VI GALLAGHER’S RETURN

When Gallagher came back to Brownsville he did not expect to be met at the steamboat-landing by a delegation of citizens eager to welcome his return. There was no thought in his mind of having to listen to an address of eulogy and being obliged to reply with a few or a great many well-chosen remarks.

The idea of a brass band and a display of fireworks tooting and blazing in his honour had never entered his head. The most he hoped for was to be able to sneak across the gangplank unnoticed, and to make his way under the friendly obscurity of darkness, in case it should happen to be after nightfall, along the edge of the levee to the neighbourhood of his own house, where he might remain in seclusion until such time as he should learn what the disposition of the community might be, and more especially what Long Mike’s attitude toward him was.

The recollection of all the circumstances attending his departure from Brownsville was sufficiently vivid in his mind to fill him with apprehension, and the utmost caution seemed absolutely necessary when he determined to return. He recalled distinctly that, after he had tried Long Mike’s temper to the point at which further endurance became impossible, that usually good-natured person became suddenly furious with rage, and not only discharged him from his employ—that, Gallagher was accustomed to—but strove earnestly to preclude the possibility of hiring him again, by the simple but effective expedient of killing him.

It should be said that Long Mike seldom attempted to kill anybody. Murder was not his habit, he being usually a tolerant person, albeit he required a full equivalent of labour in return for the wages he paid.

On such occasions, however, as he had deemed serious enough to demand extreme action, he had never been known to fail to get his man, until Gallagher had eluded him by a flight that took him far from Brownsville. Some months had elapsed since then, but Gallagher had no means of knowing whether his boss’s wrath had cooled or not.

The caution he displayed in eluding observation when he went ashore from the river boat was not, therefore, uncalled for. Knowing the ground perfectly, even in the darkness, he picked his way carefully to the door of his own house, but before lifting the latch he stopped and listened, as one who was in great doubt. As he continued to listen he passed through many phases and degrees of doubt, perplexity, and amazement.

It was his own house beyond a question, but many things had happened since his sudden departure. Long Mike was impetuous, but not devoid of generous impulses, or of a prejudice in favour of fair play. When he realized that he had wrought injustice to Mrs. Gallagher in the fervour of his pursuit of her husband, he had taken effective and characteristic measures to remedy the wrong.

This was largely due to the personality of Stumpy, whose Irish blood boiled on slight provocation, and who entertained no fear, even of his boss, when he was moved to remonstrate against any happening which failed to comport with his ideas of propriety. Stumpy it was who said:

“Sure, it was a blackguard’s thrick to lave Misthress Gallagher widout a bed to lie on, or a shtove or a taable to her back.”

“Did Gallagher do that?” demanded Long Mike, indignantly.

“He did not,” said Stumpy, “but there’s them that did.”

“Who did it?” asked Long Mike.

“It was yoursilf,” said Stumpy, and stood immediately on the defensive.

The look of blank astonishment that Long Mike gave at the accusation was at least presumptive proof that he did not realize his offence, and seeing it, Stumpy’s wrath was somewhat assuaged. It did not right the wrong, however, and Stumpy wanted that done.

“It was whin ye was lukkin’ f’r Gallagher,” he explained. “Belike ye was confused wid the rage that was in ye, an’ maybe a thrifle o’ liquor, too, but ye found his house, an’ him not bein’ there, by the mercy o’ God, ye smashed, and smashed, an’ there’s nothin’ left.”

“Did I, now?” said Long Mike, and he chuckled, whereat Stumpy’s wrath blazed up again.

“Ye did,” he said, briefly, “an’ ’twas a blackguard act for to lave a lone woman deshtitoot.”

“Aisy now, Stumpy, aisy now,” said Long Mike, good-naturedly. “Av that pirut, Gallagher, has left his woman deshtitoot—”

“ ‘Twas you drove him away,” interrupted Stumpy.

“Yis, an’ a good job. Av he cooms back, I’ll break ivery dommed bone in his body,” exclaimed Long Mike, with sudden fury. “But I’ll have no woman suffer in Brownsville, Stumpy. Av that dirty pirut lift her deshtitoot, as ye say, she’ll be took care of. Mind that.”

Taken care of, she had been, in Brownsville fashion. New furniture had replaced the stuff that Long Mike destroyed, and, as the house contained two rooms, or one more than Mrs. Gallagher required to live in, the sporting element of Brownsville had established the custom of using her extra space for a card-room.

Whenever a game was in progress, the good lady retired to her own apartment, but after the players had departed she always found that the kitty, established for her benefit, remained on the table. And inasmuch as the income she derived from this source was much larger, and no more irregular, than that which she enjoyed from Gallagher, it had come about that she no longer felt any very keen anxiety for his return.

All this was, of course, unknown to Gallagher, as he listened, and his surprise at the unexpected sounds he heard was natural enough.

One Harrison had been in Brownsville for two or three days, in company with his side partner, Davis, the two being on one of their occasional business trips down the Mississippi Valley. They had been known to play in some of the principal cities, but for the most part they preferred the smaller places, being of the variety of sports commonly known as crossroads gamblers, and Brownsville was one of their favourite stopping-places.

They had at first been inclined to question the use of a private house for their purposes, but after the circumstances were explained, they had acquiesced readily enough, and on this occasion they were sitting in.

Long Mike was there. It would have taken more than one Gatling gun to keep him out of a game when one was in progress and he was in the neighbourhood. McCarthy had a hand also, and Billy Flynn.

McCarthy was a character. He loved the game of poker with a fervour that would have made him a large winner if he could only have learned how to play the game. As it was, he only sat in at such times as he had sufficient money saved up from his wages to buy a stack. And he never sat long.

Flynn was a good player, and Long Mike was better than the average, but neither of them knew enough of the game to detect the peculiarities of play that gave Harrison and Davis a large percentage in their favour.

They had been playing for half an hour, and only the remnants of his stack remained to McCarthy, when he caught a king full, pat, on Flynn’s deal. It was a jack-pot, and Harrison, having first say, opened it for the size of it, which was a dollar and a quarter. The game was a small one.

McCarthy raised it all he had, which was about seven dollars more, and the others all laid down, including the opener, who showed jacks. McCarthy took down his two dollars and a quarter winnings, and proceeded to make the only additional blunder that was possible under the circumstances. He showed his hand and exulted in his winning.

It was nobody’s business to instruct him, and the others smiled grimly as Harrison took the cards to deal. He was impatient at the smallness and the slowness of the game and made ready for a killing.

Shuffling with extra care, he dealt good hands to everybody, making sure of the aces at the bottom of the deck that he could utilize in the draw. It would have been pitiful, had there been anybody there to see, to note the way in which everybody backed his cards, and the fact that Harrison’s full of tens on aces scooped the pot.

McCarthy was out of it, and Flynn and Long Mike had to buy again, but they were brave, if foolish, and being well supplied with money, they played on. McCarthy sat by watching. The fascination held him, even though he could play no longer.

Suddenly he saw that which made his eyelids contract and his jaw set itself like a bulldog’s. He said nothing at the moment, but watched carefully until it came Harrison’s turn to deal again. Then he leaned a little forward and looked a little more intently.

Again it was a jack-pot, and Long Mike opened it. Davis and Flynn dropped, but Harrison raised it, and Long Mike stayed. When it came to the draw he called for one card, and McCarthy spoke up.

“If it’s two pairs ye’re drawin’ to, you’d better split ’em an’ draw three cards,” he said, and Long Mike stared at him in amazement.

“An’ what for should I do that, I don’t know?” he said, but Harrison broke in with an oath and an angry:

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said McCarthy, very distinctly, “that you’ve stacked the cards and—”

Further than that he did not speak, for Harrison’s gun was out and almost in position before McCarthy could grapple him and seize his wrist. At the same moment Flynn grabbed the pistol itself and strove to wrench it from his fingers.

Even with two men holding him, and they were both powerful men, the gambler struggled mightily, and for a moment seemed about to wrench himself free. The three were all over the room.

It was harder to keep Long Mike out of a fight than to drag him away from a bar or poker game. Moreover, though he held McCarthy in contempt as a gambler, he knew him for a man who spoke the truth, and leaping to his feet he started forward.

Davis, however, sprang up at the same instant, and, stretching out his foot, he tripped the big man and threw him headlong on the floor. Drawing a knife from his belt, he threw himself on the prostrate form and raised his arm for a blow. In the excitement nobody noticed that the door had been opened.

“Whurroo!” said Gallagher, and threw himself into the fray.

There was no time to find a weapon, and he carried none, but he was handy with his feet, and a well-directed kick not only lamed Davis’s elbow for a week, but knocked the knife from his hand half-way across the room. It would have been between Long Mike’s ribs but for the kick. Disarmed and disabled, the desperado was no match for the two men, one of whom was grappling him from beneath while the other was continuing to kick from above.

At this moment the pistol went off and Gallagher fell to the floor. Flynn had got possession of the weapon, but it had been discharged in the transfer and Gallagher’s head was directly in line. Having it, however, Flynn used it promptly and stunned Harrison with a single blow, practically ending the shindy, for Long Mike made short work of Davis when he realized the situation.

“Is he kilt?” he inquired, anxiously, as Flynn and McCarthy bent over Gallagher. “Sure he saved my life when this blackguard was shtickin’ me like a pig.”

“I think he is,” said McCarthy. “There’s a hole in his head the size of a shtove door.”

But the bullet had glanced, and Gallagher was only stunned. Sitting up a moment later he said:

“Will ye’s all get out o’ my house? I have confidential affairs to discuss wid Misthress Gallagher.”

“We will,” said the three friends, as they departed, dragging the gamblers with them.

Then the other door opened.

“Is it you, Pat?” said a female voice.

“It is,” said Gallagher, “an’ I’d like my supper. But first ye’ll give me a bit o’ a wet rag till I wipe my head.”