Also, when the players at a table were reduced to two, as the others lost and departed, those top two players would move into seats made available by losers at the other two tables. Eventually, there would be one table, and one winner. And the process might last a very long time, probably longer than the visiting ladies could endure, even at the prospect of a schoolhouse.
“You’re right in thinking,” York told her, “that one of the players here tonight is the Preacherman’s target.”
The pretty eyes were hidden in slits now. “And not any of the out-of-towners.”
“Probably not. Likely one of our city fathers. Possibly Raymond Parker, particularly if the George Cullen murder was the work of the Preacherman, too.”
“I don’t follow.”
He grunted something deep in his belly that wasn’t exactly a laugh. “Cullen’s murder guaranteed his partner and oldest friend, Raymond Parker, would come to town for the services. But I’m not sure how anyone could make the leap that Parker would stay for the poker tourney, as well. Perhaps our friend from Denver was somehow manipulated into participating.”
She shook her head. “I have no way of knowing. He simply came into the Victory the evening of the Cullen burial and asked to be added to the list. I had a seat left, and I gave it to him.”
York looked toward the saloon, from which raucous music could barely be heard under the conversation and laughter.
“Well,” he said, “Hollis is here to kill somebody. So I’ll do my best to stay in the game and follow him to the table where his potential victim is seated.”
“You play well, Caleb, but there’s no guarantee of that.”
“No, there isn’t,” he admitted.
She shivered, hugged her arms to herself. “This is terrible. Some innocent bystander could be shot!”
He rested a gentle hand on her bare shoulder; it was warm, even if she wasn’t.
“Probably not,” he said reassuringly, squeezing her shoulder, then removing his hand. “The Preacherman’s a professional. But that’s a valid concern. And he’s backed up by those other two reprobates, so it is possible bullets could fly.”
“Oh, my God.” It was almost a prayer.
Nodding toward the Victory, he said, “There are still a few audience tables open in there, despite the crowd. Grab one for me, would you, before somebody at the bar comes over and fills it? And move it into the front row?”
“Of course. Why?”
“I’m going to position Tulley with a shotgun on his lap in full view of the players. Encouraging caution on their part. And I’ll have Doc Miller seated, with his medical bag under the table. We’ll be ready for anything... Here they come now.”
Footsteps on the boardwalk announced the bandy-legged deputy and Doc Miller, his suit looking pressed for once, chugging toward them. Tulley’s scattergun was cradled, and the doctor’s bag was in hand.
A hand on York’s sleeve, Rita asked, “Anything else I can do?”
“Tell Yancy Cole what’s going on. He isn’t wearing a sidearm. Have him sling one on. Were you planning on table service?”
“Yes. I was going to use one of my girls...” She grinned impishly. “Just to sort of rattle the holier-than-thou ladies.”
“Use Hub Wainwright instead. And tell him to have a gun stuck in his belt under his apron.”
“My lord, you make it sound like a war is coming.”
“No. A battle, maybe.”
She shuddered, nodded, and quickly pushed her way back inside.
York waited for Tulley and Doc Miller, to give them instructions. So far all he’d told them was just to meet him here.
After he’d given them their directions, Doc Miller said, “Seems like everywhere you go, Caleb, a physician ought to follow.”
“And yet,” York said, “I get no share in the fee.”
Soon the stage was set, with York himself part of it. He was seated across from Alver Hollis, with pop-eyed Lafe Trammel to the man’s right, one cheek covered by a bandage now, and porky Wilbur Landrum to the left. The Preacherman was in his usual black, his hat on, and his partners were in battered hats, arm-gartered work shirts, and bandanas no less filthy for the occasion. Each had his small stacks of one hundred dollars’ worth of chips before him — white bone chips edged blue (ten dollars), red (five dollars), orange (two dollars), and natural white (one dollar).
Also seated with York and the Preacherman flock were undertaker Perkins and Enterprise editor Penniman, everyone with their little towers of chips, whites tallest, blues shortest. Two Bicycle decks were in front of York, who had drawn first deal when house dealer Cole — in his trademark white, round-brimmed hat, gray suit, and ruffled shirt — came around and had each player draw for high card.
York exchanged smiles with all the men, even Hollis, although his idiot companions just scowled.
The next table over included Mayor Hardy, Newt Harris, and Raymond Parker, and three out-of-towners, two who were likely ranchers and another whose riverboat gambler apparel marked him as a professional. The table beyond that one included Clarence Mathers, Clem Davis, several area small ranchers, and more nonlocals.
The tables were spaced far enough apart that players at one table would have to damn near yell to be heard by the next. A good six feet had been allowed between the green-topped ones and tables occupied by the seated audience, who must have approached one hundred.
But down at the street end, almost to the front windows, one table had been slid between the front row of spectators and the wall. There sat Jonathan R. Tulley, who had finally bought a shirt — gray flannel — to wear over his BVD top, his scattergun nestled in his lap like a loyal dog. Next to the deputy sat Dr. Albert Miller, his Gladstone bag at his feet.
Well, Caleb York thought, with the deputy, doctor, undertaker, and newspaper editor all close at hand, every contingency should be covered.
Cole, friendly and handsome in his skinny-mustached way, strode to the front of the seated audience and raised his palms to quiet them.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the house dealer said in a Southern drawl that might have been genuine, though York wouldn’t have bet more than a white chip on it, “welcome to the Victory. Ladies, we are particularly pleased to have you brighten up our lowly establishment, and perhaps in future we can find entertainment more suitable to your gentle sensibilities.”
The wives of Trinidad mostly smiled at that, and a few even blushed.
“I will be supervising tonight’s games,” Cole said, “to assure one and all that this is an honest, well-intended endeavor on the part of the Victory and these players. And now I’d like to introduce you to your hostess, Miss Rita Filley.”
Gesturing openhandedly, Cole made way for Rita, who took center stage to applause that was merely polite, since the husbands dared not clap too loudly and the women barely clapped at all.
“Welcome,” she said in a strong, clear voice. “We have separated our three tables in order to provide you good people a better opportunity to follow the action. Our players have been instructed to call out their bets and their requests for additional cards, as well as their hands when laying them down at the conclusion of betting.”
With considerable grace, Rita moved up and down the edge of the audience. Eyes male and female followed her.
“If you have difficulty hearing any of our competitors,” she continued, “please page Mr. Cole, the gentleman who just spoke to you, who will be monitoring the action. He will do his best to rectify the situation. We do ask you to watch quietly, as draw poker is a game requiring considerable concentration, and we are already subjecting our players to a circumstance that is unusual, to say the least.”