Chapter Chapter 17 · BOOK II CHAPTER VII

It was at Balsam City, and things were going badly. Marks and Bullhammer

had formed a partnership with the Halfbreed, the Professor and the Bank

clerk, and the arrangement was proving a regrettable one for the latter

two. It was all due to Marks. At the best of times, he was a

cross-grained, domineering bully, and on the trail, which would have

worn to a wire edge the temper of an angel, his yellow streak became an

eyesore. He developed a chronic grouch, and it was not long before he

had the two weaker men toeing the mark. He had a way of speaking of

those who had gone up against him in the past and were "running yet," of

shooting scrapes and deadly knife-work in which he had displayed a

spirit of cold-blooded ferocity. Both the Professor and the Bank clerk

were men of peace and very impressionable. Consequently, they conceived

for Marks a shuddering respect, not unmixed with fear, and were ready to

stand on their heads at his bidding.

On the Halfbreed, however, his intimidation did not work. While the

other two trembled at his frown, and waited on him hand and foot, the

man of Indian blood ignored him, and his face was expressionless.

Whereby he incurred the intense dislike of Marks.

Things were going from bad to worse. The man's aggressions were daily

becoming more unbearable. He treated the others like Dagoes and on every

occasion he tried to pick a quarrel with the Halfbreed, but the latter,

entrenching himself behind his Indian phlegm, regarded him stolidly.

Marks mistook this for cowardice and took to calling the Halfbreed nasty

names, particularly reflecting on the good character of his mother.

Still the Halfbreed took no notice, yet there was a contempt in his

manner that stung more than words. This was the state of affairs when

one evening the Prodigal and I paid them a visit.

Marks had been drinking all day, and had made life a little hell for the

others. When we arrived he was rotten-ripe for a quarrel. Then the

Prodigal suggested a game of poker, so four of them, himself, Marks,

Bullhammer and the Halfbreed, sat in.

At first they made a ten-cent limit, which soon they raised to

twenty-five; then, at last, there was no limit but the roof. A bottle

passed from mouth to mouth and several big jack-pots were made.

Bullhammer and the Prodigal were about breaking even, Marks was losing

heavily, while steadily the Halfbreed was adding to his pile of chips.

Through one of those freaks of chance the two men seemed to buck one

another continually. Time after time they would raise and raise each

other, till at last Marks would call, and always his opponent had the

cards. It was exasperating, maddening, especially as several times Marks

himself was called on a bluff. The very fiend of ill-luck seemed to have

gotten into him, and as the game proceeded, Marks grew more flushed and

excited. He cursed audibly. He always had good cards, but always somehow

the other just managed to beat him. He became explosively angry and

abusive. The Halfbreed offered to retire from the game, but Marks would

not hear of it.

"Come on, you nigger!" he shouted. "Don't sneak away. Give me a chance

to get my money back."

So they sat down once more, and a hand was dealt. The Halfbreed called

for cards, but Marks did not draw. Then the betting began. After the

second round the others dropped out, and Marks and the Halfbreed were

left. The Halfbreed was inimitably cool, his face was a perfect mask.

Marks, too, had suddenly grown very calm. They started to boost each

other.

Both seemed to have plenty of money and at first they raised in tens and

twenties, then at last fifty dollars at a clip. It was getting exciting.

You could hear a pin drop. Bullhammer and the Prodigal watched very

quietly. Sweat stood on Marks's forehead, though the Halfbreed was

utterly calm. The jack-pot held about three hundred dollars. Then Marks

could stand it no longer.

"I'll bet a hundred," he cried, "and see you."

He triumphantly threw down a straight.

"There, now," he snarled, "beat that, you stinking Malamute."

There was a perceptible pause. I felt sorry for the Halfbreed. He could

not afford to lose all that money, but his face showed no shade of

emotion. He threw down his cards and there arose from us all a roar of

incredulous surprise.

For the Halfbreed had thrown down a royal flush in diamonds. Marks rose.

He was now livid with passion.

"You cheating swine," he cried; "you crooked devil!"

Quickly he struck the other on the face, a blow that drew blood. I

thought for a moment the Halfbreed would return the blow. Into his eyes

there came a look of cold and deadly fury. But, no! quickly bending

down, he scooped up the money and left the tent.

We stared at each other.

"Marvellous luck!" said the Prodigal.

"Marvellous hell!" shouted Marks. "Don't tell me it's luck. He's a

sharper, a dirty thief. But I'll get even. He's got to fight now. He'll

fight with guns and I'll kill the son of a dog."

He was drinking from the bottle in big gulps, fanning himself into an

ungovernable fury with fiery objurgations. At last he went out, and

again swearing he would kill the Halfbreed, he made for another tent,

from which a sound of revelry was coming.

Vaguely fearing trouble, the Prodigal and I did not go to bed, but sat

talking. Suddenly I saw him listen intently.

"Hist! Did you hear that?"

I seemed to hear a sound like the fierce yelling of a wild animal.

We hurried out. It was Marks running towards us. He was crazy with

liquor, and in one hand he flourished a gun. There was foam on his lips

and he screamed as he ran. Then we saw him stop before the tent occupied

by the Halfbreed, and throw open the flap.

"Come out, you dirty tin-horn, you crook, you Indian bastard; come out

and fight."

He rushed in and came out again, dragging the Halfbreed at arm's length.

They were tussling together, and we flung ourselves on them and

separated them.

I was holding Marks, when suddenly he hurled me off, and flourishing a

revolver, fired one chamber, crying:

"Stand back, all of you; stand back! Let me shoot at him. He's my meat."

We stepped back pretty briskly, for Marks had cut loose. In fact, we

ducked for shelter, all but the Halfbreed, who stood straight and still.

Marks took aim at the man waiting there so coolly. He fired, and a tide

of red stained the other man's shirt, near the shoulder. Then something

happened. The Halfbreed's arm rose quickly. A six-shooter spat twice.

He turned to us. "I didn't want to do it, boys, but you see he druv' me

to it. I'm sorry. He druv' me to it."

Marks lay in a huddled, quivering heap. He was shot through the heart

and quite dead.