simply.

"Say, Girl, I—" began Rance, fuming at her behaviour.

"Oh, sit down, Rance!" The interruption came from the Girl as
she pushed him lightly out of her way; then, perching herself up on
one end of the faro table, at which Johnson had taken a seat, she
ventured:

"Say, Mr. Johnson, do you know what I think o' you?"

Johnson eyed her uncertainly, while Rance's eyes blazed as she
blurted out:

"Well, I think you staked out a claim in a etiquette book." And
then before Johnson could answer her, she went on to say: "So you
think you can play poker?"

"That's my conviction," Johnson told her, smilingly.

"Out o' every fifty men who think they can play poker one ain't
mistaken," was the Girl's caustic observation. The next instant,
however, she jumped down from the table and was back at her post,
where, fearful lest he should think her wanting in hospitality, she
proposed: "Try a cigar, Mr. Johnson?"

"Thank you," he said, rising, and following her to the bar.

"Best in the house—my compliments."

"You're very kind," said Johnson, taking the candle that she had
lighted for him; then, when his cigar was going, and in a voice
that was intended for her alone, he went on: "So you remember
me?"

"If you remember me," returned the Girl, likewise in a low
tone.

"What the devil are they talking about anyway?" muttered Rance
to himself as he stole a glance at them over his shoulder, though
he kept on shuffling the cards.

"I met you on the road to Monterey," said Johnson with a
smile.

"Yes, comin' an' goin'," smiled back the Girl. "You passed me a
bunch o' wild syringa over the wheel; you also asked me to go
a-berryin'—" and here she paused long enough to glance up at him
coquettishly before adding: "But I didn't see it, Mr. Johnson."

"I noticed that," observed Johnson, laughing.

"An' when you went away you said—" The Girl broke off abruptly
and replaced the candle on the bar; then with a shy, embarrassed
look on her face she ended with: "Oh, I dunno."

"Yes, you do, yes, you do," maintained Johnson. "I said I'll
think of you all the time—well, I've thought of you ever
since."

There was a moment of embarrassment. Then:

"Somehow I kind o' tho't you might drop in," she said with
averted eyes. "But as you didn't—" She paused and summoned to her
face a look which she believed would adequately reflect a knowledge
of the proprieties. "O' course," she tittered out, "it wa'n't my
place to remember you—first."

"But I didn't know where you lived—you never told me, you know,"
contended the road agent, which contention so satisfied the
Girl—for she remembered only too well that she had not told
him—that she determined to show him further evidences of her
regard.

Say, I got a special bottle here—best in the house. Will
you…?"

"Why—"

The girl did not wait for him to finish his sentence, but
quickly placed a bottle and glass before him.

"My compliments," she whispered, smiling.

"You're very kind—thanks," returned the road agent, and
proceeded to pour out a drink.

Meanwhile, little of what was taking place had been lost on Jack
Rance. As the whispered conversation continued, he grew more and
more jealous, and at the moment that Johnson was on the point of
putting the glass to his lips, Rance, rising quickly, went over to
him and deliberately knocked the glass out of his hand.

With a crash it fell to the floor.

"Look here, Mr. Johnson, your ways are offensive to me!" he
cried; "damned offensive! My name is Rance—Jack Rance. Your
business here—your business?" And without waiting for the other's
reply he called out huskily: "Boys! Boys! Come in here!"

At this sudden and unexpected summons in the Sheriff's
well-known voice there was a rush from the dance-hall; in an
instant the good-natured, roistering crowd, nosing a fight, crowded
to the bar, where the two men stood glaring at each other in
suppressed excitement.

"Boys," declared the Sheriff, his eye never leaving Johnson's
face, "there's a man here who won't explain his business. He won't
tell—"

"Won't he?" cut in Sonora, blusteringly. "Well, we'll see—we'll
make 'im!"

There was a howl of execration from the bar. It moved the Girl
to instant action. Quick as thought she turned and strode to where
the cries were the most menacing—towards the boys who knew her best
and ever obeyed her unquestioningly.

"Wait a minute!" she cried, holding up her hand authoritatively.
"I know the gent!"

The men exchanged incredulous glances; from all sides came the
explosive cries:

"What's that? You know him?"

"Yes," she affirmed dramatically; and turning now to Rance with
a swift change of manner, she confessed: "I didn't tell you—but I
know 'im."

The Sheriff started as if struck.

"The Sacramento shrimp by all that is holy!" he muttered between
his teeth as the truth slowly dawned upon him.

"Yes, boys, this is Mr. Johnson o' Sacramento," announced the
Girl with a simple and unconscious dignity that did not fail to
impress all present. "I vouch to Cloudy for Mr. Johnson!"

Consternation!

And then the situation vaguely dawning upon them there ensued an
outburst of cheering compared to which the previous howl of
execration was silence.

Johnson smiled pleasantly at the Girl in acknowledgment of her
confirmation of him, then shot a half-curious, half-amused look at
the crowd surrounding him and regarding him with a new interest.
Apparently what he saw was to his liking, for his manner was most
friendly when bowing politely, he said:

"How are you, boys?"

At once the miners returned his salutation in true western
fashion: every man in the place, save Rance, taking off his hat and
sweeping it before him in an arc as they cried out in chorus:

"Hello, Johnson!"

"Boys, Rance ain't a-runnin' The Polka yet!" observed Sonora
with a mocking smile on his lips, and gloating over the opportunity
to give the Sheriff a dig.

The men shouted their approval of this jibe. Indeed, they might
have gone just a little too far with their badgering of the
Sheriff, considering the mood that he was in; so, perhaps, it was
fortunate that Nick should break in upon them at this time
with:

"Gents, the boys from The Ridge invites you to dance with
them."

No great amount of enthusiasm was evinced at this. Nevertheless,
it was a distinct declaration of peace; and, taking advantage of
it, Johnson advanced toward the Girl, bowed low, and asked with
elaborate formality:

"May I have the honour of a waltz?"

Flabbergasted and awed to silence by what they termed Johnson's
"style," Happy and Handsome stood staring helplessly at one
another; at length Happy broke out with:

"Say, Handsome, ain't he got a purty action? An' ornamental sort
o' cuss, ain't he? But say, kind o' presumin' like, ain't it, for a
fellow breathin' the obscurity o' The Crossin' to learn gents like
us how to ketch the ladies pronto?"

"Which same," allowed Handsome, "shorely's a most painful, not
to say humiliatin' state o' things." And then to the Girl he
whispered: "It's up to you—make a holy show of 'im."