Render Unto God...

by S. F. Wood

  “No sir, no,” said the Preacher, the horror in his voice at the thought of causing offence as affected as the lazy southern drawl he was deploying. “I thank you kindly sir, ‘deed I do. And it is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance. What with me having just hit town this morning, I haven’t spoken to a civilized soul this many a long day.”

  The sergeant smiled twice. The outward, visible smile being as friendly as he could make it, what with the teeth that remained in his mouth being yellow from tobacco. His other smile, the one in his gut, was altogether more self-satisfying. “It is so... pleasant, to meet a gentleman, I do declare.”

  And so the early part of the evening progressed. The three played for quarters, half-dollars, small bills, whatever they had in their pockets, just to create an element of a wager without calling it gambling. He was not very good at the cards was this southerner. As good as he was at shuffling, noted the senior man, who intimated this as much as he could to his companion.

  After both the sergeant and the corporal had each treated the Preacher to what they said was Hays’ finest bourbon, Bull-neck said, “I’m a getting tired of playing for buttons. I’ve got me a good payday today, got me a good roll of money, and I think we should gamble like men. Let’s make the stakes good an’ proper.”

  “I agree,” said the corporal, and they both looked at the Preacher.

  “Gen’lemen...” He was slow to respond. “I’m getting tired an’ I’m not sure about gambling. I’m a-feared I stand to lose more money than you two, what with me carrying...” he tailed off.

  “Surely you cannot bow out now?” this the corporal.

  “Not after we have treated you to company,” said the sergeant.

  “And refreshment.”

  “That’s right. Let me get you another drink. Your glass is empty and it will put you in the spirit.” And without waiting for an answer, the older man pushed back his chair and made his way to the bar. When he returned, the Preacher had gone.

  “Where is he? God Damn it! Why’d you let the fool...”

  “Relax, Sarge. The chucklehead’s just gone to sit on his spurs a-while. Be back from the outhouse in no time. In fact, here he is.” And with this the Preacher took his seat.

  And this time they played for tens, twenties. Small beer still, but the two cavalrymen won more often than they lost. “Poker never was my game, sirs,” slurred the Preacher. “I need to call a halt and, how do you say? Cut my losses.” He gathered up the cards, his cards, the cards that had proved to be exceptionally unlucky for him that evening and, despite protestations, tied a gray ribbon around them and dropped them into his pocket.

  “One more game sir,” implored Bull-neck, but in the friendliest manner imaginable.

  “Yes sir, just one more as I too, must leave,” pleaded the corporal.

  “But it’s too hot here,” muttered the by now exhausted Preacher. He pulled out a ‘kerchief from one of his deep pockets and a roll of banknotes spilled from the cloth. He quickly realized what had happened and pulled it away from the table and back into his coat.

  “If I was a man given to profanities,” said the sergeant, “I would utter one now! That sir, is a goodly sum if I am not mistaken. Indeed, if I had but known, I would have suggested we play for proper stakes, what we here call, Frontier Stakes.” With that he produced a roll himself, maybe one hundred dollars and placed it on the table.

  “Why I could match your bid and raise it,” said the younger man to his senior, producing clearly two hundred. Not to be outdone, the sergeant proceeded to cover it.

  “Are you in sir?” the older man turned to the Preacher.

  “Just one more game friend, and then we call it a night,” said the corporal, “Just like you said. Despite the early hour. I can see you have had a long day and...”

  It was at this very moment that James Butler Hickok entered Tommy Drum’s and this very act, innocent in itself, caused the atmosphere throughout the place to turn, and turn quick. And what it turned into wasn’t pleasant. There were jeers and catcalls, an oath or three and some glasses were smashed. The Preacher looked up over the shoulders of his two new friends who themselves had turned away from the table to look at the sight behind them. Indeed, the animosity exuded by the troopers towards Hickok in Tommy Drum’s that sweaty July night was felt by everyone. The two conspirators turned back to the table. The corporal then said to his sergeant, “Did you see him? Just walked in, like he owns the place!”

  “That I did,” said Bull-neck. The Preacher said nothing. The cavalryman spat out the name: “Hickok!” Then he spat on the floor. “Him and our commanding officer hate each other,” he said to the Preacher, who hadn’t asked for an explanation. “And as loyal troopers, we hate him too.”

  Two of the many troopers drinking in Tommy Drum’s that night should not have been there, but that only became evident at the subsequent court martial. They were supposed to be in their tents across the river at Camp Sturgis. But this particular pair had decided that they wanted to go into town and have ‘a brannigan with the boys’. Lonergan and Kile were from Company M of the 7th. Lonergan especially, hated Hickok, having felt his pistol butt on his head more than once after a night’s drinking and fighting.

  “Who? Why? What...?” the Preacher didn’t need to feign ignorance here. He was genuinely interested in what the sergeant had to say about Hickok.

  And the NCO did not need encouragement. His blood was up. “Most of the men here are in Custer’s command and...”

  “George Armstrong? Now that is a famous name I do declare,” said the Preacher, warming to the topic.

  “No, no!” Bull-neck could barely hide his exasperation that the Custer brothers, once again, were being confused in the mind of the unknowing. He looked away, over his shoulder, glaring at Hickok, as the Preacher retrieved the cards from his pocket and idly untied the ribbon binding the pack. The sergeant turned back to the Preacher and said, “Tom Custer! That Hickok, he throws his weight around, then objects some when others do the same.”

  “Tell him ‘bout the horse, Sarge! Go on!” said the corporal. The Preacher’s money could wait for now. It wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Horse? What do you mean?”

  “Custer’s horse. That’s Tom Custer’s horse,” explained the corporal.

  The sergeant took a final long, mean, look over at the bar where Hickok, his blond curls cascading down his shoulders, was standing. “Hey barman! Didn’t know you allowed ladies in here this time of night!” Raucous laughter from the troopers in Tommy Drum’s. Someone emitted a wolf-whistle: more laughter. Hickok ignored all this. One foot on the brass guard rail, one hand on the bar, fingers spread, the other hand holding his drink. Looking directly at the large, framed mirror behind the bar and admiring his blond moustaches, he was nevertheless watching everything that was happening behind him in the saloon. His pistols, prominent in their holsters, had their handles pointing forward.

  Turning back to the game, the sergeant motioned the Preacher to speed things up. He now had matters other than fleecing a fool to attend to. “OK gentlemen, one more round,” and he pulled his money band out from his shirt pocket. The corporal continued to stare at Hickok.

  “Horse?” asked the Preacher.

  “Yeah, yeah. Hickok!” Bull-neck spat on the floor again. “Has this trick you know. Rides his horse into saloon bars. His horse knocks over tables, chairs, fouls the floor. Then he demands a drink...”

  “The Horse?”

  “DAMNED HICKOK!” yelled the sergeant, and with this the man in question turned his head, looked over his shoulder disdainfully at the source of the oath. Bull-neck was more than happy to return the glare. A few seconds looking at each other, then Hickok turned back to his drink and continued to admire the mirror.

  “Lt Colonel Tom Custer did the same,” said the corporal. “Only for Hickok...”

  “Yeah,” interrupted the sergeant wanting to finish the story. “The Colonel rides his horse into a bar too, saying that
if it was good enough for a plainsman then it was good enough for a US Cavalryman. Hickok was there at the time and hiding behind his badge. Means his liver is as yellow as his hair. He done shot the Colonel’s horse out from under him. And then!” Bull-neck was spluttering with rage at this point, “And then Hickok had the gall to arrest the Colonel on account that he had broken some ord’nance or other by having brought his horse into the saloon!” He stopped and took a few moments to recover his composure before leaning forward and saying through gritted yellowed teeth, “If Hickok hadn’t got the draw on Colonel Tom, he’d be dead now.” And this was followed by the by now expected expectoration on the floor.

  The Preacher started shuffling the cards while each player paid into the pot. The Preacher put in the usual $5, but the sergeant said, “I thought we were making this more exciting, what with it being the last hand an’ all.” With this he arbitrarily slammed down $50 into the center of the table. The corporal followed his example and both looked quite sternly at the Preacher. Well he had little choice but to follow. He cautiously pulled his bill clip from one of the deep pockets of his frock coat and, after a bit of a struggle, pulled the right amount clear and placed it into the middle where the other notes lay waiting. Then, as the dealer, he dealt five cards to each player, one at a time, putting the remaining deck to one side. He placed a coin atop, as was the custom. The three picked up their cards. The corporal did so all at once, while Bull-neck, as the Preacher had observed throughout, lifted each card for individual examination.

  No one folded and the draw phase began. Bull-neck, sitting on the Preacher’s left, was pleased to see he was holding three cards of the same suit - and in a run too. The nine, ten and knave of spades. Not that his face betrayed emotion. He had played poker too long to expect a straight flush. But he was playing with a partner, so the odds on beating this huckster southerner were two to one. The corporal looked at his own cards. Low value they were. But paired, and that’s what got his heart beating hard against his rib cage: a pair of treys and two sixes. The Ace was an irritant. To discard in the hope of a full house? Or to keep as the ‘kicker’ in the event of the need to break a tie?

  The Preacher’s face betrayed mild disappointment.

  Bull-neck lay a second wad of notes, $50 again. “I’m in,” he said, with an eye on the Preacher. “Not that I feel lucky you understand, but given this is our last hand...”

  The corporal followed suit. “Why not. Have had better hands this evening, but haven’t we all,” before adding, “I don’t want it to be me who calls an early halt to our last round.” The two troopers then looked at the Preacher.

  What else could he do but push $50 into the pot.

  The sergeant then discarded two cards. This could all rest on his young companion. So all the better that he pulled rank on a corporal. The Preacher burnt the top card and slid two replacements over. Bull-neck pulled first one to the edge of the table and looked at it, before reaching for its companion. Two more Spades. Almost a straight flush too, what with one of the cards being the Queen. But the other, a Four, made it just a flush. Just? It was almost his best hand of the evening.

  The corporal had never felt comfortable discarding an Ace. He stayed his hand.

  The Preacher, after a period of indecision, replaced one card.

  The second betting round began. Bull-neck: “I have 100 dollars left, and I think I will trust my all to Lady Luck.” He gave a very engaging smile. The Preacher had to admire his technique; the sergeant was clearly very experienced in the art of bluffing.

  The corporal followed his mentor’s lead adding, “Too late to fold now, don’t you think?”

  The Preacher nodded. “Here is my one hundred. That makes for $600 in the pot.”

  Showdown. Bull-neck laid out his flush, and was pleased to see that it beat the corporal’s two pair.

  But neither trooper was pleased to see the Preacher lay a Five of Hearts followed by a Seven from each suit.

  Someone called out an obscenity, but it didn’t come from the Preacher’s table. The saloon was by now crowded as more troopers had come to the Drum on hearing of Hickok’s unwelcome visit. All heads turned and even the corporal, still reeling from the loss, just had to see what was happening. Hickok continued with his drink, seemingly ignoring everyone. He kept his eyes on the mirror, looking at every man, looking at every face, every hand. The sergeant however, had eyes only for the table upon which two hundred of his nice, new, hard-earned Yankee dollars were bidding him farewell.

  Lonergan and Kile were fired up now and full of hooch. They’d left their table and were standing right behind Hickok. Lonergan said: “Bad move, comin’ in here with so many of the boys in town.”

  “People here have a score to settle with you.” This Kile now to Hickok.

  The Preacher reached towards the pot and pulled it all towards himself. The sergeant continued to watch, somewhat dumbfounded, as the Preacher quickly and unassumingly rolled the notes into a tight bundle, which he placed into a pocket deep inside his frock coat.

  Everyone else was watching Hickok, Kile and Lonergan. That included the corporal, and now Bull-neck had to look too, despite what had just happened to his money. Time for that in a moment. But right now...

  The Preacher quietly collected the cards, sweeping them up and stacking them with the rest of the deck. He produced a ribbon and tied it around the pack securing the cards before dropping them as one into the side pocket of his coat, where the deck joined its identical twin, tied with an identical ribbon.

  Hickok placed his glass down onto the bar, stretched his arms full length and flattened his palms on the smooth wooden top. He was pushing himself up, straightening out, with the full intention of straightening out the two drunks behind him.

  But Lonergan had other ideas. Seeing Hickok move, he took his chance. He jumped on his enemy’s back, wrapped an arm around Hickok’s throat, and forced him face down onto the bar top.

  Lonergan was determined to keep Hickok pinned down and away from his revolvers. The bar was now in uproar, with troopers knocking over tables and sending bottles and glasses flying, all trying to get to see the action, all trying to see Hickok get what was due to him, get what he deserved. Seemed like the whole place was against Hickok.

  The corporal and Bull-neck stood on their chairs, the better to see what was happening. The Preacher got to his feet, which was just what everyone else was doing. And what the Preacher could see did not bode well for Hickok. Clearly the man was trying to draw one of his pistols, but that wasn’t easy with 190 pounds of drunken, vengeful cavalry trooper pressing down on him and pounding on his back. And as he pulled ever tighter on Hickok’s windpipe, Lonergan shouted obscenities right into the man’s ear. If it was going to be the last thing Hickok ever heard, it was going to be about how much Lonergan hated him!

  Everyone in the saloon was shouting. And everyone was a-cursing and wanting seven shades of hades to be meted out to Hickok. And Kile was shouting loudest of all, egging on Lonergan and telling Hickok things about his mother no one should have to hear. But despite his weight, despite his anger and yes, despite his fear, Lonergan couldn’t keep one of Hickok’s arms from reaching down between the bar and his belly to his gun belt, where he stretched every sinew in his fingers in an attempt to touch the heel of one of the pistols. Had he carried his guns in the common fashion he would not have been able to pull the piece from its holster. But as it was, he reached the butt of his left pistol with his right hand. Kile saw what was happening. He drew his own revolver, a Remington. Fights were breaking out all over Tommy Drums as troopers and Texans fought each other to get a better view of Hickok’s deserved beating. Kile levelled the Remington, pointing it right at Hickok’s temple. Hickok was watching, eyes wide in a mixture of terror and anger. Lonergan had a tight grip on those blond curls and was trying to hold Hickok’s head still, trying to keep it a steady target. “Watch the bullet blow your brains out you sonnofawhore!”

  The Preacher stra
ightened his coat, pulled his hat tighter over his forehead, and pushed his way through to an exit, which conveniently was at the opposite end of the saloon from the by now desperate fight. At the door the Preacher paused, turned and tried to see how Hickok was coping. He remembered Hickok’s words earlier, about not drawing a gun without intending to shoot. Kile shot.

  But Kile’s Remington misfired. As he pulled back the hammer with his thumb to try a second time, Hickok succeeded in drawing his Colt from its holster. He squeezed the trigger. This did not misfire, the ball smashing into Lonergan’s thigh. Could’ve hit anything. Could’ve hit the floor. Didn’t though. And Lonergan knew it first.

  The saloon echoed to the sound of gunshot from one of the secondary fights. But Lonergan’s scream was way above the noise and ruckus in the rest of Tommy Drum’s. The wound caused him to release his grip on Hickok, who was then able to throw him to the floor. Hickok spun around to face Kile. Having levelled the odds, he immediately levelled at Kile, firing a shot into the trooper’s abdomen. So close were they that the ball hit Kile with enough violence to force itself through his vital organs and emerge at the other side. As he fell to the ground, mortally wounded, Hickok turned back to Lonergan, drew his second revolver, and shot him again, this time in the arm.

  If there was venom towards Hickok in Tommy Drum’s when he’d entered the bar, it was nothing to what was being hurled at him now that he’d shot two troopers. Too far from the door to have any chance of getting out alive, Hickok sprang across to a window and, after turning to fire both his pistols at the ceiling, walls, mirrors, lights, at anything and anyone, he hurled himself through the glass and into alley at the side of the saloon. Rolling over a couple of times in the dirt he got up and ran as fast as he could, while troopers and Texans fought each other to be the first to get through the window and get after him.