One of the onlookers whistled, and muttered to a friend, “That’s pretty rich.” A month’s wages to a miner.
“High card deals?” Bob finished lighting the pipe, his cheeks pulling in as he sucked down the smoke. He shuffled the cards two or three times, straightened them, and ran his fingertips over the edges as if playing with the deck.
“Here,” Bob said to Gallagher. “You cut, old chap, and I’ll deal for high card.”
Gallagher cut. As Bob dealt, Gallagher said, “I think we should make the game more interesting.”
“Me, too,” Sloan said. “What do the rest of you say?”
Dan stretched his lips into a smile. “Fine with me.” He’d had enough of this dancing around. He wanted to get underway, to know the outcome, if he won or lost. Lived or died before 1864.
“Raise the limit,” Gallagher’s dark eyes were alight. “To the sky.”
“My God.” Morelli whistled. “That’s rich.”
No one objected, except that McDowell, for a moment, looked both surprised and panic-stricken, as if he stood to lose everything on the first card. Perhaps he did, Dan thought.
The deal fell to Bob, who shuffled the deck a few times, slid it over to Morelli to cut, rejoined the halves of the deck, and shuffled again. “Ante up, now, gentlemen. One white chip.”
They each tossed a white chip into the center of the table. Dan’s chip rolled too far and nearly landed in Gallagher’s lap. The muscle spasm in his arm moved to his left calf, and his boot heel drummed softly. He pressed his heel down and concentrated on keeping it there.
When the first card dropped in front of Gallagher, the onlookers quieted. The stomping, the music, a woman’s squeal of laughter at the back of the room, faded like an old shirt washed too many times, and Dan heard the small hushed sounds of chips falling, Morelli’s raspy breathing, Sloan scratching at his crotch. The two brothers stood in the front row, and Dan recognized other men who had been at the larger Vigilante meetings. He was not alone. He smelled Bob’s pipe smoke and let his right hand rest in his lap, on the pistol, the wooden butt warm to his touch. His leg muscle stopped twitching. He knew where he was. He had gone into this battle of cards so many times, and tonight, with the first card, a certainty came. This night he would not lose.
He shed his jacket, rolled up his right sleeve, laid bare his forearm. No one would be able to say he held any card up his sleeve. Just to make sure, he pulled his left hand out of the sling and rolled up that sleeve, too. Tonight he would not use the sling. He laid the left on the table where everyone could see the bandage, the hand’s uselessness. He peeked at the hole card, an ace of hearts, and looked up to find Gallagher watching him. He made himself smile, and Gallagher’s brows drew together over his long thin nose. A silent threat, but Dan looked at his own cards and, from behind his wall of certainty, calculated the value of his first up card, a four of clubs, compared with the other players’.
Gallagher, with a ten of spades showing, checked. So did everyone else. On the second deal, Bob dealt Gallagher a second ten, Dan a five of hearts. Gallagher bet five dollars, and everyone else folded. Gallagher scooped in the chips and stacked them neatly in front of himself.
Dan dropped his right arm to his side and spread his stiff fingers out, flexed them two or three times. Gallagher’s deal. One of the men standing behind him whispered something to another man, and Gallagher snarled, “Shut the hell up.” The onlookers went very still.
The hole card was a five of clubs, the nine next. Morelli had an ace up, and one by one the players all folded. “You’re a lousy dealer,” Morelli said.
Dan tossed in his third white chip. The pot was growing, and he was down close to five dollars. He hoped the cards would turn in his favor. He wanted to win, God, how he wanted to win. Nothing mattered but the cards, the winning.
Now Gallagher cut for McDowell. As the cards fell, Morelli scrubbed both hands through his hair, making it wilder than ever.
“Do you ever get a haircut?” asked Gallagher, whose own dark hair lay straight and neatly trimmed. People said that his woman, Isabelle Stevens, cut it for him with a long-bladed scissors she carried in her skirt pocket to tame her clientele.
“I’ll have it cut the day before I get on that stage,” Morelli said. “Not until.”
The hands see-sawed back and forth, no man winning or losing much. The stacks of white chips in front of each man rose and sank and rose again, but their supplies of blue chips and yellow chips stayed constant. It could go on like that all night, Dan knew, until they either wearied of the game and quit or until someone was a clear winner.
The crowd thickened. Dan heard their breathing like that of a large animal, as if the tyger had come back from the Ives trial. Their odor was of rotting leaves. He wanted air, a drink of clear cold water, but he stayed in his chair. Think only of the game. Only the game. Winning. He waited, like everyone else, for something to break. There would be no quitting early tonight, no walking out before the game was up. Tonight he would stay to the finish. And win.
A man tried to sidle around behind Morelli’s chair where he could see into Dan’s hand. Dan snarled, “Not there.”
“Sorry.” The man pushed himself away, through the small space between Morelli and the window.
Dan would not help the side bets by letting anyone see his cards, would not help anyone telegraph his cards to another player, or to the men in the crowd who laid side bets. If they wanted to bet, let them get in the game. Let them be players. He glanced up at Jacob, who parked his butt on the window sill. Jacob wiped his hand down the side of his coat. Odd, Dan thought. His own hands were dry.
Dan’s backside hurt from sitting so long on the hard chair. He pushed back his chair into the wall and felt it close him into the game. He stretched, and yawned. He stood up.
“Goddammit, you can’t quit,” said Gallagher.
Dan let Gallagher’s voice echo in his mind. A warning. “I’m not. Just resting. Isn’t your ass sore?”
“Not yet,” Gallagher said. “I have more staying power than you do.”
Morelli said, “I gotta piss pretty soon.”
“After the next hand,” Gallagher said without looking away from Dan.
The deal came around to Gallagher again. Dan checked his hole card – ace of spades. He had the high card. Already. The first up cards fell: seven of diamonds to McDowell, five of diamonds to Sloan, four of clubs to Dan, three of hearts to Morelli, eight of hearts for Bob, ten of spades for Gallagher.
Sloan muttered, “Damn cards ain’t running tonight. Fold.” One down.
Dan opened. “One dollar.”
“Oh, Christ, make it worth staying up for,” said Gallagher.
Morelli said, “Call. And raise.” He tossed in a blue chip.
“That’s pretty rich,” Bob said. “What the hell. Easy come, easy go. Call.” He put a blue chip in.
Gallagher said, “Call. And raise.” He rolled a yellow chip across the table.
Bob whistled.
He must have a pair, Dan said to himself. Why else would he make such an extravagant raise when he’s the last man to bet on this round? Except, he was growing restless. Impatient at the conservative play so far, wanting more action, more of a thrill. Very well. If the cards fell right, he’d give Gallagher a thrill, all right.
The second up cards fell now. A jack to McDowell, a four of hearts to Dan, eight of clubs to Morelli, a ten of hearts to Bob for a potential flush or straight. If his hole card were a nine. If. A queen to Gallagher. Everyone checked. Even Gallagher.
The fourth deal gave McDowell a king of hearts, a nine of clubs to Dan, a ten of diamonds to Bob, and a king of diamonds to Gallagher.
Dan now had a pair of fours showing, while Bob had a pair of tens. If he were smart, Dan told himself, he’d fold. He wasn’t sure why he stayed, except that he had a feeling. Was this what had suckered Father so often? This feeling that he would win? His pair of fours couldn’t beat Bob’s tens, or a possible pai
r of kings or queens that Gallagher might have. Yet if he died tonight, if it were all over, what did it matter if the gold he left the family were poorer by ten dollars or so? Nearly a week’s wages for a clerk. “Five bucks to open.”
Morelli and Bob called.
“About damn time. Call.” Gallagher dropped a blue chip into the pot. “And raise.” He flicked another blue chip toward the pot, but it rolled too far. Sloan caught it and placed it properly.
Some of the men drew their breath in a hiss.
McDowell was pale and sweating. “Call.” His Adam’s apple bounced as he put in a yellow chip and took back some white ones.
“It’s a ten dollar bet,” said Bob.
“So?” Glaring, McDowell dropped the white chips on a bare spot on the table.
“So a yellow chip is ten dollars, old boy. You have to leave the white chips in the pot.”
“How was I supposed to know?”
Dan knew McDowell took the white chips because he was scared. He couldn’t count, couldn’t read, and in his fear he’d forgotten that the yellow chips were ten dollars. Now he was publicly embarrassed by his own ignorance.
McDowell snarled at Dan. “What the hell are you looking at?”
“Nothing. It’s a simple mistake anyone could make.”
“Fuck you, you son of a bitch!” McDowell nearly screamed. “You calling me – ”
By rights, Dan should be shooting McDowell, or at the least yelling back; men had been killed, were killed, over those words. But Dan just sat. Insults were nothing. The game was all.
“Shut up, McDowell,” Gallagher turned the full authority of his office on McDowell. “We ain’t going to do nothing except play cards. You hear? You two can have it out later, but right now we finish this game.” He added. “Like he said, anyone can make a mistake.”
McDowell breathed hard through his nose. “Yeah. Anyone can make a mistake.”
“All right. Let’s play cards.” Gallagher dealt the last round.
Dan watched the cards fall, but his mind was only partly on the play. Why had Gallagher defused the situation? McDowell had a queen of spades. It was the perfect setup, and he had walked right into it, into a beautiful trap. Had McDowell taken the white chips on purpose? Or had he, Dan, just been stupid? Morelli caught a jack of spades: eight, nine, jack. All he needed was the ten and he’d have a straight. A five of clubs to Bob, was his hole card a five? If so, he had two pair. The queen dropped in front of Gallagher. So Gallagher won. A pair of queens beat a pair of tens, and for sure his pair of fours. Or his high card, his ace of spades. Shit. He’d been stupid in cards, stupid with McDowell. Bet so much on an ace of spades, just because he’d hoped something would –
Dan glanced down at his fourth up card. Ace of clubs. Jesus Christ. He had two pair. Aces and fours. Good God almighty. He’d won.
If. If Bob’s or Gallagher’s hole cards didn’t give them three of a kind. Unless McDowell’s hole card were an ace or a ten. Or Morelli had a ten. If. If. And if again.
A flea jumped into the back of his neck, but he kept himself from slapping at it. Tomorrow he’d get a bath. Start the New Year right.
McDowell opened. “Five bucks.” He laid a blue chip in the pot as if it were fragile.
Dan said, “Call,” and flipped a blue chip toward the pile.
Morelli folded. He muttered to Dan, “I’m not throwing good money after bad.”
Bob said, “Call.” His voice was flat. Then he smiled. “And raise.” A yellow chip followed the blue one.
Shit. Bob had something that made him confident. Another eight or a five? Or a ten? There was only one ten outstanding. What if it were Bob’s hole card? Dan’s neck itched. The flea worked its way up, into his hair; he tried to ignore it.
“Call.” Gallagher pitched in a blue and a yellow chip.
A rich pot. Eighty-one dollars.
Now he could scratch his neck, hunt down the flea. He killed it with his nails and dropped it to the floor. Let his right hand rest in his lap. On the pistol. The steel barrel was cold, the wooden butt warm.
McDowell was grumbling under his breath. Sloan murmured to Dan, “Watch out for him. He knows he’s lost money he probably doesn’t have.”
“Thanks,” Dan said. “He probably borrowed from Gallagher.”
“Shit,” Sloan said. “He’s in trouble, then.”
“Showdown, boys.” Gallagher turned over his hole card, a nine of diamonds, and fanned out his hand, the pair of queens above the other cards.
McDowell flung his cards into the middle of the table. “One lousy pair of jacks. God damn it.”
Dan held in his laughter. He’d had a feeling, and this was the result, as savory as tenderloin with a good burgundy. “Queens beat jacks and tens, all right, but not aces. And not two pair.” He spread out his up cards and turned over the hole card. “Aces and fours, gentlemen.”
The other players stared at the cards laid in a neat line in front of Dan.
“An ace in the hole,” said Sloan. “You crafty devil.”
“You son of a bitch.” Bob threw back his head and laughed a great peal that stirred the smoke layering the table. “You beautiful son of a bitch.”
“You bastard!” McDowell half rose from his chair. “You son of a bitch.”
“God damn you!” Gallagher started up, his hand on the pistol he pulled from his belt.
The onlookers scattered, a collection of frightened men. Dan stayed in his chair, his revolver pointing at Gallagher under the table. He did not want to shoot, to wound or kill another human being, but so help him, he would if it were Gallagher’s life, McDowell’s life, or his own.
The three men glared at each other, and the dance music from the back sounded incongruous, like an off color joke in a preacher’s sermon.
A dog barked. Another snarled, and men dodged aside from a whirling vortex of snapping, yiping fur that careened out of control amid their feet. Gallagher pivoted and fired at the dogs. One dog yelped and cried, and a man bounded out of the crowd, hollered at Gallagher, “You had no call to shoot! We’d have got it broke up.”
“The hell with you!” Gallagher turned his pistol on the man, and before anyone could stop it, he fired.
The man shrieked, clapped his hand to his arm. “I’m getting the hell out of here!” People made way for him, and someone pulled open the door for him, and as he stood outlined against the darkness, Gallagher raised his pistol and shot him. The man went down in a spray of blood.
Con Orem vaulted over the bar, shotgun in hand. He leveled it at Gallagher. “Get out of my saloon. Damn it, Gallagher, get out and stay out.”
“God damn you, you can’t throw me out!” Gallagher’s face swelled, and a vein across his forehead bulged. He swung the pistol toward the saloon owner, but two of Orem’s men, as big and burly as their boss, shotguns ready, closed in on Gallagher and escorted him to the door, past the wounded man. Two more pinned McDowell’s arms behind his back and shuffled him along, grumbling curses until Orem’s men pushed them both out into the snow and slammed the door.
People knelt by the fallen man, so that Dan could see nothing but his legs. The wounded dog’s owner cradled the animal in his arms and wept. One of the hurdy-gurdy dancers, who wore a yellow dress, shoved through the men, tearing her petticoat into strips as she came. Seeing the dog’s distraught owner, she handed him a strip.
Blood soaked the dancer’s yellow skirt where she knelt by the wounded man, seeped into the cracks between the flooring planks. The blood, from the dog or the man, was on Dan’s hands. He had challenged Gallagher to this rematch. He had won. He knew what Gallagher was like. No matter that he had meant to lose, when the game opened, his lust to win had taken over as always. He had won. And this blood was the cost. Another man and a dog paid in blood, and others paid in grief, but he had won. Jacob touched his shoulder, held his coat when he got up, still watching the blood. One of Orem’s men was gathering up the unused chips and the cards.
“He
re, these are yours.” Sloan gave him the pot.
The pot was just chips. Valueless. It didn’t matter. He would not collect from Gallagher or McDowell, and the other three could walk away. Dan pushed Sloan’s hand away. “You don’t have to pay. Gallagher didn’t, or McDowell.” Yet Gallagher would pay. This mayhem was the end of it. It was enough. It was a clear case of murder, if the man died.
“No,” said Bob. “Those other two may be murderers and welshers, but I’m not. I pay my debts.”
“Me, too,” said Sloan.
“You won fair and square,” Morelli said. “That was brilliant playing. You take it.”
God's Thunderbolt: The Vigilantes of Montana Page 32