Chương Chương 28 · BOOK III CHAPTER II

Here was the item:

Jack Locasto loses $19,000.

"One of the largest gambling plays that ever occurred in Dawson

came off last night in the Malamute Saloon. Jack Locasto of

Eldorado, well known as one of the Klondike's wealthiest

claim-owners, Claude Terry and Charlie Haw were the chief actors in

the game, which cost the first-named the sum of $19,000.

"Locasto came to Dawson from his claim yesterday. It is said that

before leaving the Forks he lost a sum ranging in the neighbourhood

of $5,000. Last night he began playing in the Malamute with Haw and

Terry in an effort, it is supposed, to recoup his losses at the

Forks. The play continued nearly all night, and at the wind-up,

Locasto, as stated above, was loser to the amount of $19,000. This

is probably the largest individual loss ever sustained at one

sitting in the history of Klondike poker playing."

Jack Locasto! Why had I not thought of him before? Surely if any one

knew of the girl's whereabouts, it would be he. I determined I would ask

him at once.

So I hastily finished my coffee and inquired of the emasculated-looking

waiter where I might find the Klondike King.

"Oh, Black Jack," he said: "well, at the Green Bay Tree, or the Tivoli,

or the Monte Carlo. But there's a big poker game on and he's liable to

be in it."

Once more I paraded the seething street. It was long after midnight, but

the wondrous glow, still burning in the Northern sky, filled the land

with strange enchantment. In spite of the hour the town seemed to be

more alive than ever. Parties with pack-laden mules were starting off

for the creeks, travelling at night to avoid the heat and mosquitoes.

Men with lean brown faces trudged sturdily along carrying extraordinary

loads on their stalwart shoulders. A stove, blankets, cooking utensils,

axe and shovel usually formed but a part of their varied accoutrement.

Constables of the Mounted Police were patrolling the streets. In the

drab confusion their scarlet tunics were a piercing note of colour. They

walked very stiffly, with grim mouths and eyes sternly vigilant under

the brims of their Stetsons. Women were everywhere, smoking cigarettes,

laughing, chaffing, strolling in and out of the wide-open saloons. Their

cheeks were rouged, their eye-lashes painted, their eyes bright with

wine. They gazed at the men like sleek animals, with looks that were

wanton and alluring. A libertine spirit was in the air, a madcap

freedom, an effluence of disdainful sin.

I found myself by the stockade that surrounded the Police reservation.

On every hand I saw traces of a recent overflow of the river that had

transformed the street into a navigable canal. Now in places there were

mudholes in which horses would flounder to their bellies. One of the

Police constables, a tall, slim Englishman with a refined manner, proved

to me a friend in need.

"Yes," he said, in answer to my query, "I think I can find your man.

He's downtown somewhere with some of the big sporting guns. Come on,

we'll run him to earth."

As we walked along we compared notes, and he talked of himself in a

frank, friendly way.

"You're not long out from the old country? Thought not. Left there

myself about four years ago--I joined the Force in Regina. It's

altogether different 'outside,' patrol work, a free life on the open

prairie. Here they keep one choring round barracks most of the time.

I've been for six months now on the town station. I'm not sorry, though.

It's all devilish interesting. Wouldn't have missed it for a farm. When

I write the people at home about it they think I'm yarning--stringing

them, as they say here. The governor's a clergyman. Sent me to Harrow,

and wanted to make a Bishop out of me. But I'm restless; never could

study; don't seem to fit in, don't you know."

I recognised his type, the clean, frank, breezy Englishman that has

helped to make an Empire. He went on:

"Yes, how the old dad would stare if I could only have him in Dawson for

a day. He'd never be able to get things just in focus any more. He would

be knocked clean off the pivot on which he's revolved these thirty

years. Seems to me every one's travelling on a pivot in the old country.

It's no use trying to hammer it into their heads there are more points

of view than one. If you don't just see things as they see them, you're

troubled with astigmatism. Come, let's go in here."

He pushed his way through a crowded doorway and I followed. It was the

ordinary type of combined saloon and gambling-joint. In one corner was a

very ornate bar, and all around the capacious room were gambling devices

of every kind. There were crap-tables, wheel of fortune, the Klondike

game, Keno, stud poker, roulette and faro outfits. The place was

chock-a-block with rough-looking men, either looking on or playing the

games. The men who were running the tables wore shades of green over

their eyes, and their strident cries of "Come on, boys," pierced the

smoky air.

In a corner, presiding over a stud-poker game, I was surprised to see

our old friend Mosher. He was dealing with one hand, holding the pack

delicately and sending the cards with a dexterous flip to each player.

Miners were buying chips from a man at the bar, who with a pair of gold

scales was weighing out dust in payment.

My companion pointed to an inner room with a closed door.

"The Klondike Kings are in there, hard at it. They've been playing now

for twenty-four hours, and goodness knows when they'll let up."

At that moment a peremptory bell rang from the room and a waiter

hurried up.

"There they are," said my friend, as the door opened. "There's Black

Jack and Stillwater Willie and Claude Terry and Charlie Haw."

Eagerly I looked in. The men were wearied, their faces haggard and

ghastly pale. Quickly and coolly they fingered the cards, but in their

hollow eyes burned the fever of the game, a game where golden eagles

were the chips and thousand-dollar jack-pots were unremarkable. No doubt

they had lost and won greatly, but they gave no sign. What did it

matter? In the dumps waiting to be cleaned up were hundreds of thousands

more; while in the ground were millions, millions.

All but Locasto were medium-sized men. Stillwater Willie was in

evening-dress. He wore a red tie in which glittered a huge diamond pin,

and yellow tan boots covered with mud.

"How did he get his name?" I asked.

"Well, you see, they say he was the only one that funked the Whitehorse

Rapids. He's a high flier, all right."

The other two were less striking. Haw was a sandy-haired man with

shifty, uneasy eyes; Terry of a bulldog type, stocky and powerful. But

it was Locasto who gripped and riveted my attention.

He was a massive man, heavy of limb and brutal in strength. There was a

great spread to his shoulders and a conscious power in his every

movement. He had a square, heavy chin, a grim, sneering mouth, a falcon

nose, black eyes that were as cold as the water in a deserted shaft. His

hair was raven dark, and his skin betrayed the Mexican strain in his

blood. Above the others he towered, strikingly masterful, and I felt

somehow the power that emanated from the man, the brute force, the

remorseless purpose.

Then the waiter returned with a tray of drinks and the door was closed.

"Well, you've seen him now," said Chester of the Police. "Your only

plan, if you want to speak to him, is to wait till the game breaks up.

When poker interferes with your business, to the devil with your

business. They won't be interrupted. Well, old man, if you can't be

good, be careful; and if you want me any time, ring up the town station.

Bye, bye."

He sauntered off. For a time I strolled from game to game, watching the

expressions on the faces of the players, and trying to take an interest

in the play. Yet my mind was ever on the closed door and my ear strained

to hear the click of chips. I heard the hoarse murmurs of their voices,

an occasional oath or a yawn of fatigue. How I wished they would come

out! Women went to the door, peered in cautiously, and beat a hasty

retreat to the tune of reverberated curses. The big guns were busy; even

the ladies must await their pleasure.

Oh, the weariness of that waiting! In my longing for Berna I had worked

myself up into a state that bordered on distraction. It seemed as if a

cloud was in my brain, obsessing me at all times. I felt I must

question this man, though it raised my gorge even to speak of her in his

presence. In that atmosphere of corruption the thought of the girl was

intolerably sweet, as of a ray of sunshine penetrating a noisome

dungeon.

It was in the young morn when the game broke up. The outside air was

clear as washed gold; within it was foul and fetid as a drunkard's

breath. Men with pinched and pallid faces came out and inhaled the

breeze, which was buoyant as champagne. Beneath the perfect blue of the

spring sky the river seemed a shimmer of violet, and the banks dipped

down with the green of chrysoprase.

Already a boy was sweeping up the dirty, nicotine-frescoed sawdust from

the floor. (It was his perquisite, and from the gold he panned out he

ultimately made enough to put him through college.) Then the inner door

opened and Black Jack appeared.