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dochermes"What Do You Mean, You Know What Cards You Dealt Me?!"
12/11/1880
I.
He had been watching the adjoining poker games first with amusement and then with increasing uneasiness. Trouble was brewing like a storm cloud getting darker.
Johnny Packard had been growing sanguine with a square meal tucked under his belt. He sopped up the last of the ham gravy with a crust of bread to finish it. Most of his meals were miserable affairs out on the plains. Meat was rabbits or prairie hens that he shot or trout he caught from a stream, with some dried beans boiled in water or plain hard biscuits and near-coffee.
I could get used to this genuine cooking from a kitchen, done by a woman who knows her art, he thought. Only twenty, Johnny at first seemed a harmless runt. Not more than five feet four and barely one hundred and forty pounds at best, he was a slimy wiry young man. The thatch of dark red hair hung down over a sullen bony face with green eyes that never stopped moving.
Physically, there was nothing about him that seemed daunting at first. Not even the twin .45 Peacemakers in matched holsters at his hips were anything unusual in this region. Despite the railroad coming through twenty miles south, the town of White Blaze, Montana was still raw and mostly lawless. On a bitter December night like this, with the wind screaming like a banshee, being warm and dry was a great comfort.
The real menace in that saloon lay in the hatband of the black Stetson hanging by its cord down Johnny's back. Tucked beneath that beaded band was a strange coin of red metal marked with esoteric symbols which modern Humans did not know. Few had ever learned the secret of the Brimstone Kid and lived.
Sitting at his table in the back corner of the HORN OF PLENTY saloon, Johnny pushed his plate aside, settled back and sipped his whiskey. There were a dozen men drinking at the bar, trading jokes with the cackling girls who worked the rooms upstairs or grumbling complaints about their jobs. Nothing alarming there. He had been observing the card games going on while the piano player worked a medley of Stephen Foster songs to death. One of the games seemed harmless enough, two old miner-types muttering as they studied their grimy cards while a white-bearded pal sat and kibitzed. They were playing for pennies a point and had long since lost score.
No, it was the other two tables, seperated by twenty feet, that worried him.
Each game had three locals playing, ranchhands in rough well-worn clothing or townsfolk slightly better dressed but still simple working men. At each table sat a stranger, dominating the games.
At the game going on earest to Johnny sat a tall, quite handsome man with a strong jawline and crisp curly black hair. He was wearing a long frock coat and a frilled white shirt with a string tie. The effect waa impressive but not overdone, he was not so flashy as to cause immmediate suspicion. He was clean-shaven and kept a studious expression at all times. With a slight sigh, he placed his cards face down and waited for the other players.
"I'm out," said one cowhand. "This is gettin' too big a bite for me to chaw."
"Me, too. I'd have trouble playing high card wins! What about you, Hank?"
The final man at the table took a moment to chew on a soggy cigar butt that had gone out long ago. "I do believe we should show what we hold, sir." He spread his cards out on the table next to the loose stack of bills and silver dollars. "Three of a kind. Six of diamonds, clubs and spades. Mr Wander?"
The well-dressed man slowly laid down his hand where everyone could see it. "Only a flush. Five diamonds but not in any sequence. Still, I reckon it comes out on top."
Two of the men made disgusted noises and shoved their chairs back as they rose. The final player spoke with a quiet anger, "It 'pears to me you have enjoyed remarkable luck this evening, sir."
The man known as Wander started raking in his winnnings. "Luck always plays a part, that goes without saying. Still, if I may give some observations. When you receive a card you like, you hold your cards closer to you. When you are holding a disappointing hand, you let your cards droop until they can nearly be seen. This is a common beginner's tell."
"Is that so?" growled the man, sitting up straighter.
"I'm afraid it is." Wander shoved the coins and paper money into his coat pockets and picked up his derby hat from the empty chair next to him. "It's well said that a real player should never smarten up a chump, if you pardon the expression, but my advice would be to watch that habit the next time you engage in this game."
From where he had been sitting, Johnny Packard had clearly heard the whole exchange. He watched the ranchhand remain seated, not giving any sign of protest. Johnny relaxed slightly. He had been half expecting trouble.
Then he heard the outraged bellow from the other table, "Whaddaya MEAN, you know what you dealt me?! What the hell kinda thing is that to say?"
"A mere slip of the tongue, I assure you," replied a nasal voice with an accent from way back East. "I meant to say, I know what smelt here. My unfortunate lunch of chicken salad with a dab too much relish in the mayonnaise has resurfaced from the nether regions."
"That's not what I heard!" roared the voice. "Yuh goddamn snake, raise yore arms, I'm a-gonna search you and if I find some extra cards, you will not have time to beg! This is Oxheart Wooley you are dealing with."
II.
The man being accused froze into position behind a modest pyramid of money pulled up to him. This included a precarious stack of ten-dollar Gold Eagles. He was obese, about sixty years old and those had not been not wisely spent years judging by the red bulbous nose and thinning white-blonde hair. Johnny had seldom seen anyone dressed in a more clashing manner. This card player wore a dark green suit with thin white pinstripes, a hideous carnation-red shirt with a floppy yellow bow tie and a white beaver hat with a tassel that swung as he moved his head. Violet-colored gloves with rolled cuffs were the final jarring touch.
"Sir, this is a gentleman's game!" protested the man. "Such unkind remarks reflect poorly on your upbringing."
"Ahhh, shaddup!" The bulky cowboy called Oxheart was a massive brute in leather chaps over jeans, with a black shirt and a torn cloth vest. Untrimmed black hair parted in the middle and slicked down with animal fat did not improve his appearance. He yanked a .44 revolver not from a holster but from where he had jammed it into his belt.
When the cowboy thumbed back the hammer, a silence fell over the saloon. Even the drunk piano player took notice and paused on his third rendition of "Camptown Races" which brought relief to many. Johnny noticed the winning gambler at the other table had dropped one hand out of sight, definitely grasping at a gun of his own.
In that moment where every breath was held and no one even cleared his throat, Johnny Packard scraped back his chair and called out, "Simmer down there, mister. It's too cold a night to call the sheriff outta bed."
Some quiet confidence in the young redhead's voice got through to Oxheart. The big man lowered his shoulders visibly but he kept his gun trained on the gambler. "I don't see how this is yore concern, youngster."
"Pullin' iron on a seated man twice yore age, that ain't noble," the Kid said. "What say we check him fer any trickery afore things cross a line that can't be undone?"
Oxheart Wooley stared at the youth who was facing him. A foot shorter and a hundred pounds or more lighter in build than the big man, Johnny was wearing the usual boots and Levis, a red flannel shirt with an open denim vest. The black Stetson burned painfully against Johnny's shoulder blades as the cursed Darthan token urged him to transform but no one there had any way of knowing that. The young redhead's hands hung casually at his sides, not too close to the butts of his 45s but close enough.
The heavy brawler lowered his own revolver and carefully placed the hammer back. He should not have been intimidated by this strange boy and yet...
"Mebbe I'm wrong, son. I believe I might know who are you. Could be you hail from Texas?"
"Yep. Small town near the border. No need to name it."
"No, I calculate it's better left unsaid." Oxheart rubbed his unshaven double chin with a rough hand, making a sandpaper noise. "This jasper has been a'sitting at this table since sunset, taking money offen one honest man after another...."
"Otterson W Valentine, your obedient servant," drawled the gambler, tipping his beaver hat. "My friends sometimes honor me as 'Doc,' after my degree in Metaphysics at Heidelberg."
Striding over toward the table, Johnny felt everyone around him start to breathe again. Several men hastily scrambled out the door into the snow and wind rather than wait for any gunplay. As the Kid walked past the other gambler, he heard Wander say, "You handled that right sharply, Mr Packard."
Did everyone recognize him on sight? Johnny wondered if he might start rubbing some bootblack in his hair or growing whiskers for some anonymity.
Doc Valentine submitted to a search without offering resistance other than a running commentary of insults veiled under flowery language. There were no loose cards up a sleeve or tucked in a pants cuff but the old reprobate's pockets yielded a fascinating trove of unlikely items. Three unopened packs of playing cards, a tin box of snuff, colorful paper money from some country called the Commonwealth of Danarak, five postcards bearing images of naked women in extremely uncomfortable poses, a fountain pen from the CHICAGO HOME FOR RECOVERING SOTS, a silver hip flask containing what smelled like excellent bourbon and a handwritten challenge to a duel signed 'Tom Pinto.' A thousand dollar bill was pinned to the inside of his lapel, as well as long hatpin concealed within his headgear. No gun, not even a tiny derringer.
But they found no suspicious items from the well-known chardsharp arsenal. The cards that had been used had been provided by the owner of the HORN OF PLENTY, who swore he had never met this Valentine person before.
Arms folded across a barrel chest that heaved with rage, fuming but accepting the situation, Oxheart deflated and lost his menacing aspect. "Thunderation. I reckon there's nothing to be done short of organizing a necktie festival and it's too cold outside fer that."
As he saw Valentine start to stow the winnings away in various pockets, Johnny asked quietly, "What's yore connection with that other highly skilled hombre over there?"
"Never met the man, which must surely be his loss," Doc Valentine replied. "I arrived in this charming little hellhole on the noon stage from Helena. Previously, my time had been spent observing the curious religious rites of the Whathui Indians, you may have heard how they soak their heads in salty brine so they can hike prodigious treks under the desert sun?"
Before Johnny could reply to this doubtful claim, they were joined by the good-looking man who had been winning at the other table. "Permit me to introduce myself. My handle's Wander. I've been called a fair hand at poker and it occurs to me that perhaps Mr Valentine might care to play one more game. It's barely one in the morning."
"Call me Doc," drawled the red-nosed old rogue as he gathered up the cards that had been left all over the table. "I rejoice indeed to find a kindred soul in this Philistine outpost."
III.
Naturally, since every soul in the saloon had been hanging onto the conversation, the new game drew watchers. In a few minutes, two men who had been propped up at the bar wandered over and joined in. To everyone's surprise, Oxheart extracted a few dollars from inside his boot and asked to try his luck again.
"Ah, that's the spirit, my boy! Beneath that primordial exterior of yours lurks a valiant soul," observed Doc Valentine as he performed an unnecessarily complicated shuffle which took three minutes to finish.
The game started slowly and proceeded at a deliberate pace. Taciturn and dignified, Wander clearly had more approval from the onlookers than the fast-talking and boastful Valentine. Once or twice, Wander threw in some bit of wisdom his 'old Pappy back home' had taught him but mostly he concentrated on the game.
Although he played well and obviously was paying close attention, Doc Valentine spun one far-fetched yarn after another. How he had taught President Grant how to knit for relaxation, how he had hiked through the northern Rockies and been pursued by a pack of great fur-covered men, how he had known a man with three Paiute wives and twenty-eight childrens but who still had no one who would soap his back in the tub. His stories went on and on, but the watchers were so engrossed in the game that few disbelieving comments were made.
After an hour, the saloon was packed with onlookers and the HORN OF PLENTY was experiencing a boom in liquor sales. Johnny dropped back to his own table in the corner again, devoured a slab of apple pie with a slice of cheese on it, and watched the proceedings. He still felt the nagging pressure of the cursed coin in his hatband urging him to put the hat on and go raging out into the darkness as the real Brimstone Kid but he resisted it. Since he had left his horse Terror safely stabled out of the elements and since he had rented only a single room at the town's hotel across the street from this saloon, he felt he might as well enjoy the duel.
The sheriff dropped in at a quarter to three. Evidently someone had rousted him, but he seemed unconcerned. Johnny heard the sheriff tell the bartender that he had no warrants in his office for anyone who matched Doc Valentine or Wander as far as he could find. When he saw the notorious Brimstone Kid peacefully eating apple pie in one corner, the lawman had shaken his head as if in dispair at the way the world was headed. He left shortly after.
A succession of players bought into the game and dropped out, leaving a usual number of five at any time. The ante was getting huge, and Doc Valentine remarked that he would have to rent a wheelbarrow when the hardware store opened to take away his winnings. Wander had simply reminded him he should remember to win first.
By four o'clock, the crowd had thinned down to a dozen who continued to watch in hypnotized fascination. Oxheart Wooley had lost everything again. Johnny bought him a consolation drink and received some clumsy but well-intentioned words of thanks from the big man.
Only Doc Valentine and Wander were still in the game and they were both taking longer and longer with each hand. Finally, with a prodigous yawn that showed considerable gold inlays, Valentine admitted, "Dratted lumbago. The discomfort is tangible. I fear, my friend, that all good things must come to an end. What are your thoughts?"
It took so long for Wander to reply that Johnny stood up to see if the man had fallen asleep. No, he was just thinking. Wander rubbed his eyes and finally said, 'We each discard one card and draw one and then we match those hands. Agreed?"
"The venerable Dutchman Finale," drawled Valentine as he loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt. He had discarded the violet gloves long ago. "So let it be written, so let it be done."
A few seconds later, they both examined their final array. Everyone who was still in the saloon pressed closer to witness the finish. "I believe I will show my cards first, sir," Doc Valentine announced. "There. Behold the gentle ladies of the court, the Queens of Spades, Diamonds, Clubs and Hearts. Pay no attention to the Seven of Hearts, he's riff-raff of no consequence. I present you with four of a kind, sir."
"Not bad," Wander said, slapping his own cards down one at a time. "Here. Four, five, six, seven and eight, all Diamonds. Straight flush beats four of a kind, Doc."
"Cruel perfidy of Fate!" cried out Valentine as if stabbed in the heart. "Truly the gods look down and laugh."
"Someone wins, someone loses," replied Wander not unkindly. "But the money always changes hands." He was handed a small wicker basket by the barmaid, which he accepted. "Much obliged," he said with a dazzling smile. "I shall return this to you after the bank opens in a few hours."
As everyone withdrew with a low buzz of comments, Oxheart lurched over to the table. "I owe you an apology, suh. I watched every move you two made and damn my soul if I saw any funny business."
"Oh, consider that minor contemps forgotten," Valentine said. "It iks one with the dust of Ninevah. How prudent I was to pay for my hotel room in advance and to keep my stage ticket tucked safely away. One learns the hard way."
"Say, what happened to that little ginger boy I wuz sitting with?" asked Oxheart. "He's scarpered and no mistake."
Closing the lid of the basket holding his fortune, Wander tucked it under one arm and casually rested his free hand on the revolver hanging at his right hip. "If I'm right about his name, that little redhead was probably the most dangerous presence you or I will ever be near. He leaves Death behind him like natural folk bring footprints."
IV.
In the best ground suite that the hotel offered, Wander struck a match and lit an oil lantern on the end table by the door. The big canopied bed, the comfortable overstuffed chairs, the full-length mirror and the framed prints of racehorses all welcomed him. The gambler stepped into the center of the room and lowered the wicker basket onto the chintz-covered couch before lighting another lamp.
Behind him, Doc Valentine struggled out of his thick oilcloth coat. "Perdition take me, that wind cuts to the marrow of my poor old bones! Did I ever regale you with the harrowing events of the Minnesota Blizzard of '58? That was when a Cardinal was found frozen in mid-air."
"I'm sure you have at some point," Wander replied. He dropped wearily onto the couch next to the basket. "It's near dawn. Let's divvy this up and I can answer the call of the pillows."
Opening a carpetbag that had been placed there earlier, Valentine sat on the opposite end of the couch and began separating the mass of bills and coins into different stacks. "I daresay we should start with the highest denominations of this filthy lucre first, eh?"
"We'll team up again in the Spring. Say, April? Far enough away from here that no one will recognize us."
"Philadelphia comes to mind." Valentine chuckled, "Behold, a hundred dollar bill. That portrait gains a dignity from its mundane value that its subject seldom displayed in life."
"What is it with you and Philadelphia?" Wander grumbled. "I'm not going back East. Virginia City in April. Nevada has some wealthy sheep willing to be fleeced."
A dressing screen in the corner folded open and a slight figure stepped out from behind it. "You two make me laugh," he said. "Sorry I broke the latch on yore window gettin' in here."
Doc Valentine gave such a violent start that he fell completely off the couch. Wander's right hand dropped to the gun he still wore but he never quite touched the butt. The look on Johnny's face stopped him.
"You don't want to be dead," the Brimstone Kid said. "There's no other outcome, hombre."
Clumsily struggling back up, Valentine sputtered, "What an unthoughtful prank to perpertrate on your elder! Wait until you are old and arthrtitic."
Johnny stepped into the center of the room and shook his head. "I s'pose it's my civic duty to report all this. You two sharks played the people of this town like marionettes at a children's amusement. They didn't have a chance, did they?"
"Spare me any sermons. The Brimstone Kid being indignant. That's rich, I'll say," Wander said.
"Twas after all pure skill that won the pot tonight," Valentine added. "You certainly eyed every movement we made. Our plays were as pure as the smile of a young maiden in church."
"Yeah, I couldn't see any cheatin'," Johnny said. "Except of course for the signals you two goats was a-givin' each other to work together. The townsfolk would be right interested in learning about that."
Wander rose smoothly to his feet, holding his arms well away from his body. "You want a cut, is that it?"
To their surprise, Johnny Packard walked over to the door and placed his hand on the knob. "Nah. Not that I couldn't use the money but to me it'd have a stink on it. And I ain't gonna turn you buzzards over to the men who lost their money tonight. They chose to play against sharps they knowed was experts."
He opened the door and lifted his Stetson in one hand. "Besides," he continued, "You never know what angry townsfolk might do. I saw a hanging tree on the outskirts of town with the noose still fastened to its branch. They might have you performin' the air dance. Speakin' plain truth, I don't want to spend time explaining your game to them. I feel like movin' on. Goodnight, gentlemen."
Johnny placed the hat firmly on his head and tilted it back. In the second before he left the room and closed the door behind him, both Doc Valentine and Wander would swear they saw an inexplicable red demonic glint spark in those deepset green eyes.
5/20/2018
12/11/1880
I.
He had been watching the adjoining poker games first with amusement and then with increasing uneasiness. Trouble was brewing like a storm cloud getting darker.
Johnny Packard had been growing sanguine with a square meal tucked under his belt. He sopped up the last of the ham gravy with a crust of bread to finish it. Most of his meals were miserable affairs out on the plains. Meat was rabbits or prairie hens that he shot or trout he caught from a stream, with some dried beans boiled in water or plain hard biscuits and near-coffee.
I could get used to this genuine cooking from a kitchen, done by a woman who knows her art, he thought. Only twenty, Johnny at first seemed a harmless runt. Not more than five feet four and barely one hundred and forty pounds at best, he was a slimy wiry young man. The thatch of dark red hair hung down over a sullen bony face with green eyes that never stopped moving.
Physically, there was nothing about him that seemed daunting at first. Not even the twin .45 Peacemakers in matched holsters at his hips were anything unusual in this region. Despite the railroad coming through twenty miles south, the town of White Blaze, Montana was still raw and mostly lawless. On a bitter December night like this, with the wind screaming like a banshee, being warm and dry was a great comfort.
The real menace in that saloon lay in the hatband of the black Stetson hanging by its cord down Johnny's back. Tucked beneath that beaded band was a strange coin of red metal marked with esoteric symbols which modern Humans did not know. Few had ever learned the secret of the Brimstone Kid and lived.
Sitting at his table in the back corner of the HORN OF PLENTY saloon, Johnny pushed his plate aside, settled back and sipped his whiskey. There were a dozen men drinking at the bar, trading jokes with the cackling girls who worked the rooms upstairs or grumbling complaints about their jobs. Nothing alarming there. He had been observing the card games going on while the piano player worked a medley of Stephen Foster songs to death. One of the games seemed harmless enough, two old miner-types muttering as they studied their grimy cards while a white-bearded pal sat and kibitzed. They were playing for pennies a point and had long since lost score.
No, it was the other two tables, seperated by twenty feet, that worried him.
Each game had three locals playing, ranchhands in rough well-worn clothing or townsfolk slightly better dressed but still simple working men. At each table sat a stranger, dominating the games.
At the game going on earest to Johnny sat a tall, quite handsome man with a strong jawline and crisp curly black hair. He was wearing a long frock coat and a frilled white shirt with a string tie. The effect waa impressive but not overdone, he was not so flashy as to cause immmediate suspicion. He was clean-shaven and kept a studious expression at all times. With a slight sigh, he placed his cards face down and waited for the other players.
"I'm out," said one cowhand. "This is gettin' too big a bite for me to chaw."
"Me, too. I'd have trouble playing high card wins! What about you, Hank?"
The final man at the table took a moment to chew on a soggy cigar butt that had gone out long ago. "I do believe we should show what we hold, sir." He spread his cards out on the table next to the loose stack of bills and silver dollars. "Three of a kind. Six of diamonds, clubs and spades. Mr Wander?"
The well-dressed man slowly laid down his hand where everyone could see it. "Only a flush. Five diamonds but not in any sequence. Still, I reckon it comes out on top."
Two of the men made disgusted noises and shoved their chairs back as they rose. The final player spoke with a quiet anger, "It 'pears to me you have enjoyed remarkable luck this evening, sir."
The man known as Wander started raking in his winnnings. "Luck always plays a part, that goes without saying. Still, if I may give some observations. When you receive a card you like, you hold your cards closer to you. When you are holding a disappointing hand, you let your cards droop until they can nearly be seen. This is a common beginner's tell."
"Is that so?" growled the man, sitting up straighter.
"I'm afraid it is." Wander shoved the coins and paper money into his coat pockets and picked up his derby hat from the empty chair next to him. "It's well said that a real player should never smarten up a chump, if you pardon the expression, but my advice would be to watch that habit the next time you engage in this game."
From where he had been sitting, Johnny Packard had clearly heard the whole exchange. He watched the ranchhand remain seated, not giving any sign of protest. Johnny relaxed slightly. He had been half expecting trouble.
Then he heard the outraged bellow from the other table, "Whaddaya MEAN, you know what you dealt me?! What the hell kinda thing is that to say?"
"A mere slip of the tongue, I assure you," replied a nasal voice with an accent from way back East. "I meant to say, I know what smelt here. My unfortunate lunch of chicken salad with a dab too much relish in the mayonnaise has resurfaced from the nether regions."
"That's not what I heard!" roared the voice. "Yuh goddamn snake, raise yore arms, I'm a-gonna search you and if I find some extra cards, you will not have time to beg! This is Oxheart Wooley you are dealing with."
II.
The man being accused froze into position behind a modest pyramid of money pulled up to him. This included a precarious stack of ten-dollar Gold Eagles. He was obese, about sixty years old and those had not been not wisely spent years judging by the red bulbous nose and thinning white-blonde hair. Johnny had seldom seen anyone dressed in a more clashing manner. This card player wore a dark green suit with thin white pinstripes, a hideous carnation-red shirt with a floppy yellow bow tie and a white beaver hat with a tassel that swung as he moved his head. Violet-colored gloves with rolled cuffs were the final jarring touch.
"Sir, this is a gentleman's game!" protested the man. "Such unkind remarks reflect poorly on your upbringing."
"Ahhh, shaddup!" The bulky cowboy called Oxheart was a massive brute in leather chaps over jeans, with a black shirt and a torn cloth vest. Untrimmed black hair parted in the middle and slicked down with animal fat did not improve his appearance. He yanked a .44 revolver not from a holster but from where he had jammed it into his belt.
When the cowboy thumbed back the hammer, a silence fell over the saloon. Even the drunk piano player took notice and paused on his third rendition of "Camptown Races" which brought relief to many. Johnny noticed the winning gambler at the other table had dropped one hand out of sight, definitely grasping at a gun of his own.
In that moment where every breath was held and no one even cleared his throat, Johnny Packard scraped back his chair and called out, "Simmer down there, mister. It's too cold a night to call the sheriff outta bed."
Some quiet confidence in the young redhead's voice got through to Oxheart. The big man lowered his shoulders visibly but he kept his gun trained on the gambler. "I don't see how this is yore concern, youngster."
"Pullin' iron on a seated man twice yore age, that ain't noble," the Kid said. "What say we check him fer any trickery afore things cross a line that can't be undone?"
Oxheart Wooley stared at the youth who was facing him. A foot shorter and a hundred pounds or more lighter in build than the big man, Johnny was wearing the usual boots and Levis, a red flannel shirt with an open denim vest. The black Stetson burned painfully against Johnny's shoulder blades as the cursed Darthan token urged him to transform but no one there had any way of knowing that. The young redhead's hands hung casually at his sides, not too close to the butts of his 45s but close enough.
The heavy brawler lowered his own revolver and carefully placed the hammer back. He should not have been intimidated by this strange boy and yet...
"Mebbe I'm wrong, son. I believe I might know who are you. Could be you hail from Texas?"
"Yep. Small town near the border. No need to name it."
"No, I calculate it's better left unsaid." Oxheart rubbed his unshaven double chin with a rough hand, making a sandpaper noise. "This jasper has been a'sitting at this table since sunset, taking money offen one honest man after another...."
"Otterson W Valentine, your obedient servant," drawled the gambler, tipping his beaver hat. "My friends sometimes honor me as 'Doc,' after my degree in Metaphysics at Heidelberg."
Striding over toward the table, Johnny felt everyone around him start to breathe again. Several men hastily scrambled out the door into the snow and wind rather than wait for any gunplay. As the Kid walked past the other gambler, he heard Wander say, "You handled that right sharply, Mr Packard."
Did everyone recognize him on sight? Johnny wondered if he might start rubbing some bootblack in his hair or growing whiskers for some anonymity.
Doc Valentine submitted to a search without offering resistance other than a running commentary of insults veiled under flowery language. There were no loose cards up a sleeve or tucked in a pants cuff but the old reprobate's pockets yielded a fascinating trove of unlikely items. Three unopened packs of playing cards, a tin box of snuff, colorful paper money from some country called the Commonwealth of Danarak, five postcards bearing images of naked women in extremely uncomfortable poses, a fountain pen from the CHICAGO HOME FOR RECOVERING SOTS, a silver hip flask containing what smelled like excellent bourbon and a handwritten challenge to a duel signed 'Tom Pinto.' A thousand dollar bill was pinned to the inside of his lapel, as well as long hatpin concealed within his headgear. No gun, not even a tiny derringer.
But they found no suspicious items from the well-known chardsharp arsenal. The cards that had been used had been provided by the owner of the HORN OF PLENTY, who swore he had never met this Valentine person before.
Arms folded across a barrel chest that heaved with rage, fuming but accepting the situation, Oxheart deflated and lost his menacing aspect. "Thunderation. I reckon there's nothing to be done short of organizing a necktie festival and it's too cold outside fer that."
As he saw Valentine start to stow the winnings away in various pockets, Johnny asked quietly, "What's yore connection with that other highly skilled hombre over there?"
"Never met the man, which must surely be his loss," Doc Valentine replied. "I arrived in this charming little hellhole on the noon stage from Helena. Previously, my time had been spent observing the curious religious rites of the Whathui Indians, you may have heard how they soak their heads in salty brine so they can hike prodigious treks under the desert sun?"
Before Johnny could reply to this doubtful claim, they were joined by the good-looking man who had been winning at the other table. "Permit me to introduce myself. My handle's Wander. I've been called a fair hand at poker and it occurs to me that perhaps Mr Valentine might care to play one more game. It's barely one in the morning."
"Call me Doc," drawled the red-nosed old rogue as he gathered up the cards that had been left all over the table. "I rejoice indeed to find a kindred soul in this Philistine outpost."
III.
Naturally, since every soul in the saloon had been hanging onto the conversation, the new game drew watchers. In a few minutes, two men who had been propped up at the bar wandered over and joined in. To everyone's surprise, Oxheart extracted a few dollars from inside his boot and asked to try his luck again.
"Ah, that's the spirit, my boy! Beneath that primordial exterior of yours lurks a valiant soul," observed Doc Valentine as he performed an unnecessarily complicated shuffle which took three minutes to finish.
The game started slowly and proceeded at a deliberate pace. Taciturn and dignified, Wander clearly had more approval from the onlookers than the fast-talking and boastful Valentine. Once or twice, Wander threw in some bit of wisdom his 'old Pappy back home' had taught him but mostly he concentrated on the game.
Although he played well and obviously was paying close attention, Doc Valentine spun one far-fetched yarn after another. How he had taught President Grant how to knit for relaxation, how he had hiked through the northern Rockies and been pursued by a pack of great fur-covered men, how he had known a man with three Paiute wives and twenty-eight childrens but who still had no one who would soap his back in the tub. His stories went on and on, but the watchers were so engrossed in the game that few disbelieving comments were made.
After an hour, the saloon was packed with onlookers and the HORN OF PLENTY was experiencing a boom in liquor sales. Johnny dropped back to his own table in the corner again, devoured a slab of apple pie with a slice of cheese on it, and watched the proceedings. He still felt the nagging pressure of the cursed coin in his hatband urging him to put the hat on and go raging out into the darkness as the real Brimstone Kid but he resisted it. Since he had left his horse Terror safely stabled out of the elements and since he had rented only a single room at the town's hotel across the street from this saloon, he felt he might as well enjoy the duel.
The sheriff dropped in at a quarter to three. Evidently someone had rousted him, but he seemed unconcerned. Johnny heard the sheriff tell the bartender that he had no warrants in his office for anyone who matched Doc Valentine or Wander as far as he could find. When he saw the notorious Brimstone Kid peacefully eating apple pie in one corner, the lawman had shaken his head as if in dispair at the way the world was headed. He left shortly after.
A succession of players bought into the game and dropped out, leaving a usual number of five at any time. The ante was getting huge, and Doc Valentine remarked that he would have to rent a wheelbarrow when the hardware store opened to take away his winnings. Wander had simply reminded him he should remember to win first.
By four o'clock, the crowd had thinned down to a dozen who continued to watch in hypnotized fascination. Oxheart Wooley had lost everything again. Johnny bought him a consolation drink and received some clumsy but well-intentioned words of thanks from the big man.
Only Doc Valentine and Wander were still in the game and they were both taking longer and longer with each hand. Finally, with a prodigous yawn that showed considerable gold inlays, Valentine admitted, "Dratted lumbago. The discomfort is tangible. I fear, my friend, that all good things must come to an end. What are your thoughts?"
It took so long for Wander to reply that Johnny stood up to see if the man had fallen asleep. No, he was just thinking. Wander rubbed his eyes and finally said, 'We each discard one card and draw one and then we match those hands. Agreed?"
"The venerable Dutchman Finale," drawled Valentine as he loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt. He had discarded the violet gloves long ago. "So let it be written, so let it be done."
A few seconds later, they both examined their final array. Everyone who was still in the saloon pressed closer to witness the finish. "I believe I will show my cards first, sir," Doc Valentine announced. "There. Behold the gentle ladies of the court, the Queens of Spades, Diamonds, Clubs and Hearts. Pay no attention to the Seven of Hearts, he's riff-raff of no consequence. I present you with four of a kind, sir."
"Not bad," Wander said, slapping his own cards down one at a time. "Here. Four, five, six, seven and eight, all Diamonds. Straight flush beats four of a kind, Doc."
"Cruel perfidy of Fate!" cried out Valentine as if stabbed in the heart. "Truly the gods look down and laugh."
"Someone wins, someone loses," replied Wander not unkindly. "But the money always changes hands." He was handed a small wicker basket by the barmaid, which he accepted. "Much obliged," he said with a dazzling smile. "I shall return this to you after the bank opens in a few hours."
As everyone withdrew with a low buzz of comments, Oxheart lurched over to the table. "I owe you an apology, suh. I watched every move you two made and damn my soul if I saw any funny business."
"Oh, consider that minor contemps forgotten," Valentine said. "It iks one with the dust of Ninevah. How prudent I was to pay for my hotel room in advance and to keep my stage ticket tucked safely away. One learns the hard way."
"Say, what happened to that little ginger boy I wuz sitting with?" asked Oxheart. "He's scarpered and no mistake."
Closing the lid of the basket holding his fortune, Wander tucked it under one arm and casually rested his free hand on the revolver hanging at his right hip. "If I'm right about his name, that little redhead was probably the most dangerous presence you or I will ever be near. He leaves Death behind him like natural folk bring footprints."
IV.
In the best ground suite that the hotel offered, Wander struck a match and lit an oil lantern on the end table by the door. The big canopied bed, the comfortable overstuffed chairs, the full-length mirror and the framed prints of racehorses all welcomed him. The gambler stepped into the center of the room and lowered the wicker basket onto the chintz-covered couch before lighting another lamp.
Behind him, Doc Valentine struggled out of his thick oilcloth coat. "Perdition take me, that wind cuts to the marrow of my poor old bones! Did I ever regale you with the harrowing events of the Minnesota Blizzard of '58? That was when a Cardinal was found frozen in mid-air."
"I'm sure you have at some point," Wander replied. He dropped wearily onto the couch next to the basket. "It's near dawn. Let's divvy this up and I can answer the call of the pillows."
Opening a carpetbag that had been placed there earlier, Valentine sat on the opposite end of the couch and began separating the mass of bills and coins into different stacks. "I daresay we should start with the highest denominations of this filthy lucre first, eh?"
"We'll team up again in the Spring. Say, April? Far enough away from here that no one will recognize us."
"Philadelphia comes to mind." Valentine chuckled, "Behold, a hundred dollar bill. That portrait gains a dignity from its mundane value that its subject seldom displayed in life."
"What is it with you and Philadelphia?" Wander grumbled. "I'm not going back East. Virginia City in April. Nevada has some wealthy sheep willing to be fleeced."
A dressing screen in the corner folded open and a slight figure stepped out from behind it. "You two make me laugh," he said. "Sorry I broke the latch on yore window gettin' in here."
Doc Valentine gave such a violent start that he fell completely off the couch. Wander's right hand dropped to the gun he still wore but he never quite touched the butt. The look on Johnny's face stopped him.
"You don't want to be dead," the Brimstone Kid said. "There's no other outcome, hombre."
Clumsily struggling back up, Valentine sputtered, "What an unthoughtful prank to perpertrate on your elder! Wait until you are old and arthrtitic."
Johnny stepped into the center of the room and shook his head. "I s'pose it's my civic duty to report all this. You two sharks played the people of this town like marionettes at a children's amusement. They didn't have a chance, did they?"
"Spare me any sermons. The Brimstone Kid being indignant. That's rich, I'll say," Wander said.
"Twas after all pure skill that won the pot tonight," Valentine added. "You certainly eyed every movement we made. Our plays were as pure as the smile of a young maiden in church."
"Yeah, I couldn't see any cheatin'," Johnny said. "Except of course for the signals you two goats was a-givin' each other to work together. The townsfolk would be right interested in learning about that."
Wander rose smoothly to his feet, holding his arms well away from his body. "You want a cut, is that it?"
To their surprise, Johnny Packard walked over to the door and placed his hand on the knob. "Nah. Not that I couldn't use the money but to me it'd have a stink on it. And I ain't gonna turn you buzzards over to the men who lost their money tonight. They chose to play against sharps they knowed was experts."
He opened the door and lifted his Stetson in one hand. "Besides," he continued, "You never know what angry townsfolk might do. I saw a hanging tree on the outskirts of town with the noose still fastened to its branch. They might have you performin' the air dance. Speakin' plain truth, I don't want to spend time explaining your game to them. I feel like movin' on. Goodnight, gentlemen."
Johnny placed the hat firmly on his head and tilted it back. In the second before he left the room and closed the door behind him, both Doc Valentine and Wander would swear they saw an inexplicable red demonic glint spark in those deepset green eyes.
5/20/2018
