“It is well, Foul One.” Wihio bobbed his head and smiled.
The world dropped back into place in a rush of burning wind and bright sunshine. Bill looked at the table, calculated the state of play and set his gun down on the eight card.
He didn’t even see the game vanish. His posterior hit the ground, jarring all the breath out of him. For a moment, Bill blinked stupidly up at the cloudless sky.
A wrinkled hand reached into his line of vision. Bill let Fallen Star help him to his feet.
“Thank you,” Bill ran his hand through his hair. Long Nose handed him his hat. He nodded to the silent brave.
“We thank you, Gambler,” Fallen Star said. “Now,” Sunlight caught a spark deep in the medicine man’s eyes, “I would ask you to please leave this place.”
“What?” Bill pushed his hat down over his rumpled hair and holstered his gun. “After all that? How about that land you promised me?”
Fallen Star sighed. “I will take you to where we found the stone, if that is what you wish, but hear what I say first.
“Our people take the war trail against each other. Your people have too much hunger for things which are not yours and we have too many young men like Standing-in-the-West.
“You have done us a great service. I do not want to hear that one of my braves has taken your life.”
Bill dug his hands into his pockets. A scrap of fur brushed his palm and Wihio’s mocking presence brushed his mind.
He sighed. “Just as well, I suppose. I’d just about made up my mind to go straight anyways.” He held the coyote tail out to the medicine man.
“To keep away your Devil?” Fallen Star accepted the token.
McGregor shook his head. “No. To get him good and mad.” He cracked a smile. “It’s the only revenge I’m likely to get on him for letting Ned die.” He dug his hands into his pockets. In a strange way, he actually had lost his life on that faro table. Only he hadn’t lost it to the Devil. Bill glanced at the clear, blue sky. Well, his father’d be pleased anyway.
Fallen Star raised his hand and the wind blew gently around them. “May you have a bright sun and blue sky for your journey, Gambler.”
McGregor raised his hand in return. Then, he set his back to the prairie and started walking.
Sold to Satan by Mark Twain
It was at this time that I concluded to sell my soul to Satan. Steel was away down, so was St. Paul; it was the same with all the desirable stocks, in fact, and so, if I did not turn out to be away down myself, now was my time to raise a stake and make my fortune. Without further consideration I sent word to the local agent, Mr. Blank, with description and present condition of the property, and an interview with Satan was promptly arranged, on a basis of 2 1/2 percent, this commission payable only in case a trade should be consummated.
I sat in the dark, waiting and thinking. How still it was! Then came the deep voice of a far-off bell proclaiming midnight-Boom-m-m! Boom-m-m! Boom-m-m!-and I rose to receive my guest, and braced myself for the thunder crash and the brimstone stench which should announce his arrival. But there was no crash, no stench. Through the closed door, and noiseless, came the modern Satan, just as we see him on the stage-tall, slender, graceful, in tights and trunks, a short cape mantling his shoulders, a rapier at his side, a single drooping feather in his jaunty cap, and on his intellectual face the well-known and high-bred Mephistophelian smile.
But he was not a fire coal; he was not red, no! On the contrary. He was a softly glowing, richly smoldering torch, column, statue of pallid light, faintly tinted with a spiritual green, and out from him a lunar splendor flowed such as one sees glinting from the crinkled waves of tropic seas when the moon rides high in cloudless skies.
He made his customary stage obeisance, resting his left hand upon his sword hilt and removing his cap with his right and making that handsome sweep with it which we know so well; then we sat down. Ah, he was an incandescent glory, a nebular dream, and so much improved by his change of color. He must have seen the admiration in my illuminated face, but he took no notice of it, being long ago used to it in faces of other Christians with whom he had had trade relations.
…A half hour of hot toddy and weather chat, mixed with occasional tentative feelers on my part and rejoinders of, “Well, I could hardly pay that for it, you know,” on his, had much modified my shyness and put me so much at my ease that I was emboldened to feed my curiosity a little. So I chanced the remark that he was surprisingly different from the traditions, and I wished I knew what it was he was made of. He was not offended, but answered with frank simplicity:
“Radium!”
“That accounts for it!” I exclaimed. “It is the loveliest effulgence I have ever seen. The hard and heartless glare of the electric doesn’t compare with it. I suppose Your Majesty weighs about-about-”
“I stand six feet one; fleshed and blooded I would weigh two hundred and fifteen; but radium, like other metals, is heavy. I weigh nine hundred-odd.”
I gazed hungrily upon him, saying to myself:
“What riches! What a mine! Nine hundred pounds at, say, $3,500,000 a pound, would be-would be-” Then a treacherous thought burst into my mind!
He laughed a good hearty laugh, and said:
“I perceive your thought; and what a handsomely original idea it is!-to kidnap Satan, and stock him, and incorporate him, and water the stock up to ten billions-just three times its actual value-and blanket the world with it!” My blush had turned the moonlight to a crimson mist, such as veils and spectralizes the domes and towers of Florence at sunset and makes the spectator drunk with joy to see, and he pitied me, and dropped his tone of irony, and assumed a grave and reflective one which had a pleasanter sound for me, and under its kindly influence my pains were presently healed, and I thanked him for his courtesy. Then he said:
“One good turn deserves another, and I will pay you a compliment. Do you know I have been trading with your poor pathetic race for ages, and you are the first person who has ever been intelligent enough to divine the large commercial value of my make-up.”
I purred to myself and looked as modest as I could.
“Yes, you are the first,” he continued. “All through the Middle Ages I used to buy Christian souls at fancy rates, building bridges and cathedrals in a single night in return, and getting swindled out of my Christian nearly every time that I dealt with a priest-as history will concede-but making it up on the lay square-dealer now and then, as I admit; but none of those people ever guessed where the real big money lay. You are the first.”
I refilled his glass and gave him another Cavour. But he was experienced, by this time. He inspected the cigar pensively awhile; then:
“What do you pay for these?” he asked.
“Two cents-but they come cheaper when you take a barrel.”
He went on inspecting; also mumbling comments, apparently to himself:
“Black-rough-skinned-rumpled, irregular, wrinkled, barky, with crispy curled-up places on it-burnt-leather aspect, like the shoes of the damned that sit in pairs before the room doors at home of a Sunday morning.” He sighed at thought of his home, and was silent a moment; then he said, gently, “Tell me about this projectile.”
“It is the discovery of a great Italian statesman,” I said. “Cavour. One day he lit his cigar, then laid it down and went on writing and forgot it. It lay in a pool of ink and got soaked. By and by he noticed it and laid it on the stove to dry. When it was dry he lit it and at once noticed that it didn’t taste the same as it did before. And so-”
“Did he say what it tasted like before?”
“No, I think not. But he called the government chemist and told him to find out the source of that new taste, and report. The chemist applied the tests, and reported that the source was the presence of sulphate of iron, touched up and spiritualized with vinegar-the combination out of which one makes ink. Cavour told him to introduce the brand in the interest of the finances. So, ever since then this brand passes through the ink factory, with the great result that both the ink and the cigar suffer a sea change into something new and strange. This is history, Sire, not a work of the imagination.”