THE THREE WISE MEN

By Ernest Haycox

They came ambling down the depopulated, sun-filled street, one by one; stopping opposite a rickety building that formerly housed Jack’s Dollar Bar; looking about them with careless, uninterested glances, then dodging into a stairway that led to the story above the erstwhile bar, and entering a barn-like room, empty of furniture save for a huge sheet-iron stove, a card table and four chairs. The floor of the room was deep with sawdust, and, superimposed on this, in the immediate vicinity of the table, was a layer of torn cards, cigar stubs and other miscellaneous debris. On the table reposed a solitary plug of very black tobacco and four water glasses. The air was redolent with the odor of stale smoke, tinged with the fragrant, aromatic suggestion of that volatile and precious liquid known as Old Crow, Aged in the Wood.

They came in one by one—first the marshal, then the mayor, then the judge—sitting down in the chairs about the table. The marshal shaved a thin sliver of tobacco from the plug and adjusted it in his mouth with a few rolling motions of the lips; the mayor took a huge bite from the same plug and immediately commenced the reducing process. The judge drew a corpulent cigar from an equally corpulent waist pocket, lit it and brought a pack of cards from another pocket, while the marshal raked out a collection of chips from the table drawer and began distributing them. Silently they cut for deal; silently the judge shuffled, passed the deck to be cut, and silently dealt.

The legislative, executive and judicial branches of the public corporation of Calent were in session.

They played for the first half hour in absolute silence.

“This here joint’s gettin’ too durn dirty,” finally remarked the marshal as he laid down three aces and raked in a small pot.

“Well, well,” rumbled the judge; “ain’t you got anybody in jail? Bring a couple of ’em up here and have ’em clean it out. You’re too easy on them jungle bums.” He shifted his big bulk about in the chair. “Every time I send a man to jail you fatten him up on your rest cure. First thing we know we’ll have all the Weary Willies in th’ country blowin’ in here. I pass.”

“Ain’t got nothin’ fer ’em t’ do,” said the marshal mildly. “I open th’ pot fer three chips.”

“G’n,” gurgled the mayor, motioning for three cards on the draw.

“Hut, hut! Nothing to do?” repeated the judge testily, dealing around. “Give ’em shovels and put ’em to work on that big bump in Main Street near the tracks. Seth Lowry came near breakin’ a spring of his truck on that the other day. Bet?”

“Bet ten. Dunno ’bout that. We been hirin’ Joe Rieneck to do the gradin’ lately—three ladies I got—an’ he might get sore if I was to use prisoners.”

“Let him kick. Who’s running this town? Him or us?” The judge grew red in the face at the thought. “Dang—that’s the third time I been beat by queens.” He passed the cards to the mayor. “I’m gettin’ thirsty, Jim.”

The mayor made a move toward his hip pocket. Suddenly the marshal stopped him.

“Hold on,” warned that dignitary. He drew himself erect. “As marshal of Calent it’s my bounden duty to confiscate all licker and to pinch them as has it.”

The mayor stopped his hand and looked mildly interested.

“Well, well,” said the judge impatiently.

Slowly the marshal unpinned his badge of authority and laid it on the table. “Now,” continued he, “as a private citizen I hanker fer a drink of that hooch. Bring ’er forth, Jim.”

“Ah,” said he, several liquid seconds later.

“Who-o-o-o-o-o,” was the judge’s reaction. “Gosh-a-mighty, Jim, that’s strong poison. Who stung you this time?”

“Contraband—travellin’ salesman—cut th’ cards.”

The game went on, with only the occasional click of the chips and the impatient grunts of the judge to break the silence. Then the blue eyes of the marshal lifted from his hand.

“Peg Nell ain’t hashin’ at the Greek joint any more.”

The judge slammed his chips down with emphasis. “I knew it,” he snorted. “Once bad, always bad. You can’t change ’em. Bet ten.”

Calent lies huddled on the edge of the desert, between the “V” formed by the junction of two railroads that, in their onward journey to ’Frisco, merge at that point. Once upon a time it had been a boom town for something or other, and in the wild, lawless element that poured in the painted women multiplied and prospered. The town grew very frank about the matter and established public cribs, recognizing the element, but segregating it. Then Calent went the way of all or most all boom towns, and in the general exodus all but a few of these women sought greener fields. The solid, non-floating population that remained felt a sudden spasm of virtue, closed the cribs and ran the rest of the women out. All but Peg Nell. For some inexplicable reason she begged to stay, and said she’d ‘go straight’ if they’d let her alone. So the three wise men, in solemn session over the card table, held council and consented. She found a job in a Greek restaurant near the railroad tracks, and to all outward indications Peg Nell was being decent. Now, as the marshal had said, she had left the Greek joint, but was still living in the town, which left a rather obvious inference to be drawn.

The mayor made undistinguishable liquid clucking sounds, evidently meant for pity.

“’Course she may be sick. That’s what the wop in the restaurant says is wrong.”

“Ah—sick—rats!” was the judge’s impatient rejoinder. “They’re all the same. Once bad, always bad. They don’t get away from it.”

“Well, she may be sick.” Suddenly the marshal had an idea. “If there’s anybody who’d know, Kirschberg ought to.”

Kirschberg was Calent’s man about town, in the worst sense of that term. He owned a small curio shop near the depot, filled with a chaotic collection of genuine Indian pottery and baskets, made in a San Francisco factory, which he vended to an intermittent tourist traffic.

“Rot! No doubt about it. She ought to be run out of town—eh, Jim?”

The mayor shifted his lank frame. “Yeh; if she’s gone back again; might see Kirschberg, though; can’t tell a speck about it.”

The marshal was already to the door. “We ought to kinda kid him along,” he flung over his shoulder. “He’s a strange sort of polecat.”

He was soon back, followed by a heavy, black-jowled man, glistening bald.

“Ha, ha, gents. Want a little young blood in your game, eh? Well, maybe I can give you satisfaction. Wonder what our fellow townsmen would think if they saw their officials indulging? Sly old dogs! Ha, ha! Trust me; I’ll never tell; know too much. Many a sweet bit of information I could peddle out. But no, sir; I ain’t the man to blab. Know too much.”

“All right, all right,” the judge motioned toward a fourth seat. “Sit down; let’s get a-goin’.”

“Sure, sure. How much are the chips—nickel apiece? Nothing like a little friendly game of poker. Little game never does anyone any harm, so long’s it’s gentlemen that plays it. Up to me? I pass, gentlemen. No card above a six spot in my hand. No, sir; nothing like a little friendly game of poker. Enjoy life; that’s my motto. Play a little, drink a little—”

The judge cleared his throat loudly, puffed up his cheeks and drummed on the table nervously with his fingers. “I hear, Jim, that Peg Nell’s gone back to her old tricks,” said he, addressing the mayor.

“H’m.”

“Ought to be run out of town,” repeated the judge.

“Some say she’s sick,” added the marshal reflectively.

Kirschberg looked up. “Peg Nell, is it, gentlemen? Well, now maybe I know something about Peg; who knows?” He winked slowly at the three. “Sol Kirschberg ain’t no tortoise; enjoy life is my motto—drink a little, play around a little——” he smiled heavily at the old men around the table.

The marshal seemed interested. “Know all about her, eh? Mebbe been hangin’ around lately?”

“Well, Sol ain’t no tortoise.”

“Gone back, has she?” The marshal dealt the cards with meticulous care.

Kirschberg held up a pudgy hand. “No, not exactly. But you give her time. She got sick and the Greek canned her. She’ll run out of money pretty soon; then mebbe Sol ’ll be hangin’ around—” he stopped suddenly and looked a bit nervous. “Of course, this is among gentlemen, and gentlemen keep their secrets. But you know how it is—once a bad egg, always a bad egg. They don’t change. That’s what Sol says, and I guess I know some that’s tried it. So Sol ’ll just be on tap when the time comes.”

The marshal appeared vastly amused. “Slick feller, ain’t you? But she’s still goin’ straight?”

“Yep.”

“How do you know?”

Kirschberg flushed. “Well, between gentlemen—don’t mind saying I was around the other night and she raised a rough house and had some mick kick me out. But wait; she’ll go back when her money runs out. They all do.”

The judge rose suddenly, strode to the window and opened it. The marshal’s blue eyes asked a question.

“Air’s too danged foul in here for me,” snorted the judge by way of answer.

The mayor made a clucking sound and the other two old timers turned in time to see a curious expression on his face and note the strange way he was handling his cards. The judge said, “Um,” and the marshal looked reflectively at Kirschberg’s pile of chips.

An hour later that young man rose from the table rather awkwardly, his naturally oily face still more oily.

“Ha, ha, gents, social game; guess I’d better be trotting back to the shop. I’ve dropped about enough for one day. No hard feelings. Sociable game among gentlemen.”

The marshal, as if by sudden impulse, turned toward the man as he stood in the doorway. “By the way, I don’t figger I’d hang around Peg’s any more if I was you.”

Kirschberg appeared puzzled. “Why?”

The marshal shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, I just wouldn’t. I figger it’ll be mighty unhealthy fer you—just a bit of advice from an old timer.”

The judge appeared to be in the throes of an internal hemorrhage. When he did manage to speak it was with a benevolent, honeyed sweetness. “Yes, my son; I’d stay away, permanently, if I were you. Otherwise you’ll be in danger—great danger.”

“Unhunh,” said the mayor, abstractedly fingering his chips.

Kirschberg paled a bit, murmured thanks for the advice and walked out.

“Pho-o-o-o,” said the judge. “Dang, but the air is foul in here. I ain’t got any respect for Peg, but that low-livered son of a gun is going to go to the calaboose fer as long as I can send him if he goes within a block of her roomin’ house.” He pounded the table violently to emphasize his words.

“Wish you wouldn’t wiggle the table so much,” said the marshal. “You’ll knock off the chips.”

The mayor stirred. “How much we win from him?”

They counted it up. It came to about $50 in money and I. O. U.’s. The mayor reached over and took the winnings from both men, added it to his own, and put the whole into his pocket.

“What—what—what’s the idea?” spluttered the judge.

“This’ll be a little donation from Kirschberg to Peg.”

The judge rose. “Rot—poppycock—sentimentality. We ought to run her out of town on general principles.” He stalked out.

The mayor removed the sliver of tobacco from his mouth, took a fresh chew and followed. The marshal returned the chips to the drawer, still in its original, pristine shape, pinned on his badge slowly and likewise sought the door. One by one they left the place, glancing about them with uninterested looks, and hurrying off down the sun-filled street.

The august session of the legislative, executive and judicial branches of the public corporation of Calent was over for the day.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the October 1921 issue of Overland Monthly magazine.

About This Book

This work is believed to be in the public domain in the United States. Copyright status in other countries may vary; readers outside the US should verify the status in their own jurisdiction.

Originally published by The Butterick Publishing Company in Adventure Magazine, October 1921

Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net).