by Len Levinson
“Must be a helluva hand you got there,” the corporal said suspiciously. “Wonder if you’re bluffin’.”
“One way to find out,” Slipchuck replied.
The corporal put a five-dollar coin on the table. Slipchuck knew he had him hooked. If he increased the bet, the corporal would keep going until he had no money left. A corporal wasn’t rich, Slipchuck didn’t want to clean him out. He tossed five dollars onto the pile, turned over his cards.
The corporal stared at them, his features sagging like melted butter. Then he showed his own cards, three queens and two tens. A strong hand, but not strong enough. Robbery with a deck of cards.
Slipchuck pulled the mountain of coins toward him. The corporal grumbled as he left the table.
“A man shouldn’t play cards,” somebody said, “if’n he can’t afford to lose.”
Slipchuck wanted to walk away from the game, but you can’t if you just won big. The deck passed to the next man. Slipchuck tossed his ante into the pot. He sipped whiskey, tried to think about the fun he’d have with the money. A man could live high on the hog. Buy a carriage and a fancy horse. Check into the best hotel in town. He glanced toward the bar, where the corporal stared sullenly into his glass of whiskey. Slipchuck lost many big pots in his day. About time I won a few.
~*~
Stone arrived behind the stable, no one else there. He wondered if Captain Benteen had changed his mind about the fight. He decided to wait. Plenty to think about. He sat on a wagon and looked at Orion the warrior in the starry heavens. Had Marie gone to San Francisco, or was it a ruse? Who was Derek Canfield? What about Fannie Custer?
It was discomforting to see his old friend again. They’d been in the same class at West Point, suffered the same humiliations from upperclassmen and professors. Now Custer was a famous war hero and Indian fighter, while Stone had plenty of nothing at all.
What happened to me? He’d shown promise when he was young, everyone said. Even Custer thought Stone would be first to make general, but a weakness in Stone appeared during the early battles of the war. The slaughter bothered him. He couldn’t order thousands of men to charge the mouths of Yankee cannon from a safe position behind the lines. The carnage was too great, but real fighting generals like Custer never hesitated. So Stone remained an ordinary company commander, despite entreaties from Jeb Stuart and Wade Hampton to move up the chain of command. He never wanted to see men as pawns on a chessboard, and that’s what high command made you do.
He heard voices. Men approached through the alley, Benteen came into view. “I’ll be damned. Son of a bitch showed up.”
Three officers were with him. Benteen took off his hat, stripped off his shirt, gave the impression of raw power. Stone dropped his hat and shirt into the wagon. Then he faced Benteen. The three officers stood to the side, campaign hats cocked at odd angles on their heads. They’d been drinking and were in a fine mood.
“Kick his ass,” one of them said to Benteen. Another laughed, and the third hitched his thumbs in his gunbelt. “I bet he’s a runner,” he said. “Any friend of General Custer’s would have to be.”
Stone pointed his finger at the officer. “You’re next.”
The officer replied, “You’re headed for the doctor’s office.”
“Ready?” Benteen asked, hammering his right fist into his left palm. He bent his knees, raised his dukes, advanced cautiously. Stone watched for telltale signs that telegraphed punches and revealed style. Figure him out, you’ve got him beat.
Benteen continued to move forward, and Stone slipped to the side, showed him angles, looked for clear paths. He threw a tentative jab to Benteen’s chin, and Benteen picked it off in midair. Stone jabbed Benteen’s stomach, and Benteen swept the punch to the side with his forearm. Horses whinnied and neighed inside the stable, disturbed by sounds of conflict outside.
Stone threw another jab at Benteen’s nose, and Benteen leaned back, then counterpunched suddenly. Stone’s forehead was in the way, and Benteen’s fist crashed into it. Stone saw stars for a moment, Benteen followed with a right cross that landed squarely on Stone’s left cheekbone.
Stone took two steps backward, but appeared no worse for wear. Benteen was dismayed. The three officers looked at each other in surprise. The full weight of Benteen’s body went into the punch, but hadn’t affected Stone at all. He must be faking, thought Benteen, veteran of many wars. Maybe if I go after him …
Benteen hurled a left jab to Stone’s chin, but Stone hooked Benteen on the nose. Benteen saw the white light for a split second. A trickle of blood appeared at the end of his nostril, and made him mad.
He waded into Stone, throwing punches from all angles, trying to take him out quickly. Stone caught most of the punches on his arms and wrists, twisting and turning, giving plenty of head movement, waiting for Benteen to open himself up.
Benteen feinted, and Stone fell for it. A fist came flying over the top, smacked Stone on the left eye. It was a jarring blow, and when he raised his arms to protect his upper body, Benteen hooked his left kidney, right kidney, slam-bang pin-wheels of light.
Stone looked up, and Benteen stood over him, fists balled. Stone shook his head, tried to clear it, and Benteen kicked him in the face. The force of the blow sent Stone tumbling over. He struggled to regain his balance, and Benteen kicked him in the chest, knocking him onto his back. Benteen jumped with both feet onto Stone’s head, but Stone rolled out at the last moment and scrambled to his feet. Benteen turned around and saw a fist directly in front of his eyes.
It connected with Benteen’s forehead, and Benteen felt as if the stable had fallen on him. He staggered, his knees buckled, and the only thing for Stone to do was hit him again.
Stone planted his feet firmly and took him apart with a ceaseless flow of carefully aimed punches. Benteen backpedaled, tried to protect himself, dodged and ducked, but his timing was off, most of Stone’s blows got through. Cartilage crackled in Benteen’s nose, his teeth rattled loose in his throat, his left eye puffed up like a balloon, but he wasn’t ready to go down.
Through bleary, fuzzy eyes Benteen watched Stone advance. Maybe I can make him reach. Blows rained on Benteen as he took long, unsteady steps backward. Stone moved after him, and Benteen threw an uppercut as Stone came in, connecting with the bottom of Stone’s chin. Stone’s head snapped up, Benteen fired a powerful jab into Stone’s belly. Stone expelled air, went into a crouch, Benteen slammed him on the side of his head, but Benteen’s timing had never fully recovered. Stone threw a straight jab up the middle, and connected with Benteen’s mouth. Benteen tasted blood on his tongue, saw a vague blur near his left eye, everything went black. Benteen dropped to one knee. He shook his head, blood dripped freely from his nose and mouth, and Stone stood over him.
Benteen couldn’t let General Custer’s schoolboy friend defeat him. He pushed his legs and rose to an upright position, raising his fists to protect himself.
Stone stepped forward, picking his shots. The accumulation of sharp accurate punches wore Benteen down, his efforts to defend himself became more clumsy, he could launch no offensive of his own, it was only a matter of time.
A right hook to the ear did it. Captain Benteen collapsed like a sack of flour at Stone’s feet. Stone looked at him for a moment, stepped over his body, advanced toward the officer who’d insulted him.
The officer had a thin black mustache, and Stone had told him he was next. The officer didn’t want to fight Stone with fists, after the exhibition he’d just witnessed. His hand lowered to his gun, but before he could open the flap of his regulation holster, Stone’s Colt was aimed at his stomach.
The officer turned white with fear. He’d gone for his gun first, that made him fair game, he was going to die. He thought of his mother in Minneapolis, and the girl he left behind. Stone was in a rage. He wanted to put a hole through the arrogant bastard, but couldn’t shoot a man in cold blood.
He walked away, leaving Benteen motionless on the ground, his three coho
rts trying to slap and shake him awake. But their efforts were to no avail. Benteen would remain unconscious for the next half hour.
~*~
Sergeant Buford lay on top of the rise, rifle in his hands, looking at the Wakhatchie River crossing. It was a dark night, moon hidden by a patch of clouds blowing across the starry heavens.
Buford wore a blue service jacket with the collar buttoned, no chevrons or insignia to catch what little light was there. He looked for the shift of shadows that would indicate a rider’s approach. Put a bullet between the damned drunkard’s eyes, to hell with a duel. Scanlon wasn’t worth the trouble. Buford had contempt for the provost marshal. No wonder his wife left him. The man was a disgrace to his uniform. A woman cheats on a man, shoot her. The only way to handle the bitches.
Buford heard hoofbeats, perked up his ears. From afar he heard the wail of a lobo. The moon rolled into an open region of the sky, illuminating a rider in the distance. Buford sighted down the barrel of his service carbine. He’d already adjusted sights for windage and distance. A man who couldn’t control his wife deserved to die.
Sergeant Buford pasted his sights on Major Scanlon’s chest, squeezed the trigger, the rifle fired. A bullet whacked into Major Scanlon, the shock jolting him loose from his roots. He slid out of the saddle and fell to the ground. Sergeant Buford ran down the hill, rifle in hand, to finish him off at close range. Sometimes men pretend to be dead, and Buford was ready for tricks. He slowed as he drew closer, aimed the rifle at Major Scanlon’s head.
Major Scanlon lay on his back, his blue army shirt covered with blood and rows of medals. The provost marshal wore a full dress uniform, and a faint smile.
“I knew I could … rely on you,” Major Scanlon said through teeth rinsed with blood.
Sergeant Buford recoiled. Now he understood. Major Scanlon set Buford up to kill him, so he wouldn’t have to do it himself. “You son of a bitch,” Buford growled. “I hope you burn in Hell.”
Major Scanlon closed his eyes. Sergeant Buford aimed at his head, fired. Blood and brains flew in all directions. Sergeant Buford drew his knife and proceeded to mutilate Major Scanlon injun style.
~*~
Slipchuck sat behind a hundred dollars in coins, while Daugherty dealt another hand. It was after midnight, and Slipchuck wanted out of the game. He’d been playing for nearly three hours, the mental strain getting him down.
He could win this hand, but not by too much. You couldn’t let them get suspicious. A man who dealt from the bottom of the deck, as Daugherty just did, could be shot on the spot, or lynched at dawn. The cheater’s partner could expect no better.
Slipchuck sipped a glass of whiskey. Couldn’t guzzle as he wanted. This wasn’t a game of chance anymore. He tried to think of whores in silk underwear as he glanced at a poor farmer who’d been losing steadily all night, down to his last twenty dollars. Drop out while you got a chance, Slipchuck thought. I’ll take every penny you got.
The poor farmer couldn’t hear Slipchuck’s thoughts. He studied the cards in his hand: six and seven, nine and ten, plus a tray. Could he fill the straight? He looked at the money in the pot. Maybe I can bid it up, take it all home. The hand I’ve been waiting for all my life.
Daugherty looked at him from beneath bushy eyebrows, puffing his stogie. He knew the farmer was a desperate man. You could see it in his eyes and every move he made.
A few chairs away, the man in the black leather vest watched Daugherty. Black Vest had smooth hands, and Daugherty pegged him for a professional too, but Daugherty was in the clear, since Slipchuck was the winner, not he. He shuffled the cards, stacked them deftly, seven of clubs on the bottom.
“How many?” he asked the farmer.
The farmer pushed one card forward. Daugherty tossed him the seven of clubs, tried not to laugh when the farmer peeked at the corner. He’d done the impossible, filled an inside straight!
Slipchuck asked for two cards. Three soldiers at the table dropped out, three stayed in. Black Vest began the second round of betting. The farmer bucked him, another soldier folded, and Slipchuck stayed in, raising the farmer. Black Vest raised Slipchuck. The farmer bucked Black Vest. Slipchuck raised the bet once more. The last soldier dropped out. “Too rich for my blood,” he said.
The betting continued, it was Black Vest’s turn. He looked at his cards, glanced at Daugherty through thick blue smoke hovering over the table. “I’m out,” Black Vest said, throwing his cards face down on the table.
The farmer appeared on the verge of apoplexy. His clothes were ragged, he had the face of an abandoned dog, and he needed money, that was clear. Pay the bank or lose the farm, most likely.
“Five more dollars,” the farmer said, twitching his nose, “and five to see you.”
Slipchuck fingered coins. “Here’s five, and I’ll buck you ten more.”
The coins jingled as they fell to the small mountain of wealth gleaming in the center of the table. The farmer looked at it, his eyes reflected the sparkle. All his worries would be over, if he could win that pot, and he held a straight with the nine high. “All I got left is ten dollars,” he said. “I’ll bet it all to see you.”
He pushed his money forward, waited eagerly to see what Slipchuck had. Slipchuck fanned the cards in his hand and lay them down. The farmer stared at a flush of hearts. He pursed his lips and blew out a puff of air. “My God.”
“You’ll need more’n God,” replied one of the soldiers. “A straight flush or better.”
Slipchuck wrapped his arms around the pot, pulling it toward his end of the table. He had a grand total of nearly three hundred dollars, almost as much as he earned in the average year, but he’d never do it again. He wasn’t cut out for cheating poor farmers. Slipchuck looked across the table, Daugherty winked. Slipchuck envied Daugherty for his fancy clothes and fast life, but not anymore. If there was hell, Daugherty surely would go there.
The farmer stared at his straight. He’d lost everything. Slipchuck scooped money into his pockets. “I been at this too long,” Slipchuck said. ‘Time to take a break.”
“But … but …” sputtered the farmer, “you got ter gimme a chance ter win me money back.”
“You got nothin’ to gamble with,” Slipchuck replied, “and I had enough fer one night. Cain’t hardly see the cards atall.”
Slipchuck filled his shirt pockets. It was more than he’d ever had at any one time in his life. The farmer stared at the diminishing pile, tears in his eyes. Slipchuck had a lump in his throat.
“Ain’t it strange,” said Black Vest. “The geezer wins whenever the dude was dealin’.”
Deadly silence dropped over the table. Daugherty looked at him calmly. “You shouldn’t make an accusation unless you’ve got proof.”
“All I know is he won when you had the deck in yer hands.”
“You shouldn’t play, if you can’t lose like a gentleman.”
Black Vest drew himself to his feet. He wore faded tan britches, a green plaid shirt, his hatband made of silver disks with injun markings. His posture said he was a gunfighter. “Hard to lose like a gentleman when you’re cheated.”
It became quiet in the Tumbleweed Saloon. Gamblers, soldiers, drunkards, and idlers got out of the way. The man in the black vest looked ready to go the distance. Daugherty sat easily at the table, while Slipchuck stepped back and steeled himself for whatever might come.
“That there’s Jess Pollard,” said a voice at the bar.
Pollard stood taller at the mention of his name. Slipchuck had heard of him, hired gun from up Dakota way. Lord, Slipchuck prayed, you get me through this, I’ll never cheat at cards again. Daugherty held the stogie at his mouth with one hand, moved his other hand into direct line with Pollard.
“I just called you a cheater,” Pollard said. “Ain’t you gonna do nothin’ ’bout it?”
Daugherty replied, “You shoot me in front of these people, you’ll hang.”
The farmer looked at the pile of coins. It wasn’t lost y
et. “I seen ’em passin’ signals to each other,” he lied. “I want my money back.”
“You think I cheated you,” Slipchuck replied, “take it and git out’n my face.” He turned to Pollard. “You too. I don’t want yer money.”
Pollard narrowed his eyes at Slipchuck. “Don’t I know you from someplace?”
“I ain’t seen you before, mister.”
“You’re the man what shot Frank Quarternight in the back.”
“Never shot nobody in the back,” Slipchuck said. “My name ain’t Pollard.”
Pollard stiffened, blood drained from his face, and Slipchuck knew it was the wrong thing to say. But Slipchuck had never walked away from a fight in his life. Pollard turned toward Slipchuck, and Daugherty made his move.
A derringer was up his sleeve, hooked to a spring. He scratched his shoulder, the tiny weapon popped into his right hand, carefully positioned for the shot. Pollard whipped out his Remington. Daugherty raised the derringer, a shot fired, he was struck on the throat by Pollard’s bullet. Blood poured out Daugherty’s mouth and nose, he leaned to the side. Pungent gunsmoke filled the air, Daugherty fell to the floor and didn’t move. Pollard looked at Slipchuck. “Now it’s you and me, old man. Do you want to go first, or should I?”
Slipchuck’s reflexes had faded considerably since he was young. The old stagecoach driver had come to the end of his road.
“I just asked you a question, old man. Or has something happened to yer hearing? What you waitin’ for?”
Slipchuck smiled grimly. At least he’d die like a young man, with a gun in his hand and his boots on, instead of in a hospital, with drool in his beard and cataracts on his eyes.
“I’m a-ready fer you,” Slipchuck said, spreading his bony arthritic fingers, his body tensed for the final pull. “Make yer play.”
They gazed at each other over the table piled high with coins. A gleam came to Pollard’s eye when he thought of new glory accruing to his reputation. He tensed, licked his lips with the tip of his tongue, got ready.
“Hold on!” said a voice in the doorway.