Trail Hand

by R. W. Stone

  I avoided staring at him by quickly switching my gaze over to the second cowboy seated immediately to his left. This one was wearing stovepipe chaps, a horsehair vest, and carried a large pocket watch on a gold chain. Pulling out a chair, I tossed my pouch on the table and addressed myself to him.

  “Not much there, but maybe it’ll build some.”

  “Welcome to try, but don’t get your hopes up,” he replied.

  “The name’s Pete, Pete Evans. That’s Ed Jenkins,” he said, indicating the third man, “and this here’s Comanche Reynolds.” His talkativeness was surprising, but helpful. Out here most men usually kept things to themselves, offering up only what was absolutely necessary.

  Turning back to the one called Reynolds, I asked quietly: “You called that for some special reason?”

  He looked up at me through narrowed eyes and fingered the necklace. It was unusual to have questions posed by strangers, but after a short pause he answered anyway.

  “Took this off a Comanche brave during a wagon train attack in ’Fifty-Nine. Got him just as he was about to let fly an arrow at me. Been called that ever since.”

  That’s when I knew for sure he was a damned liar.

  I nodded as if duly impressed and began to check my cards. Poker was one skill I was proficient at, and before long it was obvious to me that these three weren’t anywhere near as good as they thought they were.

  Chapter Twelve

  It didn’t take long to catch on to the system they were using to cheat whoever joined the game. The three were much too sure of themselves, and made the mistake of judging me solely by appearance. Most cowboys pride themselves on their card savvy, and these men were no exception. Truth is, even though cowboys brag a lot about cards, when it comes to poker, miners have got them beat hands down. And I for one was no stranger to pick and shovel.

  The stakes tend to be higher around miners. When a claim is good, the chips fly, and, when the mine’s played out, they bet for future shares of the next lode. Sure, cowboys gamble along the trail, often for wages received at the end of the drive, but that’s usually not very much. Riders are always busy doing something with the herd and that distracts from the game, so cards are really just a diversion on the trail. Some bosses won’t even allow their men a friendly game during a drive.

  Miners on the other hand are frequently stranded at their claims for weeks on end, and up north it can be all winter. Red dog, five-card, and seven-card draw can become a part of their lives, a way to keep from going crazy.

  For about seven straight months five of us had worked a gold claim near Bannack City, Idaho. We lived in three patched tents and a makeshift cabin thrown together with leftover boards. From sunup to sundown we dug and sifted to exhaustion, and, when we dragged ourselves back at night, it was usually to a simple dinner of sourdough and old salt pork, or beans and dried apples.

  There wasn’t anything else to do, and nowhere to go to blow off steam, so we constantly played cards. Jebediah Edwards, Sam Prescott, Philly Nash, and I played as much as we could, and as well as anyone else around, but it was Riverboat Chantal who usually won the pot. We played almost every night for a solid month and nightly I lost about half of everything I had dug up to him.

  Chantal supposedly grew up on the river. Or so they said. Jebediah once told me that Riverboat had dealt up and down the Mississippi for years, and I had good reason to believe him. That is until one evening when, after finishing almost a fifth of sour mash, Riverboat confessed the truth to me about his past.

  “Mah father was a sailor and mah mother a French-Creole. They died during the pox outbreak when Ah was real young, and that left me in N’ Orl’ans. Ah growed up workin’ odd jobs in a social club in the red district what belonged to a friend o’ mah father. You know the type,” he said, looking somewhat distracted.

  I nodded at him.

  “Those gurls shore was purty.”

  “I can imagine,” I said. “Go on.”

  “Well there was this small casino next door that Ah hung around regular. That’s where Ah got to know Pierre One-Ear, the greatest card sharp ever was.”

  “And he taught you?” I asked.

  “Eventually, but not right off. He knew Ah used to trade things around town, so Pierre decided to swap me his card tricks, one at a time, in exchange for pokes with some of the girls Ah worked with. Yessir, old One-Ear really liked the ladies, but after he got his ear bit off in a fight, the decent ones shied away from him. So ya see he sorely needed mah help. Ah remember, there was this one gal who worked the club by the name of Candice. She liked fancy perfumes so Ah always traded her that for Pierre. It worked like this. From time to time Ah lifted jewelry from some of the house patrons to trade for perfume which Ah gave to her. She then lent her favor to Pierre and he’d teach me another trick, an’ so on.’ Ventually Ah got Pierre to teach me a good bit, but he went and got shot before Ah could get real knowledgeable. The rest Ah sort of picked up as Ah went along.”

  He paused to watch Philly Nash pick out his fingernails across the room. It was a constant habit that always drove Riverboat crazy, especially since Philly had fingernails that were twice as long as any man we’d ever seen.

  “No wonder they call him Filly,” Chantal growled. “Sure as hell wouldn’t call him Stallion…not with them girly nails of his. Beats me how he gets any work done wearin’ ’em long like that,” he added.

  “Don’t think he spells it with an F, Riverboat,” I observed. “I think he’s called Philly ’cause his family hails from Philadelphia.”

  “Well, whatever. But, if you ask me, for a miner he spends more time diggin’ ’round in those nails o’ his than he does in the ground.”

  I could only nod in agreement. Admittedly it was kind of hard to explain.

  Chantal took another swig and continued on. “Truth is Ah hate boats. Hell, Ah get sick just lookin’ at a glass of water. You couldn’t get me on a paddle boat, raft, or canoe now iffen you was to threaten me with a buffalo gun. The only time Ah ever rode one, Ah throwed up so much Ah begged the captain to put me out of mah mis’ry. It was so disgustin’ the crew finally tossed me overboard. To top it off, Ah cain’t swim and almost drowned. Iffen it warn’t fur a log floatin’ by what drug me ashore, you’d be the only one here doin’ the winnin’ from those two.”

  “Then why in the world do they call you Riverboat?” I asked, puzzled.

  Chantal had finished his jug so I passed him the rest of the one I was drinking from. He gulped down another slug and continued on.

  “Simple. One time, over in Tucson, Ah was playing with this whiskey vendor who knew Ah hailed from N’ Orl’ans. Kind of an unlucky feller when it came to cards, but he wouldn’t never admit it to himself. Just naturally assumed Ah had to be a Mississippi boat gambler. It was he what tagged me with the name Riverboat. Soon everybody started calling me that, and afterwards it just seemed easier to go along with folks.”

  That was simple enough to understand. A lot of men out West had changed their names for one reason or another. “Guess it’s easier to handle losin’ all your money if you think you were taken in by a sharp,” I added.

  “Well you ought to know, kid.” He smiled as he pulled in the pot we’d been playing for. “Look, Ah’m gonna educate you proper like. After all, there’s not much else to do around here at night and you sorely need the help.”

  “Yeah, you must get pretty bored winning all my money like that,” I replied.

  Over the next few months I learned that there are more ways to cheat at cards than there are cattle in Texas. Chantal taught me about marking cards and reflective rings, bent cards, stacking a deck, palming, and about shills. Getting the other fellow to cut the cards to your advantage and bottom dealing were just basics for him. When I finally decided to leave the good life and ride out, I had won back almost all that I had originally lost. In spite of that Riverboat seemed truly sad to see me go.

  “Heard say the mark of a good teacher is to be outdone by the
pupil. You sure make me proud now, boy, but why don’t you stick around and try to win back the rest?” he asked.

  “Nope. You taught me enough to know there’s bound to be a few tricks you’ve held out on me,” I said. He just smiled back. “Besides, Sam and Philly need to hang onto a little something for their old age,” I joked. “With both of us staying on, you know it wouldn’t be fair. As it is now practically all Jeb has left is an old photo of that half-naked actress, Ada Menken.”

  Riverboat helped me tie down my bedroll.

  “Saw her once in person, ya know,” he said. “Fine-lookin’ lady, but she warn’t really naked. Just wears a skin-colored outfit. But it don’t matter much. First chance these boys git, they’ll prob’ly spend whatever’s left on easy women and hard licur.”

  “Likely I’ll do the same,” I said. “You take care now.”

  He patted my horse and bid me a safe journey. It was the last I ever saw of him.

  A few years later I learned from Shiloh Marks, an old friend of Jebediah’s, that a cave-in had taken Sam, Philly, and Riverboat. Jeb had escaped with a crushed hip, but luckily could still get around on a cane. In fact, he was one of the men who later proved the local sheriff, a man named Henry Amos Plummer, was actually the ringleader of a gang of claim-jumpers.

  The cave-in had been no accident, and Jebediah knew it. There had been several robberies in the area and for quite a while he’d suspected the sheriff. As long as Jeb lived, he represented a threat to the gang, so Plummer finally sent two of his deputies to kill Jeb. When they failed in their subsequent attempt, they were caught and brought to trial. Faced with the prospect of life imprisonment, they confessed to being in Plummer’s outlaw gang.

  Even with a bad hip, Jebediah later led the posse that captured the crooked sheriff. His friend, Shiloh Marks, told me they decided to hang Plummer on the very same gallows he’d originally helped to build. That he died like a coward was no surprise.

  Marks also told me that Jeb eventually moved back to Illinois where he married some widow who owned a feed and grain supply. Shiloh said she had Jeb so buffaloed he’d given him the picture of Ada to hold onto, lest his wife catch him with it.

  What those men taught me during their card games back in Idaho had served me well over the years. The trick with these three cowboys here, in Gila City, would not be to win all their money at once, but rather to keep playing. To stay in the game. I needed time to convince them I was on the wrong side of the law and desperately in need of a job. They had to be made to believe I could somehow be of use to them. I wanted my game play to seem inept in order to keep drawing the game on, but without busting out.

  Their strategy might have fooled most men, but Evans was overly confident. The three were so intent on cheating others, they didn’t expect it to be done to them and it was no chore at all to keep ahead of Reynolds and his pals. I’d simply fold early on the set-ups to avoid big losses, win a few small hands, building my holdings a little at a time.

  Whenever they tried to give me too good a hand, I’d make a bonehead play, like drawing unsuccessfully to a straight instead of sticking with two pair. If I got too far ahead, I intentionally lost and made a big fuss about it. I kept some money to play with, enough to keep them interested, but not enough to be suspicious.

  “Look, fellers, I really need a job and ain’t particular,” I finally remarked. “So if you three need a fourth, I’m as good as the next feller and ain’t choosy about usin’ my gun, if need be.”

  “Say, why don’t you just throw that fancy Colt of yours into the pot and liven things up some?” Evans asked, avoiding the subject.

  “Nope, I reckon I’ll stick with it,” I replied. “Too hard to come by in the first place, if you know what I mean.” I winked, hoping the way it was said would give them the wrong idea.

  “Yeah, only one way a drifter gets a fine piece like that, and it ain’t workin’ cows,” Jenkins commented, taking the bait. He was the better-looking of the three, clean-shaven and square-jawed. His shoulder-length brown hair draped down from under a large fedora, and his tanned complexion highlighted blue eyes that must have won over more than a few women. His good looks sure as hell wouldn’t influence my opinion of him, though.

  “Won it in a contest,” I said, giving an exaggerated smile to the saloon girl serving beers to the table.

  “Sure you did. And I’ll bet the feller you won it off of really misses it.”

  For some reason Pete Evans felt real comfortable joking with me like that. Strange, considering we’d only just met.

  “Don’t suppose so, seein’ as how he’s dead now,” I answered, bending the truth a bit.

  “Figured as much,” Jenkins mumbled. “So, ever done any stage work?”

  “Some. But I got tired of worrying about getting lead poisoning,” I answered. It wasn’t all a lie since, at one point in my past, I’d ridden shotgun for Henry Wells for almost eight straight months.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” said Pete, joining in. “Gettin’ a lot rougher these days. We got a sweet deal going now, though.”

  “Evans, you talk too much. Just shut up and play.” Comanche Reynolds clearly was the one in charge.

  Pete Evans had left the door open a little so to speak, so I jumped in, fearing there might not be another chance. “Look, if something’s up…if you’ve got something good going…maybe you could use an extra hand. Sure could use the work and, like I said, just what kind don’t bother me much.”

  “Maybe Davies could…,” Pete started to say, but Reynolds cut him off.

  “We work alone,” he said sternly.

  There it was. There wasn’t going to be another chance, and, if I tried to push the issue, it would appear too suspicious. I had to come up with another plan and quick.

  “Well, can’t blame a feller for tryin’,” I said. “So how about we up the pot a little. Maybe my luck will change. After all, if you can’t join ’em, beat ’em so to speak.” I wasn’t joking.

  Considering how bad I’d been playing, the three were readily agreeable, anxious to finish me off so they could move on to richer prey. They never knew what hit them. Within two hours they had lost all their money, plus Jenkins’s gold watch. Not in one pot, mind you, but quick enough so they couldn’t figure out how I’d managed it. I had made sure they were completely cleaned out. I wanted them broke, and so mad they’d be sure to come after me.

  The last hand of seven-card I dealt was sweet. Evans and Jenkins both had two pair up and a matching down card. Reynolds had two queens showing, and a queen and a pair of kings buried. All I was showing was a five, an eight, and two threes. They bet the pot. But I’d buried two other fives and dealt myself the last five as my final down card. Four of a kind beat them all.

  “Well, you never can figure it,” I gloated. “Guess this was my lucky day after all. So, since there’s nothing keeping me here now, I guess I’ll be seeing you boys.”

  Without waiting for a reply, I scooped up the money and left, hurrying over to the stable. I was careful to watch my back on the way out of the saloon. I didn’t want to give them the slightest opportunity to get at me while we were still in town.

  The roan was saddled and waiting for me. I was in a rush, and, since I needed more lead time, I drank long and hard right from the horse trough, and then quickly filled my canteen. Before leaving there were two other things I needed.

  “Elijah, I’m gonna want that shovel and a set of hobbles if you can spare ’em,” I said. The gold eagle I tossed his way more than helped convince him. “By the way, if anyone asks about me, it ought to cost them both time and money to find out I’m headed west. That way.” I pointed to make sure he knew what I meant. “But especially time, if you get my drift. An hour or two ought to do it.”

  He nodded back at me, indicating that he understood me all too well.

  “Oh, and no need to mention about the shovel to them,” I added.

  “None of mah business,” he answered, shaking his head
. “But good luck at whatever ya got in mind, anyway,” he added. “Ah reckon you’ll need it.”

  I knew my choices were limited. Trying to follow those three would have been out of the question. I had no way of knowing for sure if they’d ever even return to the herd, and, if they did, they’d surely be watching their back trail. Since I hadn’t gained their confidence and had failed to convince them to let me ride with them, I really had only one option left: somehow to force them to reveal the herd’s location to me. I knew that wouldn’t be easy, and I’d have to hightail it for a while, because what I had in mind for them couldn’t be done in town.

  After leaving the livery stable, it took several hours of hard riding to find a stretch of ground suitable for my purpose. Reynolds and his pals were so angry when I left, it was an easy bet they’d follow, which was precisely what I now wanted.

  Three men armed against one doesn’t make for good odds in anyone’s book, so I wanted an edge. Some years ago a small band of Mescaleros had wiped out a cavalry patrol five times their number. The Apaches saw them coming, buried some of their own men alive, and then waited. When the troopers passed by, the Indians sprang up out of the ground and attacked the patrol from both sides.

  Describing the attack, Uncle Zeke once told me: “Remember, most folks don’t pay attention to detail, they just see what they want or expect to. Soldiers often have too high a notion of themselves, but the Apache knows that plannin’ and surprise in battle will make up fer a whole heap of men.”

  I don’t know why that particular story of his stuck in my mind, but I reckoned, if the trick had worked once, it could work again, so I began looking around for the right patch of dirt.

  After finding a good spot, I stopped and hobbled the roan. Since I didn’t know how he’d react to gunfire, I also ground-tied him to a hefty rock. I chose a place with a big tree nearby that I hoped would act as yet another distraction, giving Reynold’s group something else to look at.

  It took almost twenty minutes to dig a big enough trench. I angled it between the base of the tree and the horse, opposite the side I expected them to ride up from. It took another ten minutes to clean the area of tracks and other sign, but before I got down in that hole, I did two more things. First I buried the shovel. Then, foolish as it might seem, I took off my holster and hung it on the saddle horn, right out in plain view.