# The Joyous Trouble Maker/Chapter 25
### CHAPTER XXV THE JUDGMENT OF THE IVORY BALL

NOW there came to Bill Steele the hot desire to smash Joe Embry, smash him good and hard. Not for that which he had done to him, but for what he had done against Beatrice Corliss with that cursed place of evil of his in Summit City, which he had assured her was run by Steele himself. Soon or late he would get Joe Embry, and he dared think, with that hot rush of anger, that the time was now and in a way which Joe Embry did not look for. For again there came to him Bill Rice's words, his own thought of the afternoon: His luck, if there is such a thing as luck, was running high!
At Flash Truitt's word the dealer counted out to him from his shallow drawer fifty shining golden discs, each a twenty dollar piece. Steele, taking them silently, after having said curtly that he preferred the gold to the chips, was puzzled to know why he had not guessed long ago just the nature of the business which had kept Joe Embry here. The thing was so obvious, now that his suspicion had been awakened. All along he had merely accepted Embry's own explanation, that he was looking for timber investments, and had not troubled to note that not a single investment had been made.
​"Running rotten dives is what he was cut out for," he grunted to himself. "And then trying to pass the buck to me!"
In another mood he might not have done the foolhardy thing he was doing tonight … and again he might. For always was he Bill Steele, who took his chances and was reckless with money. But now, assured that the "wheel" was straight for the simple reason that they would not have dared bring a crooked lay-out into a camp like this, he stood at the table, his money stacked in front of him, his hat pushed far back on his head, his eyes suddenly gone stern. If there were anything in a man's run of luck he meant to test it tonight.
"I'm not betting nickels this trip, pardner," he said quietly to the dealer. "What's your limit?"
Already there were a dozen men drawn up about the table, sensing the beginning of one of those games which are worth being watched. The dealer, measuring Steele gravely with a long, steady look, turned for instructions to Truitt, meanwhile clicking his chips softly.
"Take the roof off for him, Pete," directed Truitt.
"You hear him?" said the sober-faced dealer. "Bet 'em as high as you like, friend."
"If you don't mind," continued Steele, "I'd like to see what you've got in your cash box."
The dealer nonchalantly raised it to the table for Steele's counting. The drawer held in the neighbourhood of two thousand dollars yet. Steele laughed at him.
​"I said, but I guessed you didn't hear me, that I wasn't betting nickels tonight."
The dealer removed the cash box, shrugging. Truitt came out from behind his bar, saw what was wanted and asked for a moment to straighten matters. Pushing his way through the ever growing knot of men, he went to the safe, which stood in plain sight at the end of the bar, coming back with a buckskin bag.
"Forty-five hundred more, friend," announced Pete, the dealer, when his lightning swift fingers had made the count and dropped the money in place. "Close to seven thousand in sight. Will that do you for a while?"
"For a beginning, yes. Truitt, you'd better telephone to some of Joe Embry's other gambling houses for some more money."
"Don't know what you mean, Embry's houses. ..."
Steele shrugged.
"Ask Embry, then. Also, you'd better give me a few more counters. Will you honour another check for a thousand?"
"Yes," retorted Truitt. "Write it."
Steele wrote, cashed it, and placed his first bet. The ivory ball was whizzing, the red and black and green sections of the table inviting him. Leaning forward, he put a stack of ten twenty-dollar pieces on the double-O.
Swift word went back and forth through the long room that Bill Steele, the man of Hell's Goblet, was bucking the bank; that he had placed his first bet of two hundred dollars; that he had bought two thousand ​dollars of counters; that he had blood in his eye. Before the little white ball had come to rest the crowd looking on had doubled, jamming into a tight-packed throng, watching interestedly, held back a pace or two to give Steele room for his play. The couple of men making desultory pikers' bets had drawn back; the dealer had straightened his back and adjusted himself for business; the lookout on the high stool tossed away his stub of a brown cigarette; Flash Truitt had signalled to an aide to take his place, Joe Embry had at last come where he too could watch.
The ball slowed, hesitated, half stopped, came to the full stop on number seventeen.
"Repeater," muttered one of the men who had ceased playing.
While the dealer drew to him Steele's two hundred dollars and again sped the ball in its constricted course, men turned their eyes toward the man who had lost his bet, seeking to see of what stuff he was made. He merely drew slowly at his cigar, his hand quiet on his piled gold pieces, waiting for the ball to leave Pete's fingers.
"Mind if I trail your luck, Bill?" asked a quiet voice at his elbow.
He did not need to turn to see who it was. Bill Rice had come in and forced his way to Steele's side.
"Your lucky horse'll carry double," continued Rice, his hand going down into his pocket. "Fifteen dollars' worth of tickets, Pete. You ain't afraid I'll spoil your play, are you, Bill?"
"Come ahead," returned Steele quietly.
​The dealer counted out Rice's stack and Steele again placed his bet. Again it was two hundred dollars, laid on number five. Rice hastily accompanied it with his own bet of seven dollars. The ball, in its characteristic indecision, came to rest on number four. The dealer drew in the two hundred and seven dollars.
"Good sign to lose at the beginnin'," grunted Rice with apparent satisfaction.
"He's lost four hundred in two shots," whispered one of the onlookers to a newcomer.
And again Steele lost, again it was two hundred dollars risked against overpowering chance. This time he had bet on thirteen and Rice had shoved out a stack representing five dollars to go into the quick fingers of the dealer. And again, two hundred lost by Steele, his last three dollars gone from Bill Rice.
"Wait a minute, Bill," commanded Steele, as Rice was drawing back with a shrug. "I'll stake you in a minute."
Eight hundred dollars gone while the ball had circled four times. And yet, had he won at any one of those hazards, then would he have broken the bank. Now, taking the same long chance, he placed the last two hundred of the first thousand dollars on the table, picking his old favourite number five to win. While the hasting ball held the result in doubt he turned his head quickly. Joe Embry had come closer and now was watching him with frankly unhidden interest, a contemptuous smile in his eyes. Steele turned back to the table and watched the ball come to rest marking number twelve.
​"There's a thousand more in the bank now than there was at the start," offered the dealer tonelessly, "Come again, friend. The roof's off for you."
"He's just gettin' started, pardner," grunted Rice. "Look out for him."
As the ball left the quick fingers, Steele cut his stack of twenties in half, dropping five hundred on the red where the odds are not so great against a man. The dealer allowed himself a smile; it was his thought that Steele had begun to lose a little of his nerve, that he was going to play just as near safe as a man can play who dallies with roulette. But he looked up for a swift reappraisal as Steele placed the other five hundred out on the table, playing number five again.
"Should I win you can cover it?" he was asking quietly.
Embry pushed his way up to the table; Flash Truitt and he stood side by side. Embry spoke a quiet word in Truitt's ear. Truitt answered Steele's question, saying quickly:
"We can cover."
The ball was slowing down, flirting with the numbers. Steele stood the chance of losing his whole second thousand, or of winning five hundred with the one bet on the red if red came, losing the other bet and so breaking even on the play … and stood the long chance of winning seventeen thousand dollars if number five was chosen by the ivory pellet as its resting place.
Now he did not watch the table, but keenly studied Joe Embry's face. He had had one inspiration to-night; now he believed that another had come to him. ​He had no doubt that Embry had prompted and engineered the attack at the Goblet. Now it was Embry's way to do most things from under cover just as he was running the string of gambling houses; it was further Embry's way to play safe. That bit of outlawry of the other night had entailed its double danger of a bullet in the darkness and a possible sentence in the state prison. Would Embry take chances like that just for the sake of striking at Bill Steele? Or did he need the money?
There was the question: Was Joe Embry already hard driven? While he posed at affluence had his affairs, perhaps, not prospered? Right now was he unusually eager that Steele should lose and lose heavily? Not so much because he hated the man as because he wanted the money?
But Embry's face was like a mask. His own thoughts he kept his own. Steele turned back to the table. The ball was slackening its speed. It flirted with number five, almost promising Steele thirty-five times the five hundred dollars he had placed there. Steele jerked up his head and again stared at Embry. This time he saw that Embry's lips had tightened perceptibly. Another instant and he saw a quick light leap up in the sombre eyes; he had little need to turn back to the table to know that number five had lost.
And now would it be red or black? He still had his chance to break even on the single play. And, like a final assurance that his "luck" had deserted him, black won.
​He caught the flash of triumph in Embry's eyes now, the look which Embry turned upon him mockingly.
"Two thousand more in the till than when we started," droned the dealer, drawing the stacked coins to him with both hands. "Come again, friend?"
For the first time a little flush showed under Steele's tan, showed and was gone. With no answer to Pete, he turned to Truitt.
"Have you telephoned to the other dives yet?" he asked coolly, "for some more money?"
"It doesn't seem needed yet, does it?" demanded Truitt sharply.
"I'll take ten thousand dollars of chips if I can see something worth while to play for," Steele told him steadily. "I began by saying that I wasn't shooting nickels tonight. Can you show me enough in your drawer to make it worth a man's while to stake ten thousand?"
The dealer shrugged, leaving the answer to Truitt. And now it was Embry saying bluntly:
"Do it. Telephone to Summit City, Indian City and Red Cliff. I'll put up a thousand from my own pocket to see you clean this man. You can get the other cash here in a couple of hours."
"I want to see at least fifty thousand," said Steele, still addressing Truitt. "Can you scare that up as bait for my ten thousand?"
"Yes!" cried Truitt. "Damn it, yes. Give me two hours."
Steele nodded, turned and made his way through the ​men going to the door, Rice at his heels. If he were a fool to take the long chances offered a man at the wheel, well, at least Bill Steele knew that as well as another. If he chose to risk, to lose ten or twelve thousand tonight, well, he had risked and lost more before now. But he was not the man to miss the chance he thought he saw to "smash Joe Embry." Just outside Rice caught up with him.
"Mean it, Steele?" asked Rice, his voice a trifle excited. "Goin' after him that strong?"
"Yes, I am," returned Steele.
"Then," cried Rice, hanging on his heel, "I'll just stick around and keep my eye on that lay-out until you get back! The table is as square as any of them, and it's goin' to stay that way."
"With that crowd watching they'd hardly dare monkey with it," said Steele. But Bill Rice merely grunted and turned back to see whatever might be done.
At his cabin Steele spent upwards of two hours smoking and thinking. From tomorrow on he was going to do what a man could to put himself upon a new footing with Beatrice Corliss. If one day he could make her think of him a little as he felt toward her, that was his one aim in life. Just how one did this sort of thing, just how he, Bill Steele, should set about "making love" seriously, he did not know. But he saw his work cut out for him and it was to begin as soon as might be. In the meantime, tonight he had to do with Joe Embry.
So far as Steele knew Joe Embry might be a very ​rich man just now. But with that sort of certainty which sometimes stands sturdily upon a foundation of hazard, he believed very strongly that Embry was over eager for money because he needed it mightily, that if at Embry's own game he could break Embry's bank, he would be in part paying off a rather long score. To do that he was ready to take his chance, the long, long chance which the wheel gives him who woos her.
His telephone ringing at last found him unshaken in his determination. It was Flash Truitt, saying eagerly:
"We're all ready if you are, Mr. Steele."
"I'll be right over," returned Steele and hung up. He took his automatic from his pocket, shoved it into his trousers band, buttoned his coat about it and made his way promptly to the gambling house.
A glance at the dealer's drawer assured him that Embry's messengers had come. But before he had cashed his check for ten thousand dollars he insisted upon estimating the strength of the bank he had set out to "buck." It had increased to forty-seven thousand dollars.
"I called for fifty thousand at least," he said quietly.
"Your own check for ten thousand goes in with the rest," the dealer answered him. "Making a total of fifty seven thousand. All right?"
"If it is the best you can do, yes. Give me chips this time; fifty chips, figuring each one at two hundred. Let her roll, pardner."
As before, Steele was the only man playing. By common consent the other players left off, preferring to ​stand in a tight-packed mass watching him than to make their own smaller bets. And also, as before, Rice moved up close to his side.
"I said I'd stake you," said Steele. "How much, Bill?"
"One chip; Pete'll give me regular value chips for two hundred bones for it."
The chip passed into Rice's hands, was shoved to the dealer and honoured with other tall stacks. The ball was rolling; Steele leaned forward and placed his first bet. It was one chip, two hundred dollars, on number five. Rice accompanied it with the venture of four dollars.
"That's my pro ratty!" grinned Rice.
While the first play was in progress Joe Embry came forward through a back door and took his former place near the end of the bar, whence he could watch. Chewing at his cigar, he looked placid and cool, though there was unusual lustre to his black eyes. The dealer called for a glass of mineral water and settled down to alert attention to business. The lookout sat with his right hand lost under his coattail.
"Twenty-six," remarked the dealer when the ball stopped, touching the lucky square of the table with a finger tip, drawing in two hundred and four dollars and setting the ball spinning.
Men craned their necks to see the next play, seeking to know if Steele were playing a "system." His answer was another bet on number five, this time for four hundred dollars.
"Doubles each time," commented a long, yellow ​visaged spectator. "Which ain't bad if you can stick it out."
Bill Rice doubled with him, offering eight dollars, standing to win two hundred eighty dollars to Steele's fourteen thousand.
"Nine wins," said Pete, and with leisurely arm accepted the two bets which, with the ball speeding again, he arranged in their places at his hand.
"If he doubles 'em again," muttered the jaundiced man, "he's a sport!"
And Steele doubled without hesitation, laying eight hundred dollars on number five. Rice followed his lead, serenely awaiting a winning, hazarding his sixteen dollars. And both lost, the ball indicating the double-O.
Now would Steele double again? Would even he, plunger as a few quick plays had shown him to be, hazard sixteen hundred dollars on one play? Even Rice looked quickly up into his face for the answer. But no answer was there to be read; it was given with the gesture which again sought number five and shoved to it eight blue chips, each chip, two hundred dollars.
Shrugging, Rice followed him with thirty-two.
And they lost.
"Me," pondered Bill Rice, "I'm out sixty little bones like one two three. An' Bill's shot three thousand! The ol' son of a gun!"
The ball rolled and men stretched their necks in that tense excitement which is allowed onlookers. Yes; he was going to double again. … No, he wasn't. He was playing his original bet again, two hundred dollars on number five. And five lost, the double-O repeating.
​She's sure a great little repeater when she gets started, huh, boys? Four hundred again, Mr. Steele?"
"You guessed it, pardner," said Steele.
The four hundred he lost, number eleven winning. Coolly he played eight hundred … and lost. Sixteen hundred … and lost.
"There's another six thousand in the till now, friend," droned Pete. "And plenty room."
A man laughed; Rice scowled at him; Steele smiled and went back the second time to his original bet of two hundred. He caught a glimpse of Embry's face and that look hardened the muscles of his entire body. He emulated the dealer and called for a glass of Shasta.
The two hundred, Bill Rice's four dollars with it, went where the other bets had gone. Steele drank his water, pushed his hat back, bet four hundred. Lost and doubled; lost and doubled. Lost and was aware of the fact that after this brief time of quick play he had paid across the table an even nine thousand dollars. Since he had staked Rice to two hundred he had just eight hundred left. And since every man who watched knew as well as he did just what was left to him, every man of them asked himself:
"Will he stick to the same thing?"
If so he had but three plays left to make should the goddess of chance not alter her attitude toward him, two hundred, four hundred and a final two hundred. But those who had watched thus far knew that he was not the man to drag out a long play; that he took his chances and did not "play for nickels." And they felt ​that he would do what he did. He placed two hundred dollars on number five. And lost.
"Two more bets, friend," said the dealer.
"Just one, out of this little bunch of change," returned Steele equably. And having placed his last bet of six hundred dollars, he sought his pipe. If that six hundred should be swept from number five into the dealer's pile, he was asking himself soberly: "What will I do next? Quit or buy another stack?"
But the ball had stopped and he turned a little to smile into Joe Embry's bright eyes.
"Number five wins," droned the dealer. "Twenty-one thousand, friend; five hundred sixty to your friend."
Black anger was in Joe Embry's eyes; a surge of joy in Steele's heart. Twenty-one thousand dollars he had won on the last play … against an investment of twelve thousand … he had regained his losses and made nine thousand dollars over all. …
"Most likely he'll quit now," came a cool, contemptuous voice, the voice of Embry, which, cold as it was, was vibrant with passion.
"Quit?" snapped Steele, swinging about on him. "Quit, Joe Embry? No, damn you, I won't quit. I'm out after you tonight and what's more I am going to get you."
The ball rolled and Steele placed his bet. He had estimated swiftly that there remained in the bank, counting his own check, approximately thirty-six thousand dollars. And so, with that in mind, he laid his chips.
​"One thousand dollars, pardner," he offered casually. "On number five to repeat!"
Now Embry came a step forward and allowed his placid brows to be drawn into rough furrows; now men struggled on the outer fringe to crowd closer; now Rice's fingers shook a little as he made his companion bet of one hundred dollars, losing in the excitement his former judgment of "pro ratty." And men breathed softly or breathed not at all while the ivory ball circled and slowed and hesitated and seemed to stop and rolled on and on, filled with indecision until the last, and came to a dead stop on … number five!
A shout went up to go far out into the woods to vie with the rumble and roar and boom of Thunder River; in the uproar the dealer's open palm falling upon his table seemed to strike soundlessly; the dealer's lips, forming the words "Broke the bank, by God!" shaped sounds that died in the din; Joe Embry's face went white, dead white, while his eyes stared incredulously. For on that last play alone Bill Steele had won thirty-five times the amount he had played, and that meant thirty-five thousand dollars; Bill Rice had won thirty-five hundred … and in the bank there was no longer the money to pay out "a man's sized bet"!
Unruffled, the dealer was stacking out upon the table the forty-six thousand dollars which were Steele's when he "cashed," when Embry's voice broke in stridently:
"Hold on there, Pete! Don't pay that bet! The wheel has gone bad. …"
"So?" Steele wheeled upon him, his hand inside ​his coat now, the fingers locked to the grip of his automatic. "So, Joe Embry? Walk easy, Joe; talk easy, and don't make a mistake. Bill, rake in what's ours and count it."
Bill Rice, outright after his fashion, drew in the money with one hand, his left, while in full sight of him who cared to see was Bill Rice's old style Colt forty-five, very still in his right hand. And out of the corner of his alert eyes Rice, too, watched Embry and Truitt and the lookout.
"Fair play!" shouted a big voice. "He's won it. Take it, Steele. We're with you."
"Thanks," Steele answered. "I'm taking it."
Embry, beside himself for one of the few occasions in his life, drew and fired. But a disinterested onlooker had seized him by the shoulders and jerked him backward, the bullet tore into the ceiling and Embry disappeared under three or four men who had thrown themselves upon him.
"Take it, friend," droned the dealer. "It's yours and I wouldn't wait too long. Hey, barkeep, gimme another shot Shasta."
Steele and Rice were accompanied to the cabin by half a dozen of Rice's friends. To a man they were exuberant that a game run in a house of Flash Truitt … or Joe Embry … should be made to pay. Doubly exuberant as Steele thanked them for their company. For as they departed every man of them carried in his pocket a little gift, and each gift was of one hundred dollars.
​"Talk about luck!" cried Rice exultantly. "Didn't I tell you, Bill Steele? Didn't I tell you?"
And Steele already was wondering if there really were such a thing as luck and if his would stay with him until …
"Lucky at gamblin', though," grinned Rice, "unlucky in love they say! Huh, Bill? You an' me don't give a damn, though; do we?"
Whereupon Steele could have found it in his heart to kick his joyous friend. He wondered …