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"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."
( the rest of the story )
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."
( the rest of the story )
