There were about twenty round gaming tables in the place. At the center table four men were playing poker, and, from what I could see from behind, the cowboy in the middle fit the description Elijah had given me of the one riding the EH-branded gelding.
My plan was simple enough. After joining their game, I would try to make them believe I was broke and out of luck. Maybe I could get in the position of playing them for a job. If they were convinced that I was on the run and let me join up, there was a chance they might lead me to the herd. Or, if the horses had already been sold, then maybe I could use them to track the money.
There was nothing to lose. My name had to be cleared or I’d never have a chance with Rosa, and I still had the vaqueros to deal with. I knew Chavez wasn’t the kind to quit, and I had no desire to repeat a showdown with men like Miguel, Armando, and Francisco.
As soon as one of the players busted out of the game, I walked over to their table.
“Closed game or can anyone sit in?” I asked.
The tall thin man in the middle wore a broad flat sombrero and wide leather wrist straps. The bone-handled knife slung across his chest was at least fourteen inches long and double-bladed. The two flat sides of the blade had been built up, with high supporting ridges that seemed sharp enough to cut with. The whole affair tapered wickedly to a thick point.
When that cowpoke looked up at me, my blood froze. Hanging around his neck was a Kiowa talisman on a rawhide thong, a hand-sewn beaded affair representing an eagle. Such a necklace was supposed to ward off evil, and protect one from harm. Each design was unique and especially designed by a certain medicine woman. I knew all this because the talisman that cowboy was wearing had once belonged to Sprout.
Staying calm after seeing that eagle was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I wanted to fly right across that table and rip his liver out with my bare hands, but, since I had to find out where the herd was, for now it would have to wait.
I avoided staring at him by quickly switching my gaze over to the second cowboy seated immediately to his left. This one was wearing stovepipe chaps, a horsehair vest, and carried a large pocket watch on a gold chain. Pulling out a chair, I tossed my pouch on the table and addressed myself to him.
“Not much there, but maybe it’ll build some.”
“Welcome to try, but don’t get your hopes up,” he replied.
“The name’s Pete, Pete Evans. That’s Ed Jenkins,” he said, indicating the third man, “and this here’s Comanche Reynolds.” His talkativeness was surprising, but helpful. Out here most men usually kept things to themselves, offering up only what was absolutely necessary.
Turning back to the one called Reynolds, I asked quietly: “You called that for some special reason?”
He looked up at me through narrowed eyes and fingered the necklace. It was unusual to have questions posed by strangers, but after a short pause he answered anyway.
“Took this off a Comanche brave during a wagon train attack in ’Fifty-Nine. Got him just as he was about to let fly an arrow at me. Been called that ever since.”
That’s when I knew for sure he was a damned liar.
I nodded as if duly impressed and began to check my cards. Poker was one skill I was proficient at, and before long it was obvious to me that these three weren’t anywhere near as good as they thought they were.
Chapter Twelve
It didn’t take long to catch on to the system they were using to cheat whoever joined the game. The three were much too sure of themselves, and made the mistake of judging me solely by appearance. Most cowboys pride themselves on their card savvy, and these men were no exception. Truth is, even though cowboys brag a lot about cards, when it comes to poker, miners have got them beat hands down. And I for one was no stranger to pick and shovel.
The stakes tend to be higher around miners. When a claim is good, the chips fly, and, when the mine’s played out, they bet for future shares of the next lode. Sure, cowboys gamble along the trail, often for wages received at the end of the drive, but that’s usually not very much. Riders are always busy doing something with the herd and that distracts from the game, so cards are really just a diversion on the trail. Some bosses won’t even allow their men a friendly game during a drive.
Miners on the other hand are frequently stranded at their claims for weeks on end, and up north it can be all winter. Red dog, five-card, and seven-card draw can become a part of their lives, a way to keep from going crazy.
For about seven straight months five of us had worked a gold claim near Bannack City, Idaho. We lived in three patched tents and a makeshift cabin thrown together with leftover boards. From sunup to sundown we dug and sifted to exhaustion, and, when we dragged ourselves back at night, it was usually to a simple dinner of sourdough and old salt pork, or beans and dried apples.
There wasn’t anything else to do, and nowhere to go to blow off steam, so we constantly played cards. Jebediah Edwards, Sam Prescott, Philly Nash, and I played as much as we could, and as well as anyone else around, but it was Riverboat Chantal who usually won the pot. We played almost every night for a solid month and nightly I lost about half of everything I had dug up to him.
Chantal supposedly grew up on the river. Or so they said. Jebediah once told me that Riverboat had dealt up and down the Mississippi for years, and I had good reason to believe him. That is until one evening when, after finishing almost a fifth of sour mash, Riverboat confessed the truth to me about his past.
“Mah father was a sailor and mah mother a French-Creole. They died during the pox outbreak when Ah was real young, and that left me in N’ Orl’ans. Ah growed up workin’ odd jobs in a social club in the red district what belonged to a friend o’ mah father. You know the type,” he said, looking somewhat distracted.
I nodded at him.
“Those gurls shore was purty.”
“I can imagine,” I said. “Go on.”
“Well there was this small casino next door that Ah hung around regular. That’s where Ah got to know Pierre One-Ear, the greatest card sharp ever was.”
“And he taught you?” I asked.
“Eventually, but not right off. He knew Ah used to trade things around town, so Pierre decided to swap me his card tricks, one at a time, in exchange for pokes with some of the girls Ah worked with. Yessir, old One-Ear really liked the ladies, but after he got his ear bit off in a fight, the decent ones shied away from him. So ya see he sorely needed mah help. Ah remember, there was this one gal who worked the club by the name of Candice. She liked fancy perfumes so Ah always traded her that for Pierre. It worked like this. From time to time Ah lifted jewelry from some of the house patrons to trade for perfume which Ah gave to her. She then lent her favor to Pierre and he’d teach me another trick, an’ so on.’ Ventually Ah got Pierre to teach me a good bit, but he went and got shot before Ah could get real knowledgeable. The rest Ah sort of picked up as Ah went along.”
He paused to watch Philly Nash pick out his fingernails across the room. It was a constant habit that always drove Riverboat crazy, especially since Philly had fingernails that were twice as long as any man we’d ever seen.
“No wonder they call him Filly,” Chantal growled. “Sure as hell wouldn’t call him Stallion…not with them girly nails of his. Beats me how he gets any work done wearin’ ’em long like that,” he added.
“Don’t think he spells it with an F, Riverboat,” I observed. “I think he’s called Philly ’cause his family hails from Philadelphia.”