Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Soapy
Soapy
by Mike Miller
pages 27-37
Several drinkers moved up to the pair, thanking Bowers for the round.
A couple wore the unmistakable brands of newcomers to the north,
spanking-new mackinaws and wool trousers, boots unbroken and still
shining, faces and hands soft and uncalloused.
Even without looking at Bowers, Smith knew what the old capper
would be thinking. He nudged “the reverend’s” ankle and shook his head
negatively when Bowers looked his way.
His deep voice, with its cultured undertone, captured an audience with
his first words. This, of course, was nothing new. His voice, his way of
handling a man or a crowd, these were the makings of Jefferson Smith.
“How fortunate, then,” said Bowers, “that I have a set of shells and a
pea right here.” He pulled them from his coat and laid them on a table. “But
I…I’ve never been able to manage the trick. Would you demonstrate it?”
“It’s a simple trick, Reverend,” said Smith. “I place the pea beneath
one shell, like this. Then I rotate all three shells from place to place o the
table top, like this. And in a moment’s time I’ve made you lose track of
which shell contains the pea. Now, for instance, I’m sure you don’t know
where the pea lies.”
“I’m sure I do,” laughed Bowers. “So sure that if I lose I’ll buy more
drinks for the boys here. Provided, of course, that you’ll buy if I win.”
First with a look of triumph, then of dismay, Smith lifted the center
shell. The pea lay there.
“This time…, Mr. Bowers, we shall see. I’d wager my last dollars I
can fool you yet.”
From behind came the familiar drone of George Wilder’s bass voice.
“If you’re really so sure, Colonel whatever-your-name-is, I’ll wager you for
about fifty of those last dollars.”
Again the sharp thrill of the game, the chase, the kill, quickened Jeff
Smith’s breathing.
nod and peeled out fifty dollars in bills. Then he stuck the pea beneath a
shell.
Once again he shuffled the shells across the table. Grinning, Wilder
picked the left one. And to Smith’s apparent chagrin, Wilder had guessed
right.
There was one thing about that colonel, all the crowd agreed. He sure
was a marvelous loser. He quickly offered Wilder the opportunity to double
his income and Wilder just as quickly accepted.
This time, for the first time, Smith won. But Dixon doubled on the
next three plays and walked off with a modest poke of Jeff Smith’s money.
Now three or four men clamored to get into the action. With his own
cappers out of the game Jefferson Smith studied each one briefly but
intently. Which would have the most to lose? Which would stay in the game
the longer? Which might spoil the mood of the crowd when he lost?
“I’m warning you,” he said to a heavy set miner. “It’s like I told the
other men. This isn’t a game, it’s a trick. You can’t beat me.”
The whole crowd roared with laughter. Bowers and Wilder and Dixon
were particularly hilarious. “No sir,” Wilder exclaimed, holding up his
bulging poke, “no indeed, he can’t lose.” Tears of mirth rolled down his
cheeks.
4
As the crowd knew he would, the portly miner won the first two
contests easily. He’d have lost the third time, but the friendly preacher,
Bowers, talked him into choosing the left, not the center shell. He won still
again.
“Now,” he answered the man, “which one, sir? Which shell hides the
pea?”
Obligingly Jeff Smith raised the right shell and sure enough there lay
the elusive green ball.
“Right you are, sir,” said Smith, “And I’m mighty glad it wasn’t’ you
I bet against.”
“You’d better be glad,” said Red Gibbs, now a trifle belligerent. “I’ve
picked every damn one of ‘em right tonight. Every damn one. If I had a cent
to bet against you, you’d be broke.”
5
“No damn guessing about it. I just got eyes which’re faster’n his
hands.”
“I’ll stake you, and give you a tenth of the take, mister,” said the
second voice. “Okay with you, Colonel?”
And of course under Red Gibbs’ guiding hand the poor sucker lost.
After two small wins the man bet heavily, more than $700, and for the “first
time” that evening Red Gibbs erred.
The third loser, a big, strapping, dirty brute of a fellow, took a long
time doing it. Once, Smith feared the man would quit, and while he led the
game at that. But with careful coaxing he stayed in. He’d win a little, lose a
little more. Finally he’d dropped nearly $800.
He stood towering over the seated Smith and glared down through
eyes that reflected suspicion and no little anger.
“Got $750 left,” he bellowed, “And this watch. Gold watch. Bet that
against the $800 you took.
“Which one?”
Smith lifted it, and revealed nothing. Then he reached over and took
the man’s money.
6
The giant reached down and hurled the table aside, moving toward
Smith. His clenched fist doubled back, ready to fly forward with devastating
power.
In an instant Smith whipped back his suit coat and drew a pistol from
his belt. He aimed it straight at the man’s head.
“Your choice, Friend,” said Smith. “Make one more move forward
and you die.”
For uncounted moments the man stood immobile, ready to spring yet
not quite making his move. Then, slowly, the arm lowered, he moved
backward. Before he turned he spat at Smith and muttered some foul oath
which no one could hear.
Clancy’s Saloon stood silent for a few moments after the big man left.
Jeff Smith turned to Bowers. “I think that ends the demonstration, Reverend
Bowers. Let’s go see about my accommodations.”
“But first,” he said, looking around the room, “let’s buy one more
round of drinks for the house.” A cheer went up, prompted by Wilder and
Gibbs and Dixon. Jeff Smith continued, “A round of drinks, Clancy,
courtesy of Soapy Smith, who has decided to make Skagway his home!”