“Well, whatever. But, if you ask me, for a miner he spends more time diggin’ ’round in those nails o’ his than he does in the ground.”
I could only nod in agreement. Admittedly it was kind of hard to explain.
Chantal took another swig and continued on. “Truth is Ah hate boats. Hell, Ah get sick just lookin’ at a glass of water. You couldn’t get me on a paddle boat, raft, or canoe now iffen you was to threaten me with a buffalo gun. The only time Ah ever rode one, Ah throwed up so much Ah begged the captain to put me out of mah mis’ry. It was so disgustin’ the crew finally tossed me overboard. To top it off, Ah cain’t swim and almost drowned. Iffen it warn’t fur a log floatin’ by what drug me ashore, you’d be the only one here doin’ the winnin’ from those two.”
“Then why in the world do they call you Riverboat?” I asked, puzzled.
Chantal had finished his jug so I passed him the rest of the one I was drinking from. He gulped down another slug and continued on.
“Simple. One time, over in Tucson, Ah was playing with this whiskey vendor who knew Ah hailed from N’ Orl’ans. Kind of an unlucky feller when it came to cards, but he wouldn’t never admit it to himself. Just naturally assumed Ah had to be a Mississippi boat gambler. It was he what tagged me with the name Riverboat. Soon everybody started calling me that, and afterwards it just seemed easier to go along with folks.”
That was simple enough to understand. A lot of men out West had changed their names for one reason or another. “Guess it’s easier to handle losin’ all your money if you think you were taken in by a sharp,” I added.
“Well you ought to know, kid.” He smiled as he pulled in the pot we’d been playing for. “Look, Ah’m gonna educate you proper like. After all, there’s not much else to do around here at night and you sorely need the help.”
“Yeah, you must get pretty bored winning all my money like that,” I replied.
Over the next few months I learned that there are more ways to cheat at cards than there are cattle in Texas. Chantal taught me about marking cards and reflective rings, bent cards, stacking a deck, palming, and about shills. Getting the other fellow to cut the cards to your advantage and bottom dealing were just basics for him. When I finally decided to leave the good life and ride out, I had won back almost all that I had originally lost. In spite of that Riverboat seemed truly sad to see me go.
“Heard say the mark of a good teacher is to be outdone by the pupil. You sure make me proud now, boy, but why don’t you stick around and try to win back the rest?” he asked.
“Nope. You taught me enough to know there’s bound to be a few tricks you’ve held out on me,” I said. He just smiled back. “Besides, Sam and Philly need to hang onto a little something for their old age,” I joked. “With both of us staying on, you know it wouldn’t be fair. As it is now practically all Jeb has left is an old photo of that half-naked actress, Ada Menken.”
Riverboat helped me tie down my bedroll.
“Saw her once in person, ya know,” he said. “Fine-lookin’ lady, but she warn’t really naked. Just wears a skin-colored outfit. But it don’t matter much. First chance these boys git, they’ll prob’ly spend whatever’s left on easy women and hard licur.”
“Likely I’ll do the same,” I said. “You take care now.”
He patted my horse and bid me a safe journey. It was the last I ever saw of him.
A few years later I learned from Shiloh Marks, an old friend of Jebediah’s, that a cave-in had taken Sam, Philly, and Riverboat. Jeb had escaped with a crushed hip, but luckily could still get around on a cane. In fact, he was one of the men who later proved the local sheriff, a man named Henry Amos Plummer, was actually the ringleader of a gang of claim-jumpers.
The cave-in had been no accident, and Jebediah knew it. There had been several robberies in the area and for quite a while he’d suspected the sheriff. As long as Jeb lived, he represented a threat to the gang, so Plummer finally sent two of his deputies to kill Jeb. When they failed in their subsequent attempt, they were caught and brought to trial. Faced with the prospect of life imprisonment, they confessed to being in Plummer’s outlaw gang.
Even with a bad hip, Jebediah later led the posse that captured the crooked sheriff. His friend, Shiloh Marks, told me they decided to hang Plummer on the very same gallows he’d originally helped to build. That he died like a coward was no surprise.
Marks also told me that Jeb eventually moved back to Illinois where he married some widow who owned a feed and grain supply. Shiloh said she had Jeb so buffaloed he’d given him the picture of Ada to hold onto, lest his wife catch him with it.
What those men taught me during their card games back in Idaho had served me well over the years. The trick with these three cowboys here, in Gila City, would not be to win all their money at once, but rather to keep playing. To stay in the game. I needed time to convince them I was on the wrong side of the law and desperately in need of a job. They had to be made to believe I could somehow be of use to them. I wanted my game play to seem inept in order to keep drawing the game on, but without busting out.
Their strategy might have fooled most men, but Evans was overly confident. The three were so intent on cheating others, they didn’t expect it to be done to them and it was no chore at all to keep ahead of Reynolds and his pals. I’d simply fold early on the set-ups to avoid big losses, win a few small hands, building my holdings a little at a time.
Whenever they tried to give me too good a hand, I’d make a bonehead play, like drawing unsuccessfully to a straight instead of sticking with two pair. If I got too far ahead, I intentionally lost and made a big fuss about it. I kept some money to play with, enough to keep them interested, but not enough to be suspicious.
“Look, fellers, I really need a job and ain’t particular,” I finally remarked. “So if you three need a fourth, I’m as good as the next feller and ain’t choosy about usin’ my gun, if need be.”
“Say, why don’t you just throw that fancy Colt of yours into the pot and liven things up some?” Evans asked, avoiding the subject.
“Nope, I reckon I’ll stick with it,” I replied. “Too hard to come by in the first place, if you know what I mean.” I winked, hoping the way it was said would give them the wrong idea.
“Yeah, only one way a drifter gets a fine piece like that, and it ain’t workin’ cows,” Jenkins commented, taking the bait. He was the better-looking of the three, clean-shaven and square-jawed. His shoulder-length brown hair draped down from under a large fedora, and his tanned complexion highlighted blue eyes that must have won over more than a few women. His good looks sure as hell wouldn’t influence my opinion of him, though.
“Won it in a contest,” I said, giving an exaggerated smile to the saloon girl serving beers to the table.
“Sure you did. And I’ll bet the feller you won it off of really misses it.”
For some reason Pete Evans felt real comfortable joking with me like that. Strange, considering we’d only just met.
“Don’t suppose so, seein’ as how he’s dead now,” I answered, bending the truth a bit.
“Figured as much,” Jenkins mumbled. “So, ever done any stage work?”
“Some. But I got tired of worrying about getting lead poisoning,” I answered. It wasn’t all a lie since, at one point in my past, I’d ridden shotgun for Henry Wells for almost eight straight months.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” said Pete, joining in. “Gettin’ a lot rougher these days. We got a sweet deal going now, though.”
“Evans, you talk too much. Just shut up and play.” Comanche Reynolds clearly was the one in charge.