He had ridden horseback more than a thousand miles over the roughest kind of country, and he had ridden the stage three times that far. He had ridden steamboats from New Orleans on the Mississippi to Fort Benton on the Missouri.
He had followed a dozen rushes to boom towns, had seen those towns born and had seen them die. He knew hundreds of the professionals of the frontier, the gamblers, the bartenders, the shady ladies, and the law officers who drifted from town to town.
Will Reilly liked to sing, and Val had learned dozens of songs which they sang while riding across country, and he knew as many poems, some of them fairly long, that Will was given to reciting to pass away the long hours of travel. Will had read a lot, from anything available, and he had a ready memory for facts gleaned from histories and almanacs. This had begun as a pleasure, but had developed into another source of gambling income, for he had learned very early that men will back their opinions with money, and that the memories of most men were hazy as far as historical facts were concerned. He was also a fine athlete, and an extremely fast foot-racer.
Foot-racing was a favorite frontier sport, and such races could be set up at a moment’s notice, and they were features of every frontier celebration. Will Reilly kept a small black book in which he listed the vital facts about the racing and fighting abilities of hundreds of men.
“Percentages, that’s the important thing,” he told Val. “Always play on the percentages; and never be enticed into a bet when you’re angry. Don’t ever risk money on sympathy or anger.
“Now you take Ray”—he indicated a stocky man who sat across the room, a dead cigar in his teeth—”Ray is one of the fastest men on his feet west of the Mississippi. He isn’t smoking that cigar. He never smoked or drank in his life. It’s all for show. He looks fat, but he isn’t really. And he can run like a bullet out of a gun—for a hundred to two hundred yards. Beyond that he’s no good. For him, the short distances are best.”
The black book also listed the speed of known horses, many of which were taken around the country and brought into town hitched to a buckboard or a farm wagon to fool those who might be led into betting.
“Never buck the other man’s game, Val,” Reilly said, “but watch the percentages. It is not one or two pots that make a poker player, but the consistency with which he plays. Winning big pots, while it can be spectacular, can also attract unfavorable attention. Thieves may decide you’re fair game, or some may get the idea that you are cheating.”
By this time Val had noticed that Will usually won several small pots during several days of play, and often would seem to let the big ones go by. “The secret of gambling, Val, is to gamble as little as possible. Nobody has to be dishonest to win. It is a matter of card sense, good memory, knowledge of people, and just a shading of luck.”
Will Reilly was strict, too, with Val. He demanded cleanliness, neatness, and gentlemanly conduct from him, and he made sure that he got them. What schooling Val got, he received from Will himself, for they rarely stayed anywhere long enough for the boy to enter a school.
Will taught him how to read, although he had already begun to learn, when he came to him, and how to cipher, and to make quick, accurate calculations of probabilities and percentages. And always there were the lessons in observation. Rarely a day passed when Val was not suddenly called on to describe country they had passed through, the clothing of a man, or the location of articles in a store.
“I don’t want you to be a gambler,” Will commented, “but the handling of cards will give dexterity to your fingers, improve your memory, and give you a quick grasp of a situation.”
Will never mentioned Myra, and Val did not ask about her. Actually, it was Van he remembered best, because Van had been kind when no one else had been.
Will Reilly had an Irishman’s addiction to eloquence, and a natural love of politics. He had memorized passages from dozens of speeches, and on their long rides they often recited together, or one of them would begin a poem, the other would complete it.
They were eating in a restaurant and talking of poetry when a bearded man at the next table turned around in his chair. “What you tryin’ to do, make a mollycoddle out of the boy? Teachin’ him all that sissy stuff?”
Will Reilly looked at him coldly for several seconds. Then he took the cigar from his mouth and placed it on the edge of a saucer. “My friend”—his voice was cold—”I read poetry, I like poetry. Do you wish to call me a mollycoddle?”
The bearded man started to speak, and his companion kicked him under the table. “Jeff!” he said warningly, but Jeff was not listening.
“Now maybe I might. Just what would you do about it?”
“I will tell you what I’d do about it,” Reilly replied coolly. “If you had a gun, I would kill you. If you did not have a gun, I’d whip you within an inch of your life.”
The big man had been drinking, which destroyed any natural caution he might have possessed. Suddenly he dropped his hand to his boot and flashed his knife.
Val never saw Will’s own hand move, but suddenly his blade was out and the big man’s hand was pinned to the table. The bearded man gave a choking cry of pain, and a trickle of blood ran from his hand.
“Val,” Will Reilly spoke calmly, “hand me that copy of Tennyson, will you? I believe this gentleman should have his education improved.”
Taking up the bottle on his table, he filled a glass and handed it to the bearded man. “Use your free hand, and drink that,” he said, “then listen.”
Val never forgot those next few minutes. With the man’s hand pinned to the table, Will Reilly leafed through the pages of Tennyson, one volume of a two-volume set he had recently acquired, and then read slowly, in a strong, beautiful voice:
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife I—
Slowly, while men gathered around and watched in awe, Will Reilly read the whole of Tennyson’s “Ulysses.” Then he reached over and grasped the hilt of his knife and said, “Let that be a lesson to you, my friend, and if I were you I would cultivate the study of poetry. There is much to be learned, and poetry can be a companion for your lonely hours.”
He lifted the knife clean from the man’s hand and the table and, reaching over, wiped the blade clean on the big man’s beard. “I am a quiet man,” he said, “and prefer to eat and talk in peace.”
He got up. “Come, Val. And bring the book.”
They went outside. Val felt sick at his stomach, and he was trembling.
“I am sorry, Val, that you had to see that, but the man was a trouble-hunter and he might have forced me to kill him, which I would not want to do.”
They walked slowly down the street together. “I do not like violence, but ours is a time of violence, and there are some men who understand nothing else.”
At daybreak they were on the stage to Silver City. The driver had walked to the station with them when the last stars were fading. “You won’t be crowded none, Will,” he commented. “Not many riding the stage these days. Skeered of the ‘Paches.”
“I put my faith in you, Pete,” Will said, smiling. “If you can’t outrun them, you can outfight them.”
“Me? You’re funnin’.” He glanced at Reilly. “That true, about you an’ Jeff Reinert?”
“I met somebody called Jeff last night,” Will admitted. “He didn’t tell me his other name, and I didn’t ask.”
“Heard you pinned him with a blade and then read poetry to him.”
“Something like that.”
“You’re a hard man, Reilly.” They walked a few steps further. “You come close. Reinert killed a man over to Tubac a few weeks back, an’ they do say he cut up somebody over to Yuma.”
“He was a reckless man.” They had reached the station. “It is never a good idea to call unless you have some idea of what the other man is holding.”
The driver glanced at Val. “You want to ride topside with me, young feller? Glad to have the company.”
“Nobody riding shotgun?”
“Later. We’ll have two good fightin’ men, at least, an’ goin’ through the Pass we’ll need them.”