Shortgrass Song (53 page)

Caleb wondered why a man would carry a deed to his house around in his coat. “What if I was to win this pot?” he said. “I don't have any use for a house. I don't even live anywhere.”

The spectators guffawed.

“Nor do I,” the gambler said.

“It's a Cincinnati house,” the black beard replied.

“That's in Ohio, ain't it?” Caleb turned to the barmaid. “Darlin', bring us another round of drinks. If I win this pot, I'll pay with the parlor and tip you the front porch.”

The onlookers doubled over with laughter as Caleb tossed back half a jigger.

After scrutinizing the sheet of paper, the silk-vested gambler handed it to Caleb. “I guess I'll honor it if you will.”

Caleb merely shrugged and threw the document onto the pile of poker chips in the middle of the table. “All right, as long as we don't have to ante outhouses on the next deal.”

Great jolts of hilarity split the smoky air, and the barmaid delivered the new round of drinks.

“All bets even.” The silk vest turned his cards. “Sevens full,” he said, revealing three sevens and a pair of kings.

Caleb had never held a straight flush before, or even seen one, but he was pretty sure it beat a full house. Before he could find out, however, the black beard opened up and started laughing.

“I've got four goddamn deuces, you slick bastards.” He fanned the cards out on the table and started herding stray chips into the pot.

Caleb turned his hand up and sat back in his chair. He had never played in a game with so many good hands and couldn't remember which ranked highest.

The vested gambler glanced at the straight flush, leaned closer for verification, and grabbed the black-bearded dealer by the arm. “Hold on. You haven't won yet. Look at the kid's hand.”

The big man craned his thick neck and squinted at the winning spread. His face grew red, and his eyes rose to pierce Caleb's. The burly body flinched. The table jumped six inches off the black beard's knee and the gambler's little derringer fell to the floor. By the time the chips had settled, the beard had a Colt revolver in his hand, cocked, pointed at Caleb.

Bystanders scattered and saloon girls screamed. The little man with the crooked nose appeared, aiming a pocket pistol at the silk-vested gambler.

“You slick little son of a bitch!” the big man said to Caleb. “How'd you do it?”

“Do what?” Caleb asked, holding his hands over the table.

“Own up, or I'll blow you open. How'd you cheat me?”

“I … I don't even know how to cheat, mister.”

“Better own up like he says,” the gambler advised, calmly.

“Shut up!” The big man grabbed the silk vest. “And let me give you some advice. Next time you point that spittoon rattler at me, use it.” He rapped the barrel of his revolver viciously across the gambler's forehead, knocking him to the floor.

Before Caleb could move, the Colt was on him again. The pocket pistol of the little man with the crooked nose was also covering him.

“Fill it with them chips,” the black beard said, tossing his hat at Caleb. “And cash 'em in. I won that fair and square.”

“Yes, sir.” He started raking the winnings back into a pile and picking up strays from the floor. He heard the hinges creak on the saloon door and rolled his eyes to see who had come in. A silver star followed a shotgun barrel into the saloon.

“Drop it, Angus,” the lawman ordered.

The horrible sound of the name shot louder than the crack of the Colt or the roar of the scattergun. Caleb's belly hit the floor. He rolled, pulled his pistol from the holster, and fired where Angus and Shorty had been standing. Glass shattered, and he saw the two men leaping through a window.

The marshal scrambled back out through the door, dragging one leg. Caleb floundered toward the broken window, slipping on poker chips. He stuck his head outside, saw Angus turn a dark corner. He jumped through the window and started running.

“Wait!” the marshal yelled. “Come back here!”

Caleb slid to a stop and turned. He saw the lawman favoring one leg.

“You don't know your way around this town! You'll walk right into him!” He stumbled as he tried to use his wounded leg. “If you hadn't jumped out the damn window after them I could have got another shot off.”

Caleb trotted back to help the city marshal walk. “With that shotgun? He was too far.”

“Buckshot carries.”

“Did you hit him in the saloon?”

“No, the little son of a bitch hit my leg with that pocket pistol and made me miss.”

As they limped back toward the saloon door, a rattle of gunfire came from the darkness down the street, and planks splintered around them. Both men wheeled. The marshal used his second barrel. Caleb sprayed five rounds toward the muzzle blasts. They heard horses galloping as the silk-vested gambler joined them, bleeding from a gash on his head and carrying his little derringer. He and Caleb put their shoulders under the wounded marshal's arms.

“He'll be back in the Territory in an hour,” the marshal said, gritting his teeth against the pain.

“Who the hell was he?” the gambler asked.

“Name's Angus Mackland. He steals stock, sells guns and whiskey to Indians.”

“And murders people,” Caleb added. “I've seen his work. I chased him into No Man's Land last winter.”

A doctor had arrived and was looking after the marshal when the silk-vested gambler handed Caleb his winnings, converted to cash, and accompanied by the folded piece of paper that represented the Cincinnati house.

“Tell me something,” the gambler said. “I know how I came by my full house in that last round, and I know how that big outlaw got his four deuces. But how in the name of the devil did you manage a straight flush?”

“Angus was cheatin'?”

“I felt the deck getting thinner every time he dealt. I knew he was lifting cards, but I couldn't figure out which ones. I started counting aces—they were all there. Same with kings, queens, on down to eights. By the time I figured out he was going after four deuces, it was too late. He was smart. He knew I'd look for deuces last. His partner, the little ugly fellow, was in on it, too. Probably had some kind of signal to let the big fellow know when he had found a deuce, and he'd leave it on the top of his hand when he folded. And the little fellow was using a false cut when the big man dealt.”

“You saw him?” Caleb asked.

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you say somethin'?”

“You can't prove something like that. I was waiting to catch them at something I could prove.”

“What about him monkeyin' with the deadwood?”

“He was looking for deuces, of course. I tell you, he was slick. I couldn't catch him lifting a single card from deck. Those big thick fingers were nimble at it.”

“So, that's how he did it.”

“Yes, now how did you manage that straight flush of yours?”

Caleb shrugged. “I just took a lucky draw.”

The gambler grinned. “That's good. Never tell your secrets. Who taught you to play?”

“An old mountain man named Burl Sandeen.”

“Mountain man. I like that. No gambler's going to call your hand on that claim.” He dipped a linen handkerchief in a glass of whiskey and dabbed his bloody head. “Maybe we'll see each other down the line somewhere.” He put his coat on.

“I doubt it. I think I'll stay poker-shy for a while.”

“Well, if we do, just deal me a few good hands, then I'll bow out and let you do your trick.”

“There ain't no trick, mister, really. I just had a lucky draw.”

The gambler winked, shook Caleb's hand, and left the saloon.

SIXTY-TWO

He slept with his pistol under his pillow and eight hundred dollars in the pillowcase, to say nothing of the papers for the house in Cincinnati. When the sun rose in the morning, he pulled his covers over his head and went on sleeping.

Sometime in the middle of the day, the pounding of someone's fist almost ripped his hotel door from the hinges. He leapt from the bed in his long handles, holding his pistol in one hand and the pillow full of winnings in the other.

“Who's there?” he shouted, standing beside the door.

A woman's voice answered. “Did you play poker with Angus Mackland last night?” She was angry.

He cracked the door to get a look at her, and she burst in.

“I want my money back,” she said in a hoarse voice, raking a strand of greasy hair out of her face.

“Ma'am, this is my room,” Caleb complained, clutching the pillow in front of him.

“And you've got my money in it. Where is it?” She had black, glaring eyes—narrow and suspicious.

“I won that money in a fair game.”

“It wasn't yours to win. That was my dowry. Angus was supposed to buy us a farm with it.” She held a dirty hand out, expecting Caleb to drop a roll of cash in it.

“Dowry? Are you his wife?”

“Yes, I am. Against the grace of God, I am that monster's wife. And I want the money he stole from me.” She was a strong, thick-waisted, straight-backed young woman. Rather dirty but healthy.

He leered. “How do I know he stole anything from you?”

She pulled the tail of a print blouse from the waist of her plaid skirt, hiked the hem up around her hips, and leapt onto the bed. “I'm fixin' to scream bloody murder, and when folks come runnin', I'll tell 'em you tried to have your way.”

“You can't do that,” Caleb said. “This here is my…”

Her eyes took a wild glare, and she drew in a breath.

“Wait!” he shouted, fishing through his winnings in the pillowcase. “I'll make you a deal. I'll give you your house and enough money to get back to Cincinnati. That's fair enough.”

“Do I look like I come from Cincinnati?” she screamed.

He pulled the piece of paper out of the pillowcase and shook it at her. “That's where your house is, ain't it?”

The young woman looked at the document for a second, threw her head back on the mattress, and shook with laughter. “Are you so green that you don't know what a Cincinnati house is? They just build the pieces in Cincinnati. You can put the thing together wherever you want it. The dang house is in a boxcar at the train yard right now.” She rolled, and planted her feet on the floor. “You can keep it if you want it. I don't have no use for it. Just give me the money Angus stole from me before he run out.”

Caleb put his pistol down on a washstand and opened the piece of paper in his hand. It was a bill of lading, not a deed, and it entitled the possessor to ownership of one ready-made house. “You ain't from Cincinnati?”

“No, I come from Arkansas. Now, are you gonna give me my money, or am I gonna have to holler?”

“You don't have to holler. Just sit still a minute, and we'll work out a deal. I don't aim to let a woman go around broke.” He sat on a rickety chair, still holding the pillow in front of him. “How much did he take from you?”

“How much did you win from him?”

“You tell me how much he took first.”

She pulled her skirt back down over the high tops of her lace-up boots and looked away. “A thousand dollars,” she said in her rough, husky voice.

“A thousand! Lady, you don't lie worth a damn. You think I'll believe your papa spent a thousand dollars to get you married to an outlaw?”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “You give me the money, by God, or I swear I'll scream.” The skirt went up around her hips again.

“If you'd stop lyin' and tell me how much he took from you…”

She filled her lungs with air and uttered a horrible, croaking yodel, mussing her hair with her hands, and bouncing on the bed. Caleb dropped his poker winnings, grabbed the basin on the washstand beside him, and splashed its contents in her face.

She gasped, caught completely by surprise, stared at him with popping black eyes, coughed, and began to cry. Her lip curled, her face flushed, and her whole body shook in convulsions of despair. Tiny streams of mud ran down her fingers as she ground her dirty knuckles into her eyes.

Her sobs filled Caleb with shame and pity, but he didn't know what to do to comfort her. He simply sat back down on his chair and watched her cry. He watched her for a full minute. Then two. They seemed like hours. Finally he rose and approached her with caution.

“Here, now,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “That's enough of that.” He shook her. “You hear? Stop that cryin'.”

She raked her wrist under her nose and looked up at him with reddened eyes.

“You can have the money.” He retrieved the pillow and dumped the winnings out on the bed beside her. “I can get along without it better than you can. Just make me one promise. You take this money and go on home to your folks and forget you ever heard of that sorry outfit, Angus Mackland.”

She shook her head and wiped her face on the bedcovers. “I can't go back home,” she said between sobs. “I ain't got nowhere to go.”

“Oh, how's that?” Caleb demanded, getting a little tired of her sniffling. “You can't tell me your folks won't take you back in.”

She proceeded to tell him just that in no few words. She said her mother would not take her in because she was dead, her stepmother because she was mean, and her father because he was so addled he no longer knew her.

She was Tess Wiley of the Ozark Mountains. She had never spent a day at school and had worked at raising hogs and chickens since she was old enough to walk. At fourteen, her cousin had raped her. By eighteen she had been used and passed over by every eligible buck in the county. Used because her cousin had a loud mouth, and passed over, she said, because she could never have babies.

Caleb didn't understand how Tess knew she couldn't bear children, but he preferred not to ask about such delicate matters, taking her at her word.