Short Stories & Tall Tales
The Card That Won
Clifton Bush Jr.
He rode through the sudden rainstorm, the wind whipping his slicker and threatening to tear the hat off his head. He pulled the oilskin tighter about himself, and pulled his hat down to keep the water out of his eyes. Lightning crackled in the background, and the thunder boomed in response. His horse plodded on through the nasty weather, each leg movement rewarded with a fresh slop of mud upon his skin. They rode together into a canyon, trying to find shelter from the abrasive storm. Soon they came across an overhang, and man and horse gratefully hid underneath the rock ledge, dodging most of the pellets of water.
He dismounted, and held onto the bridle of the gelding to give the animal some sort of solace from the din of the booming thunder. He patted its snout, and held it close, feeling the animal tremble with each loud bang. After twenty minutes the storm passed, and the gelding calmed down. He gave him one more pat on the muzzle and remounted, leading him out from under the overhang, and back into the canyon proper.
He turned the horse around, following the path that the old Indian had told him would take him to town. Although muddy and wet with the dampness of the rain, he soon found the path and made his way up to the top of the canyon wall, moving easily between the cholla and creosote bushes. Soon the sun came out, blistering hot, and he took off his oilskin and folded it across the gelding's neck. He noticed that the sudden downburst had been absorbed by the desert, and the horse's prints were once again raising tiny puffs of dust with each passing step. Amazing, he thought, that the water that had poured just moments earlier was now gone, sucked up as if by a giant sponge.
An hour later he saw the outskirts of the town nestled in between two ridges. He followed the stage road in, and was soon among people, going this way and that and wagons hauling their freight to and fro. He got about halfway through town, and noticed a sign on his left. The Golden Eagle Hotel and Saloon. He stopped in front of the hitching post, dismounted and tied the gelding to the rail. Rather stiffly he walked inside, and the atmosphere nearly floored him.
People were lined up at the bar and at the craps tables, waiting their turns to strike it rich. He made his way to an unoccupied end of the bar and ordered a drink. The man behind the bar soon came back with a glass and bottle, and poured him a shot. He drank it quickly, then had him refill it. He tossed that back too, and looked around and surveyed his surroundings.
It was your typical old West-style saloon, with a polished bar and bottles lined up on shelves behind the bartender. There was an enormous mirror, and one could survey the entire room standing there. He poured himself another drink, and suddenly shots rang out in the street.
He looked in the mirror, and spotted the bat-wing doors. People were running out onto the boardwalk to see what the commotion was. He calmly finished his drink, and taking the bottle and glass in hand, walked to one of the corner tables near a window where he could see what was going on. He didn't like to be surprised, especially in an unfamiliar town. He sat down with his back against the wall, and glanced out the window.
There was a man down in the street, with a semi-circle of bystanders around him. Behind them was a buckboard loaded with supplies. One man sat in the seat holding a rifle; he looked down at the man in the street, then looked around at the crowd. Soon a man pushed his way through the crowd, who he assumed was the sheriff, followed by an older, shorter man with graying hair. He must've been the town doctor. The old man kneeled down by the man in the street, put his fingers on his neck, and looked at the sheriff, shaking his head. The old man got back up, scratched his head, and walked away. His services would not be needed today.
John McGraw sat calmly at the table in the saloon and took it all in stride. He had seen men gunned down before; he had killed his share too. It was the way of the old West, and if you didn't like it then you were in the wrong part of the country. Men killed over the most minor things, from verbal arguments to cheating at poker. Either would get a man killed without the shooter thinking twice. John killed several times before, but usually out of self-defense. At least that's what he claimed.
His first killing was when he was sixteen years old. He had been riding with a bad crowd of hombres, who were into everything from stealing horses to robbing stagecoaches. After one particular daring raid in which they had gotten hold of $10,000 of Wells Fargo's money, it was supposed to be split up fair and square among the men. Well, one of the men stood up and swore that he was being cheated out of some of the money. Their leader, a scar-faced man by the name of Dan the Grizzly, told him to sit down and shut up. One thing led to another, with him ignoring his good sense, if he had any, and he kept on spouting off that he was being cheated. John McGraw was usually one to keep his mouth shut, and finally had had enough of the bickering. He stood up and told the man to shut his trap. That didn't sit too well with the other feller, and he drew on John. Too bad John was just a bit faster, albeit younger. One bullet ended the life of his opponent, and when Dan counted his money, found that he had actually given him more than the others. He split his money up with the rest of the men and they scattered in all four directions of the compass until things cooled down. Most fled to Mexico; John headed north, to Colorado, to work in the mines for awhile. He rode into one of the mining towns, his horse slipping in what was called a road, full of wagon ruts and mud, and pulled up in front of the town bank. There he deposited most of his money, keeping the rest. He then found himself a job working in one of the local mines, saving his pennies and keeping a low profile. His second killing came a year after he arrived in town.
He was nursing a glass of whiskey and playing poker, when in came two of the loudest men he had ever heard. He just shook his head, and played his hand. The loudmouths walked up to the bar, announcing that they had just struck it rich and were buying everyone in town a drink. As the night wore on, their boisterousness and arrogance rubbed John the wrong way. One eventually spotted the poker game, and was dealt in. John had lost a few dollars throughout the day, and was finally getting the upper hand. He had won some small pots, and was about to cash in on the biggest pot of the night when the loudmouth accused him of cheating. He put his cards down, showing the man a full house. The other only had a pair of tens. He hollered to everyone within earshot that John had cheated him out of his money, and drew on him. John, being quite a bit more sober than the other man, shot first, hoping to only wing the man. But the bullet pierced his lung, collapsing it, and he was rushed to the doctor's office down the block. He lived two more days, then finally died. John decided then and there that the time was ripe to move on again.
Now he was sitting in a saloon, drinking whiskey and minding his business, and it seemed that trouble found him again. He stood up, and walked out onto the boardwalk. The dead man had been removed from the street, and the townsfolk were slowly going about their business.
On his right sat an old timer in a rickety wooden chair that looked to collapse at any moment. The old man looked up at him and spoke.
“Damn shame, damn shame, it is,” he mumbled, turning his head to the side and spitting out a wad of chewing tobacco. The brown mess made a nice stain on the boardwalk, causing looks of disdain from the women who were walking by.
“Yes, it is, stranger,” John said, then walked back into the saloon to finish his bottle. The old man got up quickly, and followed John into the building. “How's about a drink, partner?” he asked hopefully, his eyes shining. From his decrepit looks and demeanor, John figured that this must be the town drunk.
“Al's the name, drinking's the game,” he said, holding out a calloused, weathered hand. John took it, and poured himself another drink. Then he offered the bottle to the old man.
“Careful you don't spit in that,” he warned him. The man reached for the bottle, and his hands were shaking with anticipation. He wrapped both hands around the bottle, tenderly, gingerly, as if it were a newborn, and put the neck to his lips, drinking deeply. John watched for a moment, then grabbed the bottle from the old man's hands.
“A man drinks like that, he's going to die,” he chided the old timer. The old man cackled in response. “Hell, I been dead goin' on twenty year now,” he said, wiping his mouth with a dirty, sweaty sleeve. He made another grab for the bottle, and John took it out of his way. “Go get yourself a glass, and I'll be happy to share this with ya,” he said, putting the bottle down on the table.
The old man got up and went to get a glass from the bartender. In a minute he came back, plunked the shot glass down on the green felt of the wooden table, and John poured him a drink. He watched as the old man slammed it down, then put the glass down on the table. “Mighty thirsty today, stranger. My thanks to ya,” he said, and got up. John watched as he walked out the bat-wing doors, and sat back down in his chair on the outside of the saloon. John just chuckled to himself, and poured the last of the bottle into his own glass. He drank it, then got up to leave. He walked out onto the boardwalk, and noticed that it would be another hot, dry, dusty day. He walked to where he tied up his horse and led it down the street to the livery stable, and looked at the buildings as he passed them.
They were of the typical variety, the false fronts and signs advertising everything from apples to zinc pills. It was a bigger town than the last one he had been in, and wasn't expecting any trouble. Unfortunately, trouble found him one way or another. He had just paid off the livery owner for several days worth of stabling when a gun poked him in the middle of the back. He turned around, and faced a lean, hard man, slightly taller than himself, of medium build. His eyes were slits, and the gun was held rock-steady facing him. The man's clothes had a layer of dust an inch thick on them, and he glanced casually at the man, his hands held up at his sides.
“What do you want?” he asked him. He didn't know him from Adam.
“Your money, stranger, all of it,” said the man in a dry, gravelly voice. He watched as John reached into his pockets. “Careful now, friend, I have an itchy trigger finger today.”
John carefully pulled out the bills in his pockets, and held them in front of him. “What's your friend behind you doing?” he asked.
II
The man turned around just long enough for John to knock the gun out of his hands. He dropped the bills and, clenching his hand into a fist, cold cocked the would-be robber on the side of the jaw, knocking him into the dirt. He reached down and grabbed the man by the scruff of the neck, pulling his arm back to punch him again. The man's arms crossed in front of his face.
“Don't hit me, don't hit me!” he cried out. John let him go, and the man sagged to the ground like a sack of flour. He backed up a step and, picking up his money, put it back in his pocket and walked away.
He stepped on the boardwalk, and heard the man as he spat into the ground behind him. “This isn't over, cowboy! I'm gonna git ya!” the man shouted. John just grinned and kept on walking. Several of the townspeople turned to stare at the commotion, but he ignored them and continued on his way. He stepped off the boardwalk and crossed the street, mindful of the deep ruts cut into the mud by the heavily-laden wagons that passed through from time to time. He wanted to get back to his hotel room and rest up a bit. That bottle of whiskey hit him harder than it used to in the past. He figured after a couple of hours sleep and a hot bath, he'd be ready for a little night action. If there was such a thing in this town, that is.
He walked up the stairs towards his room, and stopped in front of his door. Someone was in there! He could hear bootsteps on the worn planking. He drew his gun, backed up, and gave the door a good kick. It broke inwards with a splintering of wood and loud crash, and he rushed in, gun drawn.
The room was dark, save for the little light coming from the window, and all he saw was a shape. It rushed him, and knocked him to the floor. He fell over the small table in a heap, the basin on the table drenching him. The shape ran past, quickly, and before he could get to his feet the person was down the stairs. He got up and practically jumped down the stairs. He flung open the door to the hotel and ran out into the street, just in time to see a man on a horse leaving town in a hurry. A cloud of dust followed the man, and John re-holstered his weapon. He went back up to his room, eager to find out what the would-be robber had been digging in.
He got to his room, and picked up the table, and found that he had broken one of its legs from falling over it. He leaned it up against the wall, picked up the basin, and cursed at the mess on the floor. He was going through his personal belongings when the hotel manager came running down the hallway, wondering what was going on.
He was a tall, lanky man of middle age, and he and his wife owned and operated the hotel. She was the complete opposite of him; short, stocky, and an attitude to make Satan himself cringe. The man looked about in the room, and gave a whistle.
“You okay, Mr. McGraw?” he asked in a slow, dry voice. He noticed the broken table, and inspected the damage.
“Yeah, I'm fine, Len,” he answered, glancing at the table. He straightened up and turned towards the man. “I'll pay for the table, if you want me to,” he offered.
“No, that's okay, John, I know it wasn't your fault. Do you know the man that was in here?”
“Actually, I didn't get a look at his face, it was too dark in here for me to see at the moment,” John said. He picked up the saddlebags from the floor, and found out that this is what the man had been looking for. About fifty dollars was missing. “Seems like he needed money more than I did,” he said, angry at himself for leaving that amount of cash in his room. He knew better, and now he was that much poorer for his stupidity.
“Well, I'm sorry, John. No one was downstairs when he came in or left, so we can't help you in that department much either.”
John scratched his head and threw the saddlebags down on the bed. “It's okay, Len, not your fault. I should've known something like this would happen if I kept that much money with me.”
John gathered his belongings together, and headed out the door. He walked down the boardwalk to the livery, where his horse was stabled, and prepared to saddle him up. He knew the horse was tired when he came into town, and gave him a few days ' rest. Now he would have to find out who robbed him. His anger grew by the minute, and soon the horse was ready to go. He walked it out of the stable and looked up and down the street. Nothing much happening, except the usual townsfolk walking to and fro. He mounted his horse, and took off in the direction from which he had seen the robber ride. Maybe with luck he could catch up with the man and find out what the hell was going on. Then he reined in and stopped his horse. What the hell was he doing? He was probably riding into an ambush, a setup. That was the last thing he needed. He turned the horse around, and trotted back to the livery stable. He would figure this puzzle out in his own good time, and let them come to him.
He needed to figure out why the man came after him. After all, there were plenty of rich folks in town, merchants and bankers. Why him? What did he have that attracted that kind of trouble?
He pulled up in front of the hotel and tied off his horse. He walked in, and went back up to his room. Digging through his saddlebags again, he found an important piece of paper that was missing as well as the cash. It was a telegram that he had received concerning a railroad coming through town. He knew there would be some opposition to it, but he figured that the townsfolk, for the most part, would accept it. It would mean transportation to and from different towns in the west as well as transporting their herds of cattle out east. It would mean money to the struggling ranchers and farmers, trying to get their crop to market. Why would someone want to steal that from him? What was so important about that piece of paper that it needed to be kept from being delivered to its rightful owner?
He sat on the edge of the bed, and thought about what had happened. Who was the man who had broken into his room, and why? What was he carrying that was so important that someone had to steal from him? He was just another body in the West trying to make his way in the world, not bothering anyone or anybody. He just wanted to make enough money to buy some ranch land and maybe some cattle to go with it. He didn't need a big fancy house or a lot of acreage, just enough to handle by himself.
He figured that the thief had made off with about fifty dollars. That was a lot of money, and he vowed to keep his ears and eyes open. Tomorrow he would head out on the trail, to try and follow the man. But something was nagging him in the back of his head. A warning bell tingled in his mind, saying he would be dry-gulched as soon as he left town. Well, he figured, he'd have to take that chance. He wanted his money back, and he wanted to figure out why the man had stolen from him.
He threw his saddlebags on the plank floor, and laid down in the creaky bed. It was comfortable, and he was soon asleep. But in his dreams the man kept coming and coming at him, and he kept getting pushed aside, with no way to fight him. He woke up with a start, sweat on his forehead. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat on its edge. He got up rather shakily to the new table that Len had brought in, and splashed cold water on his face, trying to clear the cobwebs. He dried off his face with a hand towel that was next to the basin, and thought about what his next move would be.
He didn't have to wait long. Soon a group of cowpunchers came riding into town, whooping and hollering, chasing the townsfolk out of their way. They all stopped in front of the saloon, and he watched as they made their way into the establishment.
There were about ten of them, he figured. He walked to the bed, retrieved his gunbelt, and tied it on his waist, cinching it tight. Then he got his hat, put it on his head, and walked out the door, down the stairs, and through the hotel front doors. He stood on the boardwalk for a few moments more, then stepped down int o the dusty street and made his way to the saloon.
As he walked past their horses, he noticed that all had carried rifles. He looked around, and starting with the first horse and working his way through the rest, took all the rifles and emptied their magazines. That way he was sure he wouldn't be shot in the back by an itchy, trigger fingered cowpuncher. Then he jumped up on the boardwalk and made his way into the saloon.
He walked in, and immediately noticed a cold chill in the air. All of the cowboys turned their heads to stare at the man who had walked in. A few turned back to their drinks, but a few more kept staring at John, almost daring him to draw his gun.
John ignored them, and walked up to one end of the bar. He ordered a whiskey, and sat and drank it while he kept a close eye on the cowboys out of the corner of his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to be surprised by a bunch of trigger-happy idiots.
“Hey you,” said one of the cowpunchers from the other end of the bar. John ignored him, finishing his drink and ordering another.
“Hey, I'm talkin' to ya!” the man said again, this time more forcefully. When John didn't answer, he set his drink down on the polished wood of the bar and walked to where John was standing.
He pushed him in the shoulder, and John threw his drink in his face. The man's hands went to his eyes, and John threw a haymaker that landed directly on the cowboy's jaw, flattening him. His buddies started moving towards the end of the bar, and John pulled out his weapon.
“Come on,” he said, “let's see who wants to die first tonight.”
The men slowed, then stopped. They knew their partner had too much to drink and was just running off at the mouth. John had every right to defend himself, and that was exactly what he was doing. All of them soon returned to their drinks, with the exception of two, who helped their wounded comrade out of the saloon.
The bartender refilled John's drink, and keeping a wary eye on the cowpunchers, walked slowly back to a table against the wall, where he could sit and watch everything. He took off his hat, smoothed his hair, and a saloon girl came over and sat in the chair next to him. She was a pretty thing, blonde curly hair and ice-blue eyes shining. She couldn't have been more than eighteen, he figured. She looked at him and smiled, her perfect white teeth accentuating her radiant beauty.
“Howdy there, stranger. Buy a woman a drink?” she asked. Before he could answer, the bartender walked over and put a shot glass and bottle on the table, then tended back to his bar. John looked at her, then uncorked the bottle and poured them both a shot. She drank hers in one gulp and smiled some more at him.
He looked at her and smiled back. “What's your name, darlin'?” he asked.
“Jess,” she answered, and poured herself another shot. “What's yours?”
“John,” he said, and grabbed the bottle out of her hands. “What's a pretty little thing like you working in a tough place like this?”
“A girl's got to make some money,” she said, brushing a curly lock out of her eyes. She was beautiful, he had to admit. And the dress she wore fit her curves perfectly. She caught him staring at her, and blushed.
“Like what you see, cowboy?” she asked demurely.
“Yes, I do, ma'am,” he replied in a gentlemanly manner. “I sure do indeed. But I consider myself a gentleman, and have no intentions of going upstairs with you.”
Her face frowned for half a second, then the mischievous smile was back. “Why not? You might get lucky.”
He took another drink, picked up his hat, and stood up. “A good evening to you, Jess, but I must get going.” He put his hat on and walked towards the exit, leaving her with a pout and half a bottle of whiskey.
Just then a loud crash came from his right, and glass shattered on the wall. The contents slowly dribbled down the planks onto the floor, and he turned around and stared at the woman who had thrown the glass. He swore that if looks could kill he would have dropped dead right then and there, because Jess had an evil-looking snarl on her face. He didn't understand why, he was a gentleman. He guessed that she wasn't used to being turned down, and with a tip of his hat and a slight smile on his face he turned around and continued on his way.
Two gunshots stopped him in his tracks. He turned around slowly, and the smoking pistol in Jess' hands told him all he needed to know. He walked back to the table and sat down.
“Okay,” he said, “what's the deal?”
She gave him an evil look. “Here's the deal cowboy. High card wins. You win, you live. I win, you die. It's as simple as that.”
He gave her a look of astonishment. “What the hell are you talkin' about?”
She smiled at him, perfect white teeth complementing her unearthly beauty. “Simple. If I win, you join your fellow man up in Boot Hill up there.” She motioned with the pistol. “Now cut the deck. Time's a wastin'.”
He reached over to the deck of cards on the table, all the while watching her gun hand. It was rock-steady, and he made sure he didn't make any foolish moves. He shuffled the deck a couple of times, slapped it down on the green felt, and she picked a card. Her face showed no emotion. He reached over and picked himself a card. Queen of Hearts. He was somewhat relieved. He looked up into her cold eyes and watched as she lay down her card. It was the Ace of Spades. How appropriate, he thought.
“Why are you doin' this?” he asked her.
“Because I own this town, and I do what I want to do,” she answered. “Now, let's go. Time to meet your maker.” He watched the gun barrel as he got up, then reached out quickly to slap it out of her hand. With a screech, she brought her other hand to his head, trying to gouge out his eyeballs with her fingernails. The gun got between them as they struggled, and a shot went off. Her eyes went wide, then she looked down at the hole in her belly. With a final look of hate engraved upon her face, she collapsed on the floor, blood pooling around her. He reached down to grab the six-gun, and watched as the life slowly ebbed from her. He looked around at the other patrons of the saloon, fully expecting to be gang-jumped for killing a woman. But to his surprise, everyone just turned around and went about their business. He walked up to the bar and, placing the gun on the polished wood, walked out of the saloon and towards an uncertain future.
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