“I’ll see your five thousand,” Caleb said as he pushed in just under half of his own stack, “plus another two thousand.”
By now, there was no way short of a mop for Steve to hide the sweat pouring off his face. Still, he managed to look down at his cards without letting them slip through his trembling fingers and push in the appropriate amount of money. In front of him, there was now just about enough to pay for a steak dinner. “I’d like to call, but my wife would have my scalp if I lost again.”
“This is a friendly game,” Weeks said. “Put in what you’ve got, and the rest of us can fight for the rest. You’ll still stand to double your money.”
Although Steve seemed tempted, he set his cards down and pushed them away. “Maybe next time.”
Staring down at his cards, Doc had as much emotion on his face as he might show while picking out his socks. With a shrug, he tossed his cards down.
“Too rich for your blood?” Jack teased.
“Make the call yourself,” Doc said. “Then you can flap your lips at me.”
Jack’s eyes darted back and forth between his cards. He then turned his attention to Weeks and the hungry look in that man’s eyes. From there, Jack glanced down at the pile of money in front of Weeks, which made his own stack look pathetic in comparison. “To hell with it,” Jack grunted. “A man can’t be shoved around in this game.” With those words still hanging in the air, he shoved in all of his money. “That covers the bet plus another . . . fifty-eight hundred I reckon.”
“Count it,” Caleb said.
Jack was only off by twenty-nine dollars and nodded proudly at his maneuver.
“Why, Jack,” Doc said with a grin. “You made a fool out of me. Steve and I here bet that you couldn’t count higher than twenty, and that was only if you took off your boots.”
“Twenty-one if I dropped my trousers,” Jack retorted. “But I can count as high as you please when there’s money involved.”
Everyone at the table got a laugh out of that, and Steve seemed even more relieved to be out of the game.
Without batting an eye, Weeks nodded down to his wall of chips. “I’ll bet everything I’ve got left.”
Jack started to choke on the whiskey he’d just sipped.
“You’re trying to shove us out,” Caleb said. “You don’t have the cards to pull this off.”
“One way to see for yourself,” Weeks replied.
“You know I don’t have enough to cover that bet.”
“Then maybe we can make this game really interesting. You put up your shares in that saloon of yours, and we can see what cards we’ve been dealt.”
“You want my part of the Flush? That’s worth more to me than whatever you’ve got in that pot.”
Weeks nodded slowly and said, “Then I guess you’re out.”
Caleb took another look at his cards. They were still the same as the last time he’d paid them a visit. Shifting his eyes up until he was staring straight at Weeks, be said, “Put up something of equal value to my saloon, and we’ve got a bet.”
“Fine,” Weeks said a little too quickly. “What about this place here? I may not own as much of Thompson’s Varieties as you do the Busted Flush, but I’d say there’s enough to cover the discrepancy between the initial bet.”
“My part of the Flush against your part of this place?” Caleb asked.
“That’s what I said.”
Sucking in a deep breath, Caleb forced himself to nod. “Let’s do it.”
It seemed as if every other noise in the saloon had been snuffed out. A few of Weeks’s gun hands stepped forward as if they’d emerged from the walls, adding another layer to the tension that was unfolding.
Jack’s nervous laughter cut through it all like a brick coming through a plate glass window. “Jesus H. Christ, I should’ve kept my beak out of this one!” he said while tossing his cards away as if they’d sprouted thorns.
“You heard the man, Doc,” Weeks said with a satisfied grin. “Pick up that deck and deal us our cards.”
Doc set his glass down and picked up the deck. After all the words that had been flying back and forth, it seemed as though he’d nearly forgotten that he was dealing. With the deck in his left hand and his fingers running along the edges, he looked up at Weeks and asked, “How many?”
“Just one.”
Caleb felt the knot cinch in tighter around his guts. Although there was nothing on the table apart from the cards, shot glasses, and a mess of money, he knew his very livelihood was sitting in that pot.
Doc’s fingers plucked a card from the deck with subtle ease. His movement was so quick that the card seemed to spring into his hand to be launched across the table. It landed neatly on top of Weeks’s other four and remained there.
Weeks tapped a finger on the card and grinned like a snake with a belly full of squirming mice.
“I’ll take two,” Caleb said.
With similar ease, Doc tossed two cards across the table to land in front of Caleb. His job done, Doc set the deck down and took another pull from his whiskey.
“Care to add anything else to the mix?” Weeks asked. “Or should we just show what we’ve got?”
“I don’t have anything else,” Caleb replied through gritted teeth. With that, he showed his hand. The only thing that had changed for him was the fact that he now had a deuce and a seven to keep his three nines company.
“Not bad, Mr. Wayfinder. Let’s see if I can do any better.” Like a true showman, Weeks flipped over his cards one at a time. The king and queen of spades were the first to show, followed by the four and six of the same suit. His smile had already reached its triumphant peak when he flipped over the card Doc had so recently given him.
“Stings, doesn’t it?” Weeks said, still keeping his eyes focused on Caleb.
Once more, silence had engulfed the table. Caleb, Jack, and Steve were all staring intently at Weeks’s cards. Nobody seemed able or willing to make a noise. Doc, on the other hand, started laughing.
“Looking for this?” Doc asked as he peeled off the top card from the deck. It was the ace of spades, and when Weeks saw it, he quickly looked down at his cards.
Sitting there next to all those spades was the ten of hearts.
The smile melted off Weeks’s face, leaving behind a visage of bitter rage. “What the fuck is this?” He snapped his head up and found Doc already getting to his feet. “What the hell is going on here, Holliday?”
But Doc was shrugging and walking for the door. When some of Weeks’s gunmen stepped in his way, Doc merely turned sideways and stepped between them.
Glancing uncomfortably at Weeks and the gunmen that were appearing like flies at a picnic, Steve edged back from the table and looked for somewhere he could disappear.
Jack Vermillion let out a low whistle and shook his head. “I guess the game’s over.”
“Almost,” Caleb said. “But not quite.”
[27]
The front door to Thompson’s Varieties was flung open to smack against the wall. Exploding from there like an arrow from a bow, Doc stumbled into the street where he quickly regained his footing and straightened his coat. The men who’d shoved him through the door came out next and were, in turn, shoved aside by Bret Weeks.
“You’re a dead man, Holliday!” Weeks snarled. “That wasn’t supposed to happen!”
Doc shrugged and said, “The cards can’t favor you all the time, Bret.”
Standing toe-to-toe with Doc, Weeks was breathing as if he’d run a few miles to get there. Sweat dripped along his bald scalp and curved around his narrowed eyes. Shaking his head, he growled, “That’s not what I mean, you skinny little prick, and you goddamn well know it!”