Chapter 44
Derrick Gregory

Chinese Camp was about ten or twelve miles south of Sonora. I figured I’d ride there first.

There probably wasn’t much chance of finding anybody in the morning, but I could look around, ask, and then I could go on to Jacksonville three or four miles farther on and see about getting a room for the night at that boardinghouse. I didn’t much relish walking into strange hotels and saloons and asking about a man I didn’t know. I still couldn’t figure out why Mr. Kemble had sent me after this Gregory when, like he said, he had other more experienced men. I couldn’t believe it was only that he wouldn’t recognize me. Especially when I didn’t have any idea what I was supposed to be doing, or how I’d find out the information Mr. Kemble needed. But I noticed that every time I walked into a strange or uncomfortable situation, it got easier the next time.

So when I saw the sign above the door advertising “Shanghai Slim’s” as I rode into Chinese Camp, I didn’t feel nearly so queasy in the stomach at the thought of walking inside. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but at least I knew I could do it.

I got off my horse, tied her to the rail outside, and went in.

It was obvious in a minute where the place got its name—both the town and the saloon. Inside, the decorations looked more Chinese than anything I’d seen before in California. And although there weren’t very many people there, more than half of them were Chinese. A man wearing a green apron was sweeping the floor in front of the bar. From his appearance I thought he must be the owner.

“Pardon me,” I said, “are you Mr. Slim?”

He stopped his broom, glanced up at me, and answered in a thick Chinese accent, “You bet. I Shanghai Slim.” The look he gave me seemed about the friendliest I’d seen in a long time, and he almost hinted at a smile. But I couldn’t be sure.

“I’m looking for a man by the name of Gregory,” I said.

The short little man pointed behind me, then without another word returned to his sweeping.

I turned around and saw, among the half dozen empty tables in the room, a group of men involved in a poker game at one of the tables. From the looks on their faces, I wondered if it had gone on all night, or if it was just getting started on a bad note. The only one apparently having a good time was one jovial Chinese man with a pile of money and some little bags of gold sitting in front of him. Several others who had apparently dropped out of the game stood by watching.

Slowly I approached them. No one even saw me. A pile of coins, some paper, and a couple of small nuggets of gold lay in the middle of the table, and all six of the men had their fingers curled tightly around their cards. Most of them had creases on their foreheads and were examining their hands intently. Finally a Chinese man broke the silence.

“Not me. I fold,” he said throwing his cards face down in front if him. “I out this hand.”

“I’ll stay,” said the man next to him. “That is, if you’ll all take this nugget as good for the fifteen-dollar call.” He held up a piece of gold between his thumb and first finger that looked to be about a half an inch thick all the way around.

“Okay by me,” said a player across the table, and his words were followed by various nods and mutterings of approval.

The first man tossed the nugget into the middle of the table, where it sounded against the other coins there and rolled to a stop.

“I’m in,” said a third man, laying two paper bills into the pot.

The next man eyed his cards carefully, then sent his thin Oriental eyes squinting one at a time around the table of his companions as if trying to penetrate either their thoughts or see through the backs of their cards. Finally he spoke. “I only once see man draw two cards to inside straight, and his face not look like yours. So I think you bruffing.”

The look of satisfaction I had noticed on this man’s face at first from his obvious winnings had now disappeared.

“I call your fifteen,” he said. “And another fifty.”

He reached into the pile in front of him and first tossed in two coins for the fifteen. Then with great deliberation he dropped five more ten-dollar gold pieces one at a time into the pot.

Sighs and exclamations went around the table. A couple of the men threw their cards down immediately.

To the left of the rich Chinese, a grubby looking miner laid his cards down and leaned back in his chair. “Well at least I’m glad you did that before I called with the fifteen. It’s all yours, Ling. I’m out.”

To his left, however, a well-dressed man, who looked somewhat out of place among both Chinese and dirty unkempt miners, cracked a tiny smile as he glanced again at his cards, then looked over into the eyes of the Chinese man who had just raised the bet to fifty. When he spoke, in spite of a deep serious look in his eyes, there was humor in his tone.

“Now, Ling,” he said, “you asked for two, I took one. You figure me to be going for the inside straight. And I figure since you’re so confident, then you must have three of a kind. My gut tells me you didn’t pick up either the four or the full house, and that you’re still standing with the same three you were dealt.”

He paused, and now smiled broadly at the man called Ling.

“So if you want to see if I did hit on my inside straight, I’m going to make you pay for the privilege.”

Still with his eyes on the other man, his hand went down in front of him and found five coins, which he tossed into the pot. It left him with only five dollars in his own pile.

One by one, all those who had previously called threw in their cards until it came again to Mr. Ling.

He laid his cards down in front of him, face up. “Three kings,” he said.

“Well, Ling,” said the man who had raised, “it appears at last your string of luck has come to an end. For you see, I picked up the straight . . . jack high!”

He laid down the five cards with a triumphant look of satisfaction and let out a great laugh, while various reactions and exclamations went round the table on the part of the others.

While he was scooping up the pot he had just won, I walked timidly the rest of the way to the table. He didn’t see me until I was almost beside him.

“Uh . . . excuse me,” I said shyly, “would you by any chance be Mr. Gregory?”

“That’s me,” he answered, still raking in his money. “Who wants to know?”

At last he glanced up to where I stood, and before giving me a chance to say anything more, let out an exclamation.

“Well, well! It looks like you came just in time to change my luck, honey! Derrick Gregory, at your service!” he said, flashing a grin.

He stood, took off his hat, and gave an exaggerated bow. As he rose from the table I saw that he was taller than I had realized, with curly black hair and eyes of the same color. He appeared to be in his early thirties. The smile revealed his teeth, though his voice and look didn’t appear altogether genuine.

“I would like to talk with you,” I said.

“Oh, I’d be right pleasured t’ speak with ya, Miss,” interrupted one of the other card players, a dirty man with a leering face I didn’t like at all. “Now you jest come right over here t’ me, an’—”

“Snap your big trap shut, Frank, or I’ll stuff my fist into it!” said Mr. Gregory in my defense.

“Tarnation, Greg, I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“Well, just stay out of it!”

And though Frank didn’t say another word, I still wasn’t sure what to think of Derrick Gregory either.

“Now, girl,” he said, towering in front of me, “who are you, and what are you hankering to tell me?”

“I’m Cornelia Hollister,” I said, “and I understand you’re a newspaper writer.”

The smile faded from his face. He started to lead me toward the other side of the room, saying as he did, “You fellas go on without me. I figure I owe this little lady a few minutes, the way she won that pot for me!”

As we moved away, a few whistles and jeers followed us.

“Don’t pay any attention to them,” he said to me. “And don’t one of you think of touching my pot!” he called out over his shoulder. “I’ll count every penny when I get back!”

He led me out the door and into the bright sunlight.

“You see, none of those men in there—they don’t know exactly that I’m a reporter. They know I’ve been around a while asking some questions, but as long as they can keep winning some of my money at poker, they don’t care too much about what I’m up to. And that’s the way I’d like to keep it. So what is it you heard about me—what’d you say your name was?”

“Cornelia.”

“So what makes you think I’m a writer?”

“I just heard about you, that’s all.”

“And what did you hear?”

“That you’re writing about the election,” I answered.

He sat down on the edge of the wood sidewalk, his long legs stretching out into the dirt street. Then he looked up and scanned me up and down as if taking stock of me for the first time.

“So you’re interested in the election, eh, Cornelia?”

I nodded.

“That all?”

“I’ve always wanted to be a newspaper writer too,” I said.

He smiled again. “A girl wanting to be a writer!” he exclaimed. “And so you figured I could give you a few pointers, eh, is that it?”

I didn’t answer right off, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Cornelia what?” he asked.

“Hollister.”

“Hmm . . . Hollister . . .” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then after a few seconds went on. “Well, Miss Hollister,” he said, “I’m not saying anything one way or another about what I may or may not be. But I figure I owe you one. Ol’ Ling in there’d been beating me all day and all night and had just about cleaned me dry till you walked up. So just maybe this is your lucky day as well as mine.”

He didn’t seem to take me seriously. But on the other hand, he didn’t mind talking to me either, which was all I could have hoped for.

“Where do you come from, Cornelia?”

“I rode down from Sonora.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” he said, getting back to his feet. “I’ve been staying at a place down in Jacksonville, and I got some folks I gotta see down at Big Oak Flat. If you want to ride along with me, I’ll tell you a thing or two about this election, and maybe let you watch me conduct a real live interview in person. You game?”

“Oh yes, thank you very much!” I said enthusiastically. “I would like that.”

After just a few minutes with him, I wasn’t worried about riding off alone with Derrick Gregory. There was nothing about him that frightened me, although I couldn’t help being on my guard. He talked to me as if he were sharing his great experience and wisdom with a little kid, which in this case I didn’t mind.

“Let me go back in there and get my loot and tell those old coots that we’re leaving. And then we’ll hit the trail, Miss Hollister.”