The Bold Frontier

by John Jakes

  That is, until Poker Alice came along.

  No one knew exactly how she arrived in town. One evening she was there, that’s all. She walked into the Poker Chip Saloon, a big woman, dressed in an inexpensive but tasteful gown with her slightly grayed blonde hair piled fashionably high on her head. There was a determined, rugged cast to her jaw, and her eyes were shrewd. But they were also clear, straightforward and honest.

  Nobody paid much attention to her at first. She strode up to the bar, with only a few of the local honkytonkers giving her haughty glances and being secretly envious of the fine-looking woman who no doubt would be equally at home in a luxurious drawing room. She waited for the bartender, Sherm Clagfield, who also owned the Poker Chip, to come to her.

  “What’ll it be, ma’am?” Sherm asked, his eyes glinting humorously.

  The woman did not smile. “Rye.”

  Sherm almost hollered his head off with laughter. He wanted to, that is. But something about the woman—her air of determination, perhaps—kept him from it. Trying to keep a serious expression on his face, he set the glass of liquor down before her. She tossed it off with one gulp. Sherm felt a pang of admiration.

  The woman seemed to hesitate a moment. “Anything I can do for you, ma’am?”

  She surveyed the room. “Yes. I’m a gambler. I want to set up shop here. My name is Alice Duffield.”

  Sherm couldn’t contain himself this time. He let out a loud Haw! He doubled over with mirth, but when his eyes came to rest on Alice Duffield again, he stopped laughing. A pistol muzzle, held in her steady hand, poked at him. A wicked-looking .38 on a .45 frame.

  “Are you going to stand there and laugh like a jackass?” Alice said softly, “or are you going to shut your mouth and give me a chance?”

  Clagfield saw that she meant it. From the way she held the gun, she was no greenhorn. “Sure, ma’am, you go on over to table six and tell Whitey I said for you to take over. What are you good at?”

  “Stud or faro,” she said briskly. “I prefer faro, however.”

  “Well, number six is stud.”

  “That’ll do nicely.”

  She thrust the pistol back into her carpetbag which she had beside her, and walked over to table number six. Whitey didn’t believe what she said. He too got a look down the business end of the gun, and saw Sherm’s amazed nod. Whitey got up fast and Alice Duffield sat down. A crowd of curious, eager men thronged around the table. Alice faced them coolly. “Gents,” she said, “sit down and play some cards. You’ll get treated fair.”

  A few men slid reluctantly into place, pushed by their comrades who haw-hawed at the idea of a woman being a good card player. The game got under way. “The sky,” announced Alice, “is the limit.”

  It was a fair, even game. One of the men lost a hundred and eight dollars, another won a hundred and forty. The crowd grew larger. The other saloons in town drained of their customers. Business boomed at the Poker Chip as the night wore on. Players left their chairs and new players sat down. But always, Alice sat there, watching the faces of the men, her own face unmoving as stone. By dawn they knew that she was square. A real gentleman gambler, if you could call a woman that. And in spite of her expressed preference for faro, they had already coined a name. Poker Alice.

  Shortly after sunrise Alice approached Sherm Clagfield again. “Are you satisfied?”

  Sherm nodded rapidly. “You want a job here?”

  “That’s why I came.”

  “Well, you’re hired.” So began the career of Poker Alice in Deadwood.

  And now W. G. Tubbs re-enters the picture.

  For you see, he had been on a trip, all the way down to St. Louis, when Alice arrived in Deadwood and made her sensational entrance. He rode confidently into town on his moderately well-cared-for mare just before noon one day, put on fresh clothes— light trousers, a colorful vest, broadcloth coat, white shirt with flowing black tie and tall beaver hat (for the dress of the true gentleman of the tables was highly conventional)—ate lunch at Maine’s Cafe, and wandered over to the Poker Chip to let Sherm know he had returned.

  A game was already in progress. Faro this time, with Alice handling the box. As usual, she had a large crowd of spectators around her, for the novelty of a woman gambler had not yet worn off.

  Mildly surprised, Tubbs approached Sherm who stood at the bar. There was none of the pleasant foolish conversation about, How was the trip? And It was fine. Instead, Tubbs jerked a thumb at Alice. “Who’s that lady?”

  “Poker Alice,” Sherm said. “Our new dealer.”

  Immediately a frown creased the broad forehead of Tubbs. He saw a problem. Several of the other dealers—Johnny Red Dog, Louisiana Irwin, The Count, among them—sat idle at a corner table, playing a listless game of twenty-one. Apparently Poker Alice was a threat to his livelihood. As if he had sensed what Tubbs was thinking, Sherm said, “Yep, nobody wants to gamble with anybody but Alice.”

  “Oh, is that right,” Tubbs said, irritated. Well, the fad wouldn’t last. The boys would come back to George Tubbs for a fast, honest game when they got tired of this female.

  But the boys didn’t come back. The weeks dragged on and Alice kept raking in the money. Tubbs played on a salary, but his self-respect grew battered and worn. Besides, the boys didn’t care two hoops about him any more. If Tubbs had two men playing with him on a Saturday night (the liveliest time of the week of course) he was lucky. Whereas Alice could never be seen, there were so many men crowded around her table.

  Tubbs realized that something had to be done. He found out more about Alice, and the more he found out, the greater grew his envy. She had learned to play cards, it was rumored, down in New Mexico. In fact, a bawdy story stated that instead of spending her wedding night with her husband, Frank Duffield, a mining engineer, she spent it in the Silver City, New Mexico, saloon, fascinated by the card playing. The wide-eyed bride had evidently learned fast and well, studying the expressions of men’s eyes when they played, the uncontrollable nervous tics that showed when they bluffed, all those mannerisms that might betray them to the wary dealer. Alice herself stated that she took up gambling as a career after Frank Duffield got blown up in a mine accident in Lake City, Colorado.

  Tubbs contemplated violence. He sat there at his generally empty table, glaring at the crowd of laughing rowdy men around Poker Alice. But violence, he decided, was out. One night a young punk of a kid got smart with Alice. That lady drilled him neatly in the shoulder with her .38 on the .45 frame before he could bring his own shoulder gun clear of the harness. And besides, Tubbs was not a violent man by nature. He made his way by the code of the gentleman.

  One afternoon Alice approached him. She had often spoken to him, but he had snubbed her. “Mr. Tubbs,” she said, sitting down across from him and pouring herself a drink. “I’d like to know why you don’t take to me.”

  Tubbs stared gloomily at the table. “How do you expect me to? You’re wrecking my business.”

  Alice nodded. “I heard you were a good man. Popular, too.”

  “I was. Before you came along.”

  Alice extended her hand. “I’d like to call a truce.”

  “No thank you,” Tubbs said politely, and turned away from her, fuming. She shrugged and left the table. He couldn’t help following her with his eyes, though. She had a certain mature, rugged attractiveness. For a moment he almost regretted not having accepted her offer.

  Gradually, the novelty wore off and Alice assumed her place as just another of the dealers. Tubbs got business again, though he grudgingly told himself that Alice was just a little more popular than any of the men. But as the days passed and he watched her work the faro and stud games, his envy changed slowly. Now that the threat to his job had removed itself, he began seeing her in a more favorable light. As downright attractive, in fact. But he didn’t exactly have the courage to approach her, after having rebuffed her once. After all, he was a gentleman, cool and calm, unused to rash impulses and actions.

/>   But she grew more and more attractive in his eyes. None of the men of the town seemed romantically interested in her, for they were always moving on and new ones took their place. At last Tubbs determined something had to be done. He spoke to Alice now, a casual “Hello” and “Fine day” now and again, but nothing more. With the natural guilty feeling of a rather shy man, he followed her home one evening, at a safe distance, to learn that she roomed at Kate Colby’s Boarding House.

  If anyone had seen him ride out of Deadwood the next day, and had followed him, his reputation would have been ruined for good. He rode out across the countryside, always turning around for signs of pursuers, but there were none. He chose one spot, decided it was too public, and rode back up into the hills a little further until he came upon just the place. Quiet, secluded, and he could hear any horses coming that might happen to ride his way. He climbed down off his mare, clutching the section of newspaper. He still felt highly embarrassed, but something bigger than himself made him go ahead with his, plan.

  Carefully, he picked a bouquet of wild flowers and wrapped them up in the newspaper.

  He rode back into Deadwood soon after that with the bundle clutched tightly under his arm. He was in a state of high nervous tension all afternoon, and did not go near the Poker Chip. Poker Alice had the habit of returning to Kate Colby’s Boarding House at around six in the evening, eating dinner and resting in her room for a while, and then going back to the saloon about eight for an all-night session with the cards. So when his expensively-fobbed watch showed just seven-thirty, Tubbs dismounted before the boarding house, still clutching the flowers. He’d had them in a vase of water in his room all afternoon, with the shades pulled down, to keep them fresh.

  He stole past the dining room unobserved by the few late eaters. He already knew which room Alice kept. He had, in fact, worked out an elaborate spy system among his town cronies so that he knew her movements almost exactly. He walked determinedly down the hall and stopped at the door of Alice’s room. He fumbled self-consciously with his string tie for a moment and then knocked.

  “Come in,” said a wary voice.

  Tubbs opened the door and his jaw dropped.

  Alice was crouched down behind the bed as if expecting an attack. Her gun was leveled at Tubbs’ ample stomach, and to add to the strange scene, a large black cigar stuck out of one corner of her mouth, curling up smoke that wreathed her blonde-gray head.

  “What do you want, Tubbs?” she said sharply.

  He held out the flowers awkwardly. “Just … just wanted to pay my respects.” He felt his face getting hot and, presumably, red.

  Poker Alice rose to her feet, seemed to debate with herself for a moment, and then put her gun away. She flicked an inch of cigar ash neatly into a brass spittoon by the bed.

  “Well, close the door, it’s drafty,” she said.

  Tubbs fumbled for words. He stared at her cigar with a peculiar expression.

  “Well, what’s wrong with it?” Alice exclaimed. “Other women smoke cigarettes. I like something stronger.” She blew out a large puff of smoke. Tubbs was getting hold of himself now. He extended the flowers again and Alice took them. She unwrapped the package and a smile spread across her face.

  “Why, Mr. Tubbs, they’re very nice. Thank you.” She began putting them into a vase. “I’m sorry I jumped at you like that, but I was looking out the window and I saw you ride up and you looked so odd that I thought maybe you had something bad on your mind. A woman can’t be too careful.”

  “No,” Tubbs murmured, sinking down into a chair. He sprang up again immediately. “Well, I guess I’d better get down to the saloon.”

  “Sit still,” Alice said. There was a hint of authority under the friendliness of her voice. Tubbs sat. “I’m glad to see we’ve called off the feud, Mr. Tubbs.” She offered him a cigar and he lit up. “A woman gets lonely in a town like this, and you always appeared to be such a gentleman, though I did get angry when you refused to shake my hand.”

  Tubbs felt a little more at ease now. The cool demeanor of the gentleman that had left him so rapidly a few minutes earlier was returning. “Yes’m,” he said, smiling. “I just thought we could be friends and maybe go for a drive now and then … I’ve got a buggy … and the front porch of this place seems like it would be mighty pleasant and breezy in hot weather …”

  And so they talked on, the gentleman gambler and the cigar-smoking woman who handled cards and a gun like a professional. Their relationship made its way forward from that night on a very friendly basis. They took their drives and ate Sunday dinners together (for Alice refused to play cards on the Lord’s Day) and sat on the front porch of Kate Colby’s Boarding House. But the situation had not yet smoothed itself out completely.

  For W. G. Tubbs was by nature a cautious man. The gentleman gambler, he could never forget, did not let himself be guided by rash impulses. Tubbs often considered matrimony, but even then he would put himself off, saying mentally, I’d best think about it.

  Nearly a year passed that way. Tubbs and Poker Alice had accepted each other, and their rivalry over the gambling tables was now an amicable one, and Tubbs did not mind kind of taking a back seat, for the woman was always just a little more popular than any of the men.

  Tubbs was relaxing in his room one Sunday morning, thinking of the dinner he and Poker Alice would eat together in an hour or so, when the door opened quickly. Alice stood there in her best gown. A humorous light shone in her eyes but the .38 on the .45 frame pointed at Tubbs’ stomach with unmistakable authority.

  “Get your shirt on, Tubbs. I’ve been thinking for a long time that it’d be a good thing if we were married. We’d double our income and we wouldn’t have to eat that boarding house food all the time. I know you were too frightened to ask me, so I thought I’d better do the asking.” She waved the gun. “Now hurry up.”

  The Rev. Billy Watters married them in the Poker Chip Saloon, with Sherm Clagfield standing up for them. Sherm had a cabin back in the hills, so they got into Tubbs’ buggy and drove off for a little holiday. Tubbs didn’t seem at all unhappy about the shotgun, or rather six-gun, aspect of the marriage. And so they rolled out of Deadwood, Poker Alice Duffield Tubbs, queen of the gambling halls from Colorado to the Dakotas, and W. G. (for George) Tubbs. The gentleman gambler and the lady who smoked cigars.

  To the Last Bullet

  IN THE SMALL MINING community of Sierra that day, the talk ran mostly to the weather. The ominous keening of the wind as it swept down out of the gray sky from the looming mountains seemed to lift the level of talk to a plane of high excitement. The first signs of winter, dead, isolating, bone-chilling winter, came blowing down the mountain with the wind. The old timers who sat perched on barrels in the Mercantile, greasy wads of chawin’ tabac rotating in their cheeks, predicted the first big storm of the season. And in the Sierra, the first storm meant excitement, even if it was excitement of a familiar kind.

  Marshal Trow Huston had passed the cool mountain summer and the sharper, more exhilarating autumn in relative peace. A drunken brawl now and then offered little disturbance to the taciturn, thirtyish-looking marshal’s peace of mind. The crazy miner who had started shooting up the girls in one of the town’s leading service establishments had folded up as soon as the marshal put in an appearance, heavy Colt in fist, blue eyes reproachful.

  Perhaps, Huston reflected, finishing his evening meal in the hotel dining room, I’m getting old and set in my ways. Thirty-one, calendar-wise, was not old. But thirty-one, after the black days of Yankee slaughtering Reb with sabre and pitchfork and whatever else happened to be lying around the embattled meadows and farm towns, was ancient. War had soured him, he realized.

  After the war, Sierra had seemed like a quiet and ideal place to settle. He’d worked on the mountain, mining his living from the rich lode, and taken the marshal’s job under pressure from the handful of civic-minded citizens after the other marshal, an old man, died of a heart attack one Christmas Eve. />
  That was four years ago. He’d been growing less conscientious every day since, hoping more and more that the town would remain peaceful. A quiet hatred of violence had festered in him all the long years since the war. Perhaps one day, a younger man, with memories unscarred, would come along and take his place. When the former marshal died no one else had been available, and no one seemed available now. So he was stuck in the job for a while.

  Huston pushed back his chair. He lit a cigar as he strolled through the lobby into the adjoining saloon. He watched with a feeling of satisfaction as the bartender scraped the foam off a schooner of beer with his stick and handed it over. Huston took a sip.

  “The big snow’s on the way, appears like,” the bartender said amiably.

  Shots racketed out in the street. Huston put down the schooner and whirled around, his body going tense. Eyes swiveled toward him. He walked quickly to the doors, pushed through and glanced up and down the street.

  Three horsemen came pounding toward him. A gun exploded behind them on the Mercantile’s front steps. Huston dragged out his Colt as the men galloped past. All three wore heavy coats and had their hats pulled down over shadowed faces.

  “Hey there!” one of them shouted as they rode by. “There’s the saloon!” The rider’s gun exploded and the other two men fired after him. Huston ducked instinctively, realizing a moment later when he heard the plate glass window smash that they had been aiming for him. He fired one useless shot after them, but they had disappeared in the darkness at the end of the street … the darkness on the trail that led up the mountain.

  The batwings flapped open behind him. A crowd of men, babbling excitedly, poured out. “Who was it?” one of them exclaimed. “See ’em, Trow?”

  “Couldn’t make them out,” Huston replied. “But Amos is making a lot of noise up at the Mercantile. I’ll go have a look.” He shoved his Colt back into the holster and started to walk, followed by several of the men who conjectured loudly over the identity of the riders.