Texas Bluff

by Robert J. Randisi

  “I have seen Bat since that thing in Denver and he told me all about you. Seems you’re the main reason Jim is still alive, and perhaps even Doc Holliday—though barely.”

  “Bat gives me too much credit.”

  “Nonsense,” Short said. “You are modest. Bat speaks the truth about the men he’s met. It’s the only reason he admits that Ben Thompson is the best man he’s ever seen with a gun.” Short made a face. “Believe me, none of us like to admit that.”

  “This is quite a place,” Butler said, to change the subject. “Why did you happen to walk over to me?”

  “Well, you were starin’ at the poker tables, lookin’ so forlorn. I knew it must be because you didn’t approve of the talent. That, or you couldn’t wait to sit down and take the money.”

  “There’s not enough talent—or money—here to make it worthwhile.” Butler hoped he didn’t sound too full of himself.

  “Well,” Luke Short said, taking Butler by the arm and leading him away, “we can fix that.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Butler was surprised at how quickly his fortunes had changed. In truth, it probably would not have happened had Luke Short not been desperately looking for some high-stakes poker players.

  Short admitted as much as he walked Butler to one of the private rooms.

  “I’m afraid I’ve been driven to trollin’ for poker players,” he said. “When I saw your face I knew you were disappointed in what you were seein’.”

  “Well,” Butler replied, “since we’re telling the truth, I was trying to figure out how to get invited into one of your games. I’d been told by a bartender downstairs, and one of your customers, that it was almost impossible.”

  “Which customer?”

  “A fella named Newman? Al Newman. Said he was a lawyer who once ran—”

  “—for district attorney, yes. My partner, Bill Ward, has been tryin’ to get me to let Newman into one of the games.”

  “Yes, he said he was friends with Ward, and that didn’t help.”

  “Doesn’t help, doesn’t hurt,” Short said. “I’m afraid Mr. Newman is just not up to the caliber of player I’m lookin’ for.”

  “What makes you think I am?”

  “Let’s just say that Bat gave you his all-around endorsement. Here we are.”

  Short opened a door and allowed Butler to precede him into the room. Inside he saw one table with five men seated at it. There was one extra, empty chair.

  “Usually I fill this game out myself,” Short said. “I was close to doing that tonight. In fact, I was close to letting Al Newman in, but now I have you.”

  Butler almost felt bad, as if he was taking the seat right out from under Al Newman.

  Short took Butler up to the table, waited for the hand that was in progress to be completed, and then introduced him.

  “Gents, this young feller is Tyrone Butler, a good friend of mine and of Bat Masterson’s.”

  That was one way to get people’s attention, and it worked.

  “Butler, around the table starting here are Dick Clark, Charlie Coe, Jake Johnson, John Tunney, and that feller there is Jack Archer, otherwise known as—”

  “—Three-Eyed Jack,” Butler finished.

  He circled the table and shook hands with Jack, who he had last seen in Wichita over two years ago. Jack rose and the two pumped hands.

  “You two obviously know each other,” Short said.

  “A coupla years back me and this young feller terrorized the gamblers in Wichita for a time,” Jack explained.

  “You know,” Butler said, “I never did hear your last name back then.”

  “Don’t use it much,” Jack said.

  “What’re you doing here?” Butler asked. “Last I heard you were going to stay in Wichita.”

  “I did for a while, but then it dried up real bad. I had no choice but to leave. Found my way here a couple of weeks ago, decided to stay.”

  “He can’t leave,” Clark said good-naturedly, “he’s got all our money.”

  “Your money, maybe,” Coe said.

  “Can we get this game back on track?” John Tunney asked. “The only way I’m gonna get my money back is to keep these cards in the air.”

  “Sorry,” Short said, “didn’t mean to disrupt the game. I was just bringin’ Butler in to fill the last chair.”

  “Good,” Johnson said, “maybe that’ll change Jack’s luck.”

  “Buy in’s three thousand to start, Butler,” Short said.

  “Not a problem,” Butler said.

  “Re-buy as many times as you want, after that,” Short said.

  “No chips?” Butler asked, seating himself at the table.

  “Cash plays,” Jack said, reseating himself as well. “I like the sound of paper money.”

  “Especially other people’s, huh, Jack?” Clark asked

  Butler knew Dick Clark by reputation. The man had made a fortune in the mining camps of Colorado, and had never dirtied his hands. It had all been done with cards.

  He also recognized Charlie Coe’s name from the circuit. He’d never played against him, but knew men who had.

  He didn’t know the others, but he intended to. He’d spend a few hands getting to know them real well before he actually began to get involved in the game.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Your friend doesn’t seem to want to cross swords, Jack,” Dick Clark said.

  “Don’t worry about Butler, Dick,” Jack said, with a smile. “He’s waitin’ for the right moment.”

  “Seems to me he’s just takin’ up space,” Tunney remarked.

  Butler knew this jibe was designed to get him mad so he’d make a mistake, get involved in a hand he wasn’t strong in. But Butler always maintained his composure at the poker table. It was one of the reasons he won as often as he did.

  As he watched the players he ranked them in his head. Three-Eyed Jack was a good poker player, but he wasn’t in the same league with Dick Clark and Charlie Coe. He had taken so much of their money because he was on an incredible hot streak. In fact, since Butler sat down Jack had taken money from Tunney and Johnson, who kept going in with him, but the two professionals, Clark and Coe, had started to stay away from him.

  Butler laid back a little longer than he usually did, but poker players who knew what they were doing were harder to read than total amateurs. With an amateur you know almost immediately how often they bluff. In point of fact professionals only bluffed when the size of the pot warranted it. A huge pot was worth trying to steal with a bluff. A small pot was a waste of time.

  Jack was not bluffing. He had the cards every time he bet. That’s what happened when you were on a hot streak.

  The few times that Jack folded, either Coe or Clark would take the ante. The other two men—Johnson and Tunney—were losing heavily.

  After almost an hour Butler started to play his game. From that point on, whenever Jack sat a hand out, it was Coe, Clark, or Butler who took the hand.

  They played that way for hours, and Butler wondered where Johnson and Tunney got all the money they were losing?

  And then it happened.

  Three-Eyed Jack cooled off, and tried to bluff.

  Jack was the only man Butler had played against before, and he needed only a few hands to remind him how the man played. When his luck cooled, Butler was able to see it before the others.

  On the hand where Jack’s luck turned, Coe and Clark had already folded, believing that the man once again had the goods.

  The other two chased him again, while chasing their hands.

  The hand was seven-card stud. Five cards were out when Jack made his big bet.

  His bluff.

  Jack had a jack, queen, and king of hearts on the table, and two cards in the hole. But he wasn’t high on the table. That honor went to Tunney, who was showing two nines.

  “I bet two hundred,” Tunney said, ignoring Jack’s three to the royal.

  Next came Johnson, who had a small pair of fours. He rai
sed, going another two hundred, which led Butler to believe the man either had another pair in the hole, or a third four. He wasn’t going to make four of a kind, though, because Coe had folded a four. Butler doubted Johnson remembered that.

  It was four hundred to Butler.

  “Call,” he said.

  He had a deuce, a five, and a ten on the table, mismatched.

  “You callin’ with garbage like that on the table, Butler?” Tunney asked. “You must have some pair in the hole, or just some pair of cojones.”

  “The play is to you, Jack,” Charlie Coe said.

  “I’m gonna raise four hundred, boys,” Jack said with a smile. The smile was not a giveaway—he always smiled when he raised. But he looked at his hole cards. Jack never looked at his hole cards, he always knew what was there. The fact that he looked led Butler to believe he was bluffing, wanted the table to think he either already had the royal, or at least had four to it. The fact was he’d probably take the hand with just a flush. However, Butler had seen four hearts go under when Coe and Clark folded, and both Tunney and Johnson had one on the table. He had one in the hole. That meant that ten hearts were gone, and Jack only had three more in the deck he could catch—unless they were already in his hand.

  But Butler didn’t think they were.

  Tunney—the original bettor—called both raises, and Johnson called Jack’s raise.

  Butler could have reraised there, but he decided to wait. He just smooth called and waited.

  Coe was dealing, so he said, “Pot’s right. Comin’ out.”

  He dealt each player their sixth card.

  CHAPTER 7

  Butler paired his deuces. No one else improved. Tunney still had nines, Johnson fours, and Three-Eyed Jack received a useless six.

  Tunney, still high with his nines, said, “I’m not afraid of you, Jack. You been too hot. I bet three hundred.”

  Johnson looked down at his fours, peeked at his hole cards, then said, “Ah, crap,” and tossed his cards in.

  Butler waited, then said, “Call.”

  “Your play, Jack,” Coe said.

  “Raise three hundred.”

  “Sonofabitch, I call!” Tunney said immediately. “I’m not lettin’ you run me outta this hand, Jack.”

  “Good for you,” Jack said. “I just hope three nines are good.”

  “Up to you, Butler,” Coe said.

  “I’ll just call.”

  “Last card,” Coe said, and dealt each man his seventh and last card.

  Butler looked at his third hole card, then set it down. He looked across the table at Tunney, who was still the high man.

  “Five hundred, damn it,” Tunney said. “I bet five hundred.”

  Butler thought a moment. He wondered if Jack would still try to run Tunney out if he raised now. He knew Jack didn’t have a royal, or a straight flush, but how was he going to bet? If he just called now would Jack raise?

  “I raise,” Butler said, “a thousand.”

  “What?” Tunney said. He’d been staring malevolently at Jack and now he jerked his head toward Butler. “I don’t like this.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” Jack said, with a smirk.

  “What don’t you like, John?” Coe asked.

  “These two are workin’ together,” Tunney said, pointing to Butler and Jack in turn. “He’s buildin’ the pot for him.”

  “You sound like you don’t think you have the winning hand,” Three-Eyed Jack said. “What are you doin’ in this pot, anyway?”

  “Don’t you worry,” Tunney said. “I got the goods. I just don’t like bein’ worked by you two.”

  “There’s no need for accusations, John,” Dick Clark said.

  “Hell, they know each other.”

  “Coe and I know each other,” Clark said. “Are we workin’ together?”

  “Why else would he make a raise like that?” Tunney demanded.

  “Maybe he thinks he’s got a good hand,” Clark said.

  “He’s got crap on the table.”

  “Why don’t we play the hand out?” Jack asked.

  “It’s your play, Jack,” Coe said.

  “I just don’t like it,” Tunney muttered.

  “You know,” Coe said, “neither of these gentlemen is going to like being called a cheater.”

  “I think I’d rather be called a cheater,” Jack said, “than be a sore loser.”

  “I ain’t lost nothing yet!” Tunney said. “What’re you doin’, Jack, raisin’ or callin’.”

  “In the face of that raise,” Jack said, “I think I’ll fold.”

  “What?” Tunney demanded.

  “How could Butler be building a pot for Jack if Jack’s going to fold?” Dick Clark asked Tunney.

  “It’s your play, Tunney,” Coe said. “A thousand dollar raise to you.”

  “I reraise,” Tunney said. “Two thousand.”

  “Raise,” Butler said. “Two thousand.”

  Tunney’s face turned red. He looked down at his money. He barely had two thousand left on the table.

  “I call, damn it!” Tunney said. “Nobody’s runnin’ me outta this hand.”

  “You’re called, Butler,” Coe sad. “What do you have?”

  “Deuces full of tens,” Butler said. His hole cards were two deuces and the ten of hearts.

  “Ten of hearts,” Jack said, with a grin. “That’s how you knew I didn’t have a royal.”

  “And Coe folded the nine,” Butler added, “so you couldn’t have had a straight flush. Flush was the best you could do.”

  “And that’s what I folded.”

  “Huh? Wha—you folded a flush?” Tunney asked.

  “Sure,” Jack said. “I figured with Butler raisin’ like that, he knew I had a flush and didn’t care.”

  “What do you have, Tunney?” Coe asked.

  John Tunney looked around the table, saw that he was the center of attention, and turned even redder. He turned over his cards to show three nines.

  “Lotta faith in three nines,” Jack said.

  “Butler wins the pot,” Coe said.

  “Nice hand, Butler,” Clark said. “My deal. Tunney? You in or out?”

  Tunney, glassy-eyed, looked around and said, “I—I’m out.”

  “We’re back to five hands, then,” Clark said. “Comin’ out.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Without John Tunney the game went along much smoother. Three-Eyed Jack did, indeed, cool off and the hands began to go to Coe, Clark, and Butler a little more often. Jake Johnson was the next man to bust out of the game, leaving them four-handed for the rest of the night.

  Butler hadn’t realized the game would be an all-nighter but that was okay with him. Even though he’d ridden in that day, he was feeling fresh. Luke Short had a girl come up every so often with a pot of coffee, and one time even some sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs.

  “Six A.M.,” Charlie Coe announced eventually. “Anybody got anything to do today?”

  “Sure,” Dick Clark said. “I got a poker game to get to.”

  “Another one?” Coe asked.

  “No, stupid, this one,” Clark said. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’m just startin’ to warm up.”

  “You fellas?” Coe asked.

  “I’m here for the duration,” Jack said, “although I would like Luke to bring us some fresh meat.”

  “Butler?” Coe asked.

  “I’m in.”

  “Anybody got any suggestions for Luke?” Dick Clark asked.

  Nobody said anything, so Butler said, “I might have one…”

  A couple of hours later Luke Short brought Al Newman into the room and introduced him to the other players. Newman gave Butler a look he correctly interpreted as “Thank you.” He nodded.

  “Hey, Luke,” Coe said, “how about some breakfast.”

  “I’ll have something set up on that table over there,” Short said. “You fellas can decide if you want to eat at or away from the table.”

  Newma
n sat down and put his three thousand dollars on the table.

  “All right,” Clark said, “and we’re back to five-handed.”

  “I’ll keep lookin’ for a sixth while I’m rustlin’ you gents up some breakfast.” Short spread his arms. “Anything else I can do for anyone?”

  “Yeah, have some more coffee brought up right away,” Coe said.

  “Comin’ up.”

  Short left, and Butler dealt out the next hand.

  Newman got hot right away, Three-Eyed Jack played steady, Butler won as much as he lost, but both Coe and Clark went ice cold.

  Coe had a full house that was beaten by Newman’s four of a kind.

  Dick Clark actually lost with a straight flush to a higher straight flush held by Butler.

  That was when he really knew he was cold.

  As Newman raked in yet another pot, Jack asked, “Who invited this guy?” Then, before Newman could get insulted, he added, “Nice hand, Al.”

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  The deal passed to Jack and he quickly shuffled the cards and announced, “Let’s play a hand of draw poker, gents. I’m getting’ tired of looking at all these face-up cards. I just want to look at my own.”

  Although they had been playing five-and seven-card stud since the day before, nobody objected.

  Jack dealt each man five cards and they went around the table in turn.

  Newman, sitting in the chair vacated by Tunney, said, “I open for a hundred.”

  “Call,” Coe said,

  Clark said, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” and followed with a call of his own.

  “Butler?” Jack asked.

  Butler was looking at a pat hand—he had three eights and two aces. It was sort of a reversed Deadman’s Hand. He was wondering if he should call, or raise. Coe and Clark already had money in the pot, but Jack was still to make a play.

  If he just called, not wanting to give away the strength of his hand, they’d all know he had a good hand when he didn’t take any cards. It made more sense to see how much money he could get into the pot now.

  “I raise two hundred,” he said.

  “Ah,” Jack said, “we have a game. I call. One hundred to you, Al.”

  “I’ll call.”

  “Charlie?”