Showdown in Desperation

by J. R. Roberts

  “Dollars?” Creed blurted out.

  “Shhh,” Brennan said.

  “Nice bet,” Lanigan said.

  “It’s your play, Mr. Lanigan,” Brennan said. As the dealer, even though he was out of the hand, he was still the general at the table.

  “Your fifty,” Lanigan said, “and a hundred more.”

  “Your play, Mr. Adams,” Brennan said.

  Creed looked at the pot in the center of the table—the one he was still part of. Then he looked at the side pot, which dwarfed his.

  “I’ll call your hundred,” Clint said.

  “That’s all?” Lanigan asked.

  “Why not?” Clint said. “There are other hands to be played. Right?”

  “You’re right,” Lanigan said.

  “And you’re called,” Clint said.

  “Pot’s right,” Brennan said. “Whataya got, kid?”

  Creed, as if he already knew he was beat, turned up his hole card.

  “Three eights.”

  “Mr. Lanigan?”

  The gambler turned up his card.

  “Straight to the nine.”

  “You’re beat, kid,” Brennan said. “Mr. Adams?”

  Clint turned his card over.

  “Straight to the ace,” he said.

  “Mr. Adams wins both pots.”

  “Well played,” Lanigan said to Clint.

  Clint raked his pots in.

  “The deal’s yours,” Brennan said to Lanigan.

  The gambler gathered the cards and shuffled them.

  “You still in, kid?” he asked.

  “Naw,” Creed said, “I’m busted.”

  “Too bad,” Lanigan said. He tossed a chip across the table. “Have a drink on me.”

  “Sure,” Creed said. He picked up the chip and left the table. Another body filled it.

  “Table stakes,” Lanigan said to him.

  “Sounds good,” the man said.

  “Comin’ out,” Lanigan said, and dealt.

  • • •

  Johnny Creed went to the bar for his drink, gave the bartender the chip.

  “Whataya have?” the barman asked.

  “Whiskey.”

  “Tough beat,” the bartender said, pouring the kid his drink.

  Creed downed his drink and said, “They cheated me.”

  “You think so?”

  “I know so,” Creed said, “and I’m gonna get even.”

  “How you gonna do that?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Creed said. “But I’ll figure it out.”

  The sheriff, who had finished up his beer, leaned over and said, “Don’t go lookin’ for trouble, son.”

  As the lawman laughed, Creed seethed, “Don’t call me son!”

  • • •

  “That boy’s a real bad loser,” Brennan said, back at the poker table.

  “Is that supposed to be a warning?” Clint asked while Lanigan shuffled.

  “I’m just sayin’, is all,” Brennan said with a shrug. “He don’t like to lose.”

  “Then he shouldn’t play,” Lanigan said, “because he’s always going to lose.”

  “He’s pretty slick with that gun, too,” Wilkins said, adding his two cents.

  “Are you telling me, or him?” Lanigan said, jerking his head toward Clint.

  “It don’t matter,” Wilkins said. “Like Brennan, I’m just sayin’.”

  “Well, then, deal the cards, Mr. Lanigan,” Clint said. “I can’t start worrying about bad losers who may or may not be good with a gun.”

  “Comin’ out,” Lanigan said, dealing the first card. “Ah, big ace for the Gunsmith. It’s your bet, my friend . . .”

  FOUR

  Clint reined Eclipse in and stroked the big gelding’s neck. There was no sign of anyone in front of him, or behind him, and it was starting to get dark. It seemed safe to camp now.

  He found a likely clearing, unsaddled Eclipse, rubbed him down, and allowed him to graze. After that he built a fire. He had no coffee, but he did have some beef jerky in his saddlebag. He sat in front of the fire, munched on the dried meat, sipped his water while hoping to find a waterhole the next morning. Or a town—a small town, without a telegraph office, where they would not have yet heard about what had happened in El Legado.

  If he was going to keep hunting—and running—he was going to need some supplies.

  He stared out into the darkness, thought back to his time in the New Mexican town . . .

  • • •

  After Clint took the big pot from Lanigan, the game settled back to normal, with five- and ten-dollar bets. Clint and the gambler continued to win, and before long the newcomer who had taken Johnny Creed’s seat busted out. From that point on, they played five-handed, until the bartender came over and said, “Gotta close up, gents.”

  “Back here tomorrow?” Brennan asked.

  “Suits me,” Lanigan said.

  Everyone agreed.

  “Buy you a beer?” Lanigan asked Clint.

  “If the bartender will sell it.”

  “He will,” Lanigan said with a smile. “I got pull.”

  While the others left, they walked to the bar and Lanigan called out, “Jasper, one more beer for me and my friend.”

  “Comin’ up,” Jasper said, “but then you fellas gotta go.”

  “Of course.”

  The barman, who, at fifty, was the owner of his first saloon after tending bar for twenty-five years in other people’s, served them a beer each.

  This was actually Clint’s first ever since early in the evening. He never drank when he was playing.

  As for Henry Lanigan, he’d been drinking beer all night, but seemed no worse for the wear.

  “You play poker very well,” Lanigan said. “Learned from good players?”

  “The best,” Clint said. “I’ve sat at a lot of tables with Bat Masterson and Luke Short.”

  Lanigan’s eyebrows went up.

  “That is the best. Wish I had some time against players like that myself.”

  “There’s still plenty of time,” Clint said. “How often have you played in Denver, or San Francisco?”

  “I haven’t played there yet,” Lanigan said. “But I intend to. Soon.”

  “I’m sure you’ll fit in just fine.”

  “Think so?”

  “You play well enough.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How long do you plan to stay in town?” Clint asked.

  “Just a few more days,” Lanigan said. “I’ve almost won enough of a stash, although it’s hard to put it together with such low stakes. Oh, and you did take a chunk of it away from me with that side pot.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” Lanigan said. “After all, it was my idea. I tried to take advantage of the situation and gouge you.”

  “That poor kid got caught in the middle,” Clint said.

  “Yes, he did,” Lanigan said, “and he didn’t like it. He’s liable to come after one, or both of us.”

  “That would be his problem.”

  “Well,” Lanigan said, “we better just watch our backs.” He put his empty mug down.

  “Thanks for the beer, Lanigan,” Clint said, setting his mug down as well. “Where are you staying?”

  “A rooming house in town,” Lanigan said as they walked to the door. “I didn’t have much money when I got here. I’ve actually been having a streak of bad luck.”

  “Seems to have improved.”

  “A bit,” Lanigan said. “I was doing better before you came along.”

  “Again,” Clint said, “sorry.”

  “No need to apologize,” Lanigan said. “I like a spirited game.” They stepped outside and Jasper locked the
door behind them.

  “What about you?” Lanigan asked. “How much longer do you intend to hang around?”

  “Only a day or two,” Clint said. “I could stay out of the game, if you like.”

  “No need.”

  “But I was just passing the time,” Clint said. “You need the stake.”

  “I’ll get my stake.” Lanigan pointed. “My rooming house is this way.”

  Clint pointed the other way.

  “My hotel’s that way.”

  “Then I’ll see you tomorrow,” Lanigan said. “Remember. Watch your back.”

  “You, too.”

  They separated and went their own ways.

  • • •

  When Clint entered his room, he found Jenny on the bed.

  “I didn’t see you at work tonight,” he said.

  “How could you?” she asked from the bed. “You were concentrating so hard.”

  “That’s how you win.”

  She tossed the sheet back to reveal herself to be completely naked beneath it.

  “Why don’t you try concentrating that hard on me?” she asked.

  He smiled and said, “That’s just what I was thinking.”

  FIVE

  Clint sat in front of the fire, kept his eyes away from the flames, kept his ears open while bringing back the memory of Jenny in his bed . . .

  • • •

  Her body was smooth and full, so full that sometimes he felt as if she would burst when he bit into her breasts and cover him with sweet juice, like a ripe piece of fruit. But not fat, never fat.

  When he had her on her hands and knees and was fucking her from behind, there seemed to be acres of glorious flesh in front of him. He ran his hands over the muscles of her back, smacked her on the butt until her cheeks were red, and then gripped her by the hips to steady her as he plunged into her. And then he’d roar—actually roar, like a lion or a bull—when he ejaculated inside her . . .

  • • •

  He shook his head to dispel the image, because he felt himself swelling, and that was like being all dressed up with no place to go.

  He stoked his fire, ate his last piece of beef jerky, and drank the last of his water. He had nothing left for breakfast, so in the morning he’d have to rise, saddle up, and ride immediately, hoping to find either a water hole or a small town.

  The best thing now was to roll himself up in his bedroll and get some sleep. If anyone approached during the night, he knew that he’d hear from Eclipse . . .

  • • •

  Back in El Legado he woke the next morning, rolled over, and bumped into Jenny, who didn’t stir. She was fast asleep, exhausted from their night together. He could feel their exertions in his legs, but his manifested itself not in exhaustion, but hunger.

  He dressed quietly and slipped from the room, even though he thought he could fire his gun without waking her. In the lobby he made a quick decision, decided to go back to the café he’d eaten at on his first day and have breakfast there.

  He stepped outside onto the busy main street, ducking a rider and an oncoming buckboard as he crossed over. On the other side he ran into the sheriff, who was just standing there with his hands on his guns—he wore two—watching the street.

  Sheriff Tom Cox was a dandy. In his fifties, he had gray hair, a well-cared-for gray mustache, and a bit of a potbelly that maybe he thought wearing two guns could hide.

  “Mornin’, Adams,” he said.

  “Sheriff,” Clint said, joining the man on the boardwalk. “You sure do have a busy town here.”

  “Indeed we do,” the sheriff said. “We’re growin’ by leaps and bounds. Got a new church and a new school.”

  Clint had also heard talk of the town council bringing in a new police station, which would mean the sheriff’s job would be reduced, or eliminated. He didn’t mention that, though.

  “Quite a game last night,” Cox said.

  “Small stakes,” Clint said.

  “For you, maybe,” Cox said, “not for the folks in this town. Not for Johnny Creed.”

  “He shouldn’t play if he can’t lose gracefully,” Clint said.

  “And every professional gambler you know is a graceful loser?” Cox asked.

  “No,” Clint said, “but they’re professional. He’s not. He’s liable to lose his temper and cause a lot of trouble.”

  “With his gun, you mean.”

  “I’ve heard stories . . .”

  “Well, he does fancy himself a fast gun,” Cox said, “and I’ve heard that he’s pretty accurate.”

  “Has he ever killed a man?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, he’ll find that a lot more difficult than target shooting,” Clint said. “I’m off to have some breakfast.”

  “Enjoy it,” Cox said. “I’ll see you at the saloon later in the day when I stop in for my beer. I’m sure you’ll be deep into your game by then.”

  “I’m sure I will,” Clint said. “Have a good day.”

  The sheriff tipped his hat to some passing ladies then said to Clint, “You, too.”

  Clint walked to the café, found it doing a brisk morning business, but was able to get a table against the wall. Most people liked to sit where they could look out the window. Not him.

  He was deep into his steak and eggs when Dan Brennan walked in. At that time there were no tables so Clint waved, got his attention, and beckoned him over.

  “Join me,” he invited.

  “Thanks.”

  The waiter came over and Brennan pointed at Clint’s plate, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  “So, figure on stayin’ in town much longer?” the storekeeper asked.

  “Not too much longer,” Clint said. “But I’ll play a day or two more.”

  “What do you think of our little game?”

  “It’s a way to pass the time.”

  “That’s how most of us feel,” Brennan said. “But not the gambler, Lanigan. He’s tryin’ to build a stake.”

  “Hard way to do it.”

  “He’s gettin’ there, little by little.”

  “And then there’s Creed,” Clint said.

  “Yes,” Brennan said, “he’s kind of intense.”

  “He shouldn’t be playing poker,” Clint said. “Not with men anyway.”

  “We all know that,” Brennan said, “but we’re still willing to take his money.”

  “He’s not a good loser,” Clint said. “It’s dangerous to let him play.”

  Brennan grinned and said, “He ain’t mad at me. Maybe you and Lanigan.”

  “We’ll watch our backs,” Clint said.

  “Oh, I don’t know that the boy is a backshooter,” Brennan said. “Now his old man , . .”

  “Who’s his father?”

  “Oh, you didn’t know?” Brennan asked. “Jimmy Creed is his dad.”

  Clint had heard of Jimmy Creed. The man was a notorious backshooter. Clint thought Johnny Creed was probably just trying to make people think he was Jimmy. He didn’t expect that the boy was related.

  “Creed was from here?” Clint asked.

  “Married a girl from here years ago,” Brennan said, “stayed around long enough for her to get pregnant, then moved on and continued to make his reputation.”

  “Shooting men in the back isn’t much of a reputation,” Clint said.

  Brennan shrugged, sat back so the waiter could put his breakfast on the table.

  “Thanks,” he said, and dug in.

  Clint was concerned. If Jimmy Creed fancied himself to be his father’s son, what was to keep him from trying to shoot Clint or Lanigan in the back?

  He needed to make sure Lanigan was aware.

  SIX

  After breakfast Clint went in search of Lanigan’s rooming
house. The man hadn’t said where it was, except to point in a direction. He walked toward that end of town, keeping his eyes open. He came to the end of what seemed to be the town limits. There were no more storefronts, just a few residential houses. One of them was two stories and certainly looked large enough to be a rooming house.

  He approached it, stepped to the door, and knocked. A handsome woman answered the door, stood there drying her hands on her apron. Her auburn hair was pinned up over her head, a few tendrils escaping and flopping down over her forehead.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Clint said, “but . . . is this a rooming house?”

  “It is, indeed,” the woman said, with what seemed to be a slight Irish accent, “but I’m afraid I have no rooms available at the moment.”

  “That’s all right,” he said, “I’m not looking for a room, I’m looking for a man I think may be one of your roomers.”

  She finished drying her hands and perched them on her hips.

  “Oh? And who might that be?”

  “His name is Carl Lanigan.”

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Lanigan has a room here,” she said. “Would you be wantin’ to talk to him?” The Irish lilt suddenly became more pronounced.

  “I would,” he said.

  “Come in, then.”

  “Thank you.”

  He stepped inside and followed her to a large living room area.

  “My boarders have had their breakfast, but I believe I have some coffee left. Would you like a cup?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “I’ll tell Mr. Lanigan you’re here,” she said. “I believe he sleeps late and works later in the day.”

  “I believe he does,” Clint agreed.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  The furniture was functional, not fancy. A woman didn’t usually turn her home into a rooming house unless she needed the money. In most case, they were widows.

  She returned with a tray bearing a pot of coffee and two cups.

  “You gentlemen can have coffee in here and talk,” she said. “He’ll be coming down those stairs any min—ah, here he is.”

  Lanigan came down the stairs in shirtsleeves, the first time Clint had seen him when he wasn’t wearing his gambler’s suit.

  “Well, good morning,” he said. “When Mrs. O’Shea told me there was a man here to see me, I was afraid it was that young pup.”