The E.R. Slade Western Omnibus No.1

by E. R. Slade

  The place was fairly quiet, comparatively speaking. Men who came here took their card playing and drinking seriously. The bar was a dark polished piece of mahogany, the back bar heavily laden was whiskey bottles, the interior of the saloon plain boards, not gaudied up at all. There were smoky coal-oil lanterns hung over tables and one at each end of the bar. There was no piano and were no saloon girls to distract attention from the gaming or the drinking.

  Coe noticed that the clientele was mostly a little higher toned than the general run of cowboys and mining stock hustlers. Some wore broadcloth coats and ruffled white shirts and top hats. They were smooth characters, and could handle cards in the most dazzling kind of way, all the while gazing around absently, like they weren’t even thinking about it at all, but were more bored with the whole thing than a man waiting for week after next.

  Coe got to watching one fellow of this kind with a face unexpressive as the back side of a barn. Coe was sure the man was dealing himself cards out of his cuff now and then when it pleased him, and shoving other cards up in. He was sure because he’d watched Pete doing it when he was working a table, and afterwards Pete showed him how.

  Coe scratched his cheek and thought about his stake. After a moment, he fished it out and counted it over. He had left ten dollars and twenty-five cents.

  Coe scratched his other cheek. The way it was going, finding out what had become of Pete could take a while. He might need more than ten dollars to see him through.

  Coe rubbed his jaw, eyeing the professional gambler. The question he was asking himself was, could he pull it off?

  For a while longer he just stood there watching. Then he said, “Handle’s Coe Dolan. You mind if I join you?”

  There were four chairs around the table, and only three were taken. Besides the slick card-handler, there was a young fellow in a white shirt and black vest, perhaps a clerk in a store, and an older fellow who drank rather heavily, by his dress likely the ramrod of a cattle ranch.

  The slick fellow looked up and favored Coe with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, though in the dim lamplight it was hard to notice that.

  “Certainly don’t, sir,” he said politely, “at least I don’t. You gentlemen?”

  The other two shook their heads no, they didn’t mind. Coe sat down.

  “My name is William Whittaker,” the slick man said. “The younger man to your right is Jack Folley, the elder gentleman across the table from you, Abe Coon. We’ve been playing straight poker. Table stakes.”

  It was Whittaker’s deal and he cut the deck, flipped the two piles of cards together on the table, cut it again, flipped them together in his hands—and Coe caught sight of a couple of tens disappearing up Whittaker’s sleeve.

  Whittaker drifted the cards into place in front of each man, and they all took a look at their hands. Whittaker won with three tens.

  For the first few hands, Coe didn’t draw anything much, and he tried to conserve his money. Then, when he was dealing for the second time, he got lucky. He also noticed that this was one of the times Whittaker was choosing to win—he didn’t always, that being too obvious. Whittaker exchanged a couple of cards in his hand for a couple in his sleeve.

  Now for the critical maneuver. Coe pretended to be fiddling with his left shirt cuff, making it just obvious enough for Whittaker to notice. Coe saw Whittaker’s eyes grow cold. Neither of the other men noticed anything.

  Coe looked at his hand, then across at Whittaker distantly, then at his hand. What he had was three kings. A great hand for straight poker. It was unlikely that anybody else had a hand like that. Even Whittaker. He wouldn’t dare to pull anything to beat it out of his sleeve. It would be just asking for trouble.

  The betting went around once, twice, and Folley and Coon dropped out. Coe and Whittaker were looking at each other; the professional gambler’s eyes were cold, Coe’s eyes as cool as he could make them.

  They raised each other twice, and then Whitaker called him. Coe laid down his hand. Coon said, “Huh!” and Folley said, “Mmm!”

  Whittaker said nothing. His expression didn’t change. Coe raked in seven dollars or so, beaming.

  It was quite a while before Coe got another decent hand, on Coon’s deal. Six dollars had been drained from his reserves by the time he did. It wasn’t a fabulous hand, either, but it was good enough to fool Whittaker with. Two pair: jacks, threes. He fiddled with his cuff, pretending to pull a couple of jacks from his sleeve.

  Again the betting went around. Whittaker had pulled what Coe was fairly sure were a pair of nines from his sleeve. Coe decided to take Whittaker up as high as he would go.

  Whittaker called him when there was about twenty dollars in the pot, the others having dropped out partway along in the betting.

  Coe laid down his hand, and Whittaker said without expression, “You win.”

  Coe figured he was about fifteen dollars ahead of where he’d started the night. Reason told him to give up his original plan and count himself lucky. Twenty-five dollars would carry him quite a while, as long as he didn’t go on a spree. But he told himself that he could be on Pete’s trail a long time yet, and it would be nice to have as large a stake as possible to see him through. Actually, the real reason he went on playing was that he couldn’t resist trying out his plan to bring down Whittaker.

  He played a while longer with losing hands, lost seven dollars, and then, dealing, pretended again to be dealing himself cards from his shirt sleeve, flashing a six twice and a three three times. He hadn’t been sure he was doing it with just the right amount of ineptness to seem realistic to Whittaker without letting the others in on it. But neither Coon nor Folley showed any signs of noticing anything wrong, while Whittaker began making exchanges of cards in his hand for cards up his sleeve. Coe caught sight of a jack, but didn’t see what the others were. He could guess at the kind of hand Whittaker would be building though. Whittaker meant to win this, regardless.

  Coon and Folley stayed in quite a while on this hand, adding pleasantly large amounts to the pot. Then Folley dropped out. Finally Coon folded. Whittaker’s face was still almost expressionless, but he bet with an air of determination and finality.

  Coe kept looking at his hand—a king high—and then at the pot, and then at Whittaker, and acting as though he was trying to hide a smile.

  Coe pushed the stakes up until he didn’t dare anymore, for fear Whittaker would call instead of raise. Everything depended on Whittaker being so determined to win and win big that he wouldn’t get spooked and call.

  Finally, with his last five dollars, Coe called Whittaker.

  Whittaker laid down an even better hand than Coe had expected: a royal flush.

  Coon just stared, Folley leaned forward abruptly and said, “Mmm!”

  Coe laid his own hand face down on the table and frowned steadily across at Whittaker.

  “Mr. Coon,” he said. “Mr. Folley. Do you know what the odds are that Whittaker would come up with that hand on a deal? I think we’ve been taken.”

  Coon and Folley stirred uneasily, looking at Whittaker.

  “Sir,” Whittaker said icily, “are you accusing me of ungentlemanly conduct?”

  “I’m flat out accusing you of cheating.”

  “I cannot abide having aspersions cast upon my honor,” Whittaker said. “I demand you retract your words, or step outside.”

  “I’ll be glad to step outside in a moment. But I haven’t made my play yet. In short, the hand isn’t over.”

  Whittaker’s eyes widened. He thought he knew what was in the hand. That was another thing Coe was counting on.

  What Coe had not been counting on was the extreme nervousness the other men at the table were showing. They seemed terrified of Whittaker. They kept looking from Whittaker to Coe, and he caught warning looks in their eyes.

  “There’s nothing beats a royal flush,” Whittaker said testily. “And you’re not going to show us another one of those, now are you?”

  “Do you know
what the odds are against both of us getting royal flushes on a deal?”

  Whittaker’s face went red.

  “Are you saying you do have a royal flush?”

  “I don’t recall which suit wins between royal flushes, do you?”

  “Turn that hand up,” Whittaker demanded.

  “Not so fast. First, do you know which suit wins?”

  Whittaker lost control. He lurched across the table to try to turn up Coe’s cards. They weren’t there by the time he slapped his hand down.

  Coe reflected that if there was one thing a cheat hated, it was being out cheated by another cheat.

  Whittaker backed off, getting control again. His eyes narrowed. He knew he had done nothing for his reputation with that action. He was thinking quickly, trying to come up with a way to be plausible.

  “Gentlemen,” he said. “I’ve been watching Mr. Dolan since he sat down to play with us. Perhaps you two have not noticed, but Dolan has been pulling cards out of his sleeve. If we can get him to turn those cards up, we will find a royal flush, apparently. But I will bet that he has a pair of sixes and three threes up his sleeve, which was his original hand, until he saw me lay down a royal flush.”

  Coe said not a word. His arms and hands had been in full view of everyone from the time he’d removed the cards from the table to prevent Whittaker turning them up. He unfastened his cuff buttons and shook them open in plain sight of everyone. Then he took his shirt off, passed it around, so they could check it over as thoroughly as they wished. After he’d put it back on, he sat down and turned up his hand. King high and then a seven, a six, a three and a deuce.

  He looked meaningfully at Coon and Folley. They looked from him to Whittaker.

  Whittaker opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it again and reached for his pot.

  Coe’s pistol stopped him.

  “Boys,” he said, not taking his eyes off Whittaker, “I think he ought to leave that pot and all his money but what he came with where it is and just leave. Unless he cares to open his cuffs and pass around his coat and shirt.”

  Whittaker’s eyes were almost enough to burn holes in things with.

  “You will pay for this, Dolan,” he said, and stalked out of the saloon.

  Coe took a deep breath and looked at Coon and Folley.

  “We were all cheated out of money. There’s different ways we could straighten this out. We could all just go away with what we came with. Or we could let the man with the best hand take the pot, and then split Whittaker’s winnings three ways.”

  “You bluffed him out of that pot fair and square,” Coon said. “It’s yours. We could split Whittaker’s winnings three ways, but I’m not sure if I want my share. Word could get to Whittaker.”

  “Fine with me,” Folley said. “You can take my share of Whittaker’s winnings, too.”

  “Whittaker’s got you all nervous. Why?”

  Coon looked at Coe soberly. “Son, don’t you know about Whittaker? That’s one hell of a dangerous man. Just last week he killed a fellow named Butcher. Butcher had a reputation, and he had three men backing him up. Whittaker sent lead through Butcher before Butcher cleared leather. Butcher’s friends cooled off and took a hike. Ain’t been seen since. The law leaves Whittaker alone—too dangerous to do otherwise. Son, you’ve bought yourself a peck of trouble. You want to clear for other parts.”

  Coe rubbed his jaw.

  “That sure was smooth, Dolan,” Folley said. “I’ve got to hand it to you. Whittaker doesn’t usually spend his time playing for low stakes. Mostly he plays businessmen and rich ranchers and cleans up. Just a slow night. He only settled for us because there wasn’t nothing better, and they say he doesn’t like to get out of practice, and so he plays every night and sometimes during the day, too. But you want to take Abe’s advice and clear out. Whittaker’ll be gunning for you, sure.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Coe said. He had split up Whittaker’s winnings into three piles of equal value. He took one himself and stood up. “You can take the money or leave it,” he said. “But I’m not taking more than my share.”

  When Coe got back to his hotel room, he counted up his new stake, found he was now worth sixty-two dollars and thirty-five cents. A gain of fifty-two dollars and ten cents. Not bad for a night’s work. He’d never done that before in his life. It took nearly two months of polishing his saddle the hard way to earn that as a hand. He could see why men like Whittaker—and Pete—went in for cards as a profession. It could pay well.

  Coe felt proud of himself. Not bad, he thought, for a fellow who’d never played anything but penny ante poker before.

  But this feeling was dampened by the discovery that the man he’d bluffed the money out of was a dangerous gunman, as well as a smooth card hand. That was not pleasant news. The possibility had never crossed his mind, since the combination was rare. Professional gamblers all carried guns, and knew how to use them, but only as much as any cowhand did. Coe had a passable draw, as cowpokes went. But he wasn’t going to get himself into the position of having to draw against Whittaker if he could help it. He was going to have to be very, very careful from now on.

  In fact, he was tempted to leave, as he had been advised. But then he thought of Pete, and knew he couldn’t.

  Chapter Six

  Coe Dolan checked out of the Big Time Hotel just at dawn, having slept only fitfully, listening to footsteps both real and imaginary all night. He ate breakfast at Kittie’s, and before he left, Lynn handed him a sealed envelope.

  “Would you do me a favor?” she asked. “Would you give that to my uncle when you find him?”

  “All right,” he said.

  “Be careful.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” he said.

  “Don’t be fresh.”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  She cuffed him lightly on the arm, blushing.

  “Look,” he said, “if he comes back before I do, tell him what’s happened, and see if he will check into Pete’s disappearance, will you? Tell him about Turner and Gordon. Maybe he will put some pressure on them and they’ll talk. I’m convinced they know something.”

  “Yes sir,” she mocked him.

  Coe grinned down at her, and had a sudden desire to take her off into the foothills for a ride, maybe stop in the shade and have a picnic, talk about things.

  He remembered Pete and felt guilty. He told himself that he was deeply worried about Pete, but it wasn’t any good. What he felt was a duty to check on him—in short he was only bothering about Pete because of a pesky conscience. He had in the back of his mind that if he found Pete alive he’d cuss him out good for causing so much trouble. He liked Pete okay, and it was true he could be generous—with what he’d stolen from somebody else. But he and Pete just didn’t see life the same way at all, they simply were not that close.

  But Pete was likely to be dead. And if the body turned up to confirm that fact, unless it indicated the killer clearly, that would be just the beginning of his problems, since his duty would then be to see that the killer was caught and punished.

  He drew a deep breath and let it out.

  Lynn’s bright hazel eyes clouded.

  “You’re really worried about him, aren’t you?” she said softly. “And him just a thief and a scamp.”

  That made him feel more guilty. He said, “And you telling me just last night that that was a funny way to talk about my brother.”

  “That was before.”

  “Well, if it was you, wouldn’t you feel a duty to do something? Your own brother’s your own brother.”

  “I guess I would.” She kept watching his face curiously, as though it were a book she was reading.

  “What I was thinking was, somebody’s probably killed him, and I’ll be stuck here for weeks, or even months trying to prove who the killer is.” Thinking that might give her the wrong impression about how he felt about her, he added, “All I seem to do while I’m in this town is find myself more and more trouble,” a
nd realized he hadn’t made himself any clearer.

  She smiled in a way he hadn’t seen her do before, and was relieved they’d gotten past the awkwardness he’d created by opening his mouth. “Don't be so hard on yourself,” she said. “You’ve brought trouble on yourself for the sake of your brother, and you aren’t quitting. I think that’s pretty fine, whether your brother deserves it or not.”

  He left feeling different somehow, as though he had only half the problem he’d started out with this morning. And Lynn’s smile stayed with him as he got his horse and rode north, clearing town safely, not running into Whittaker.

  He stopped at two ranches, a couple of small spreads with modest but healthy herds and neat clumps of buildings. Sheriff Gerald Mulberry had stopped both places asking if they’d seen the outlaws, been told no, and ridden on. There was a long stretch between the second and third set of ranch buildings, which he reached about eleven in the morning.

  A couple of hands were rebuilding water troughs along the corral fence. One sat down on the edge of the trough they were presently working on and rolled a smoke.

  “Howdy, stranger,” the other said, and propped himself against a fence post. They both looked like they wouldn’t mind a break about now.

  “Howdy,” Coe said, and climbed down. There was water in the trough recently finished, next to the one the men were working on, and with their permission he let his horse drink.

  “Handle’s Coe Dolan. I’m looking for Sheriff Mulberry of Killer Ledge. Seen him?”

  The fellow sitting on the trough edge got his smoke going and then said, “Yeah, he come by here, what was it, Joe, four days ago?”

  “Yep. Just about noon, I think ’twas. I’m Joe Yolen, and he’s Ready Quait. Trouble?”

  “Long story, but yeah, it’s trouble. Which way’d he go?”

  “Wal,” Quait said, “he was askin’ after outlaws that held up the stage just after it left Killer Ledge. They was two of ’em. We saw ’em go by out on the range where we was ropin’ some late calves. Leastways, we figure it was the road agents. They was about an hour ahead of Mulberry and ridin’ hell-fer-leather. They swung in a big arc around us and went on north. Mulberry took after them. He was on a big piebald. He oughta been able to ketch up with them by nightfall. Their hosses was wearing thin, looked to me. I tole the sheriff so. He didn’t waste no time but set right off after ’em.”