Saddle Row - Part One

“It’s better to be lucky than good.” I used to say that all the time. It makes me laugh now; it’s a young man’s saying. With age, love, loss and turmoil, but moreover experience it becomes less apt. I will stick by it though. There’s something there, something indefinable.

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TEXARKANA, TEXAS

He knew he had been recognized when he parted the batwing doors.

It was alright. Bein’ recognized was something he was used to. That just meant they knew about the reputation. They had heard the stories. While he had lost his anonymity he had gained a legend.

            This place was no different than the others. Soon after the doors parted the whispers began. Few times (if ever) would there be a word spoken to his face. But he knew. The ranchers that sat at the front tables would turn and speak into their drinks. Is that him? Ya know I heard in Abilene he once killed six men in the blink of an eye.

            He remembered Abilene; lived it- wasn’t much like that.

            The drinkers, the really hard ones with broken blood vessels shining their noses, would stare stupidly. Then they’d pat each other on the shoulders and murmur. Buddy a mine says one winter in Dodge he finished an entire barrel during an all night card game. 

            Truthfully he was never much of a drinker.

            The hostesses and whores that circulated in the parlor would look up and quiver. Then they’d whisper behind lace gloves to their fellow workin’ women. Why hon’ I swear I heard he’s good from sundown to sun up.

            Well there’s no sense in shootin’ down all the rumors.

            The card games were always in the back. He’d have to make his way past all the other sins just to get to ‘em.

            The men here were the worst. The rustlers, the cheats, the renegades. The kind of men that would kill you for a nickel and then slap your mother for crying about it. He fit right in.

            Sometimes the men were wary of strangers joining their games. His way around this was subtle; he would dress as though he was heading for Sunday church. This gave the men the impression he had money to lose, and was most likely an uppity novice, at least when it came to gambling.

            He wore a red vest, filigreed with designs over a crisp white button up that was free of any stains. A gold chain trailed from the vest’s chest pocket to his pants pocket, hinting at an expensive watch. His trousers were neatly pressed and ended in shined boots. The outfit as a whole was so clean, it was if he had changed after coming in off the dirt streets.

            “Hey stranger, money burnin’ a hole in yer pocket?” Some of the men at and around the table laughed heartily. 

            He lit a cigar and replied amidst a plume of smoke, “You might say the urge to relieve you fine gentlemen of your foldin’ money has overtaken me.”

            More laughter erupted from the tables. A man, a short one with a crooked nose stepped forward, “Name’s Will Fairer stranger. I run this fine establishment and these tables. You sayin’ you want in?”

            “That’s what I’m sayin’ Mr. Fairer.”

            One of the men at the table poured himself a drink. “Will here introduced himself to you proper. Ain’t you gonna reciprocate?”

            “My apologies good sir. You may call me Charles Strauss.”

            “That’s more like it boy, remember yer manners.” The man downed his drink, hacked deep in his throat and spit on the floor.

            “I’d expect no less from you sir.” Charles looked at him and waited.

            “Rules don’t apply to me Mr. Strauss.” Sit down and get dealt in.”

            “I assumed this was a friendly game. If that’s not the case, I’ll take my taste for poker and my money elsewheres.”

            Mr. Fairer stepped forward. “No sir, this is a friendly enough place and we’re happy to have ya.”           
           “Good enough but only because you Mr. Fairer seem like a reputable business man. Let’s hope yer patrons learn how to be more cordial as the evening wears on.”

            The man who had spat on the floor gave Charles a stern look as he took his seat. Charles surveyed the table. It was surrounded by local toughs who had probably killed at least a few men apiece. If the locals were correct, some of those murders had taken place right at this table. The air was thick with sour smoke and the green felt that covered the card table was both worn and stained.

            “Time to get at it gentlemen.”Fairer motioned to a dealer seated at the table and the cards were passed out.

            Charles sat at the table with the man who refused his introduction, a quiet man in a bowler and glasses, and a queer looking Indian fellow who was whiter than any man he’d ever seen.

            Everyone’s eyes shifted slowly from their hands to those around them. With nothing more than cunning and the experience of dealing with hard men Charles Strauss read them like a handbill. He felt he had the highest hand. Behind the men’s eyes he saw desperation, worry, and even vacancy. They might as well have handed over their money right then. Although, Charles felt like he was in a winning position, he had a plan in mind that would require the opposite.

            Everyone threw a bet in turn and Charles was no different.

            The pale Indian folded on the second pass.

            He waited until the third pass, after consecutively and aggressively raising his bets he folded. “It would seem the luck of the draw isn’t with me this evening.”

            “Bad for you stranger.” The man who wouldn’t introduce himself remarked, “Good for me.” He called the man with glasses, “Mr. Kettle I call to you.”

            The man in the top hat fanned out three aces. “Chum, may I remind you poker is as much a game of good skill and great intellect as anything else.”

            “Mr. Kettle, in a game where chance means everything, it’s better to be lucky than good.” Charles added.

I’ll be takin’ most of yer money, and a little bit of pride.” With those words Glenn pointedly slapped down his cards one by one.

            Charles watched intently, eyes flickering with the lamp light that brightened the room.

            Fwip. 10 of spades. Fwip. Jack of spades. Fwip. Queen of spades. Fwip. King of Spades. Fwip. Ace of spades.

            Glenn smiled cruelly, showing teeth that were stained yellow underneath an oddly well maintained beard. “I believe I found your last Ace Mr. Kettle.”

            Grimacing, Mr. Kettle nodded and slowly slid a pile of coinage over to Glenn’s portion of the table.

            “Another round gentleman?” Mr. Fairer asked gleefully.

            “I believe I’ll need a drink first. Your cheapest whisky Mr. Fairer, I’ll save the bulk of my money for the gaming table.”

            Mr. Fairer motioned to a large woman in a dirty cotton dress; it had frills so filthy they were nearly brown. She curtsied and left the room in a hurry.

            The dealer collected the remaining cards and began to shuffle them briskly. Charles looked at him and he smiled, leaving the impression of a weasel. Ever the polite guest, Charles smiled back, watching the dealer’s hand movements for any sign he was skinning cards.

            The large woman returned, desperately trying to balance a bottle of whiskey and a glass on top of a serving tray. Luckily she made it to Charles before the tray tipped.

            “Thank ya young lady.” Charles said and meant it, but the boys around the table (save for the Indian fellow, but including the dealer) laughed uproariously. Charles poured himself a drink after handing the serving girl the necessary money. Blushing, the woman slinked out of the way, back into a corner of the room.
            “Let’s hope your better at bending an elbow than playing cards.”

            “Why the mysterious Glenn speaks. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were trying to flare my temper.”

            “Nah, you’ll know that when it comes.” Glenn smiled displaying those yellowed teeth once more.

            “And when it comes I’ll be ready.”

            “My guess is a fancy pants like you wouldn’t know what hit ya.”

“I don’t care a continental that your tactic for winning a hand at poker involves trying to bully me Mr. Glenn. This doesn’t happen to be my first time in a saloon. What I do care about is that you have begun to make assumption about my person. And it would serve you well to know, that should you prove to be a sore loser, after I take all your money, and should you then prove that you wish to engage in some form of fisticuff with me following this game, it would be a regrettable decision on your part I’m afraid.”
            “Oh ya, how exactly is that? You gonna send me to an early grave?”

“No sir, make no mistake about it, I wouldn’t send you to an early grave, but when I was through with you, you’d be wishing for one.”

            Glenn narrowed took only a moment to narrow his eyes in Charles’ direction. It was then that Charles took note of both the big Indian and the top hat wearing Mr. Kettle staring at him but chose not to return their gazes.

            “Now boys there’s money to be won here.” Mr. Fairer clapped his hands and neared the table, “How about a round on the house?” Again, Fairer nodded to the woman in the dirty dress, and she disappeared once more, returning with a bottle and three glasses. She measured as she poured each of the other men a glass.

            “Are we ready to play?” The white Indian spoke. Charles noted a great deal of bass and patience in that voice.

            No one nodded outright but, they all stowed their tongues. When the talk ceased the dealer began passing out cards. Again the men eyed their cards and then eyed the eyes of the other players. Charles was patient and calculating as he studied the hands, and faces of the men that sat before him. Charles checked brows for sweat, and lips for twitches, anything that might give away what the other men might be holding.

            The turns played out once more. This time Charles watched, stakes were raised, and he acted in kind, putting in what was too much money. He was careful though, if he threw too much cash in before folding on his next turn he would likely draw suspicion. And there was already enough of that to go around at this table.

            As his strategy went, Charles folded again. He had given nothing more to the game thus far than charitable contributions before folding.

            “Well sir, can’t say that ya haven’t peaked my attention with your odd playing style.”

            “Why Mr. Glenn, I am at this point unsure of just anything that I’ve done since walking through that door that hasn’t peaked your attention.”

            “What’re you saying Mr. Charles Strauss?” Glenn’s voice dripped with distain as he spoke Charles’ name.

            Mr. Fairer- along with the remaining men- stared with great unease.

            “I’m saying that if I didn’t know better I’d swear you were a Nanc.”

            “Why you sonuvabitch!” Glenn stood and began to draw his revolver. Fortunately for him, he forgot that it was currently behind the bar in the main part of the saloon.

            Charles smiled and stood, “Glenn, you left your iron at the bar. How noble of you. Unfortunately, I’m not that honorable.”

            Charles drew and backed away from the table.

            Instinctively, Mr. Fairer’s arms shot up, the barmaid did the same. Glenn froze and leveled eyes that were thin slits of hatred at Charles. Oddly, even though Charles was waving around a loaded pistol, no one else in the room seemed concerned.

            “Now, now Charles. No need to get hasty.” Glenn began his best begging off speech, “Maybe as men we let our pride get in the way of our card playing on this evening.”

            “Perhaps, but perhaps if you had been more polite to start, you wouldn’t have raised my hairs.”

            “And so killin’ me is a way to fix that?” Glenn tried to step forward as he spoke. “I aint nobody Mr. Quinlan.”

            The big Indian and Mr. Kettle winced.

            “What’s that ya say, Mr. Quinlan?”Charles asked pointedly.

            “I mean, Mr. Strauss. Oh God I’m sorry sir.” Glenn, who a minute earlier was hard as stone, now appeared as if he was going to tear up.

            “Quit blubberin’ Mac already figured that you were eyeballin’ me so hard because you recognized me. Those damn wanted posters are up all over the territory.” Charles pointed to the Indian, “Scoop up our money Hotah, we’ve been pegged.”

            The big Indian stood on command, retrieved a satchel that had been folded into his waistband, and began to clear the table of each and every coin. He conducted himself in a way that made his actions look practiced.

            “Mr. Kettle…”

            Charles didn’t have to finish the sentence; the man in the bowler nodded and rushed out the back door to ready the horses. Soon, Hotah followed him; the satchel bulged and swayed as he ran.

            “Wha-Why? What’s the meaning of this?” Mr. Fairer demanded.

            “Now Glenn, since you’ve so obviously seen through my ruse of over betting in an effort to bait you into overconfidence, and coupled with the fact that you’ve so blatantly recognized me, fill Mr. Fairer in on what you’ve already discovered, please.”

            Glenn sighed and watched the barrel of the revolver. He could see it winking at him, like some sort of darkened animal eye. “Mr. Fairer the man standing before you isn’t ‘Charles Strauss’. His name is Charlie ‘Chance’ Quinlan.”

            Mr. Fairer’s face twisted with realization, then went slack with shock.

            Chance spoke up, “Now I understand how’re feeling Mr. Fairer, but know that I aim to be completely fair about this whole ordeal. When I arrived here my goal was to simply take whatever money might be in the pockets of the men around this table. That hasn’t changed. You’ll note that I am still only robbing what would’ve ended up in my pocket anyway. We are leaving your bar- and its till- untouched. However…”

            Glenn winced at the however. “Mr. Quinlan. If I may I was there in Fairfax when you put down those men that assaulted that whore, and then shot the whore for her obvious impurity. I am really a big fan.”

            Chance shook his head in disgust, while a smile played across his lips. “Well of course you are. And it’s because of that you’ll get to tell my story to the sheriff.”

            Mr. Kettle banged through the back entrance once more. “Horses are ready.” Hotah followed right behind him, but stopped at the threshold and watched.

Chance turned his attention to Mr. Fairer, who now resembled a slug, slick and pale with sweat.  “Now unfortunately since Glenn here seems like a great story teller and you sir- well I just can’t fathom being much use to me.” Chance leveled his revolver at Mr. Fairer. “And of course protocol states that blood must be shed since I’m here. Nothing personal, you understand I’m sure.”

“Mr. Fairer wilted into a feeble defensive position. “Wait please, God no! I have a wife and children!”

Chance turned to Mr. Kettle and remarked, “Why do they always bring up people I don’t even know?” Mr. Kettle only shrugged. “Clearly sir you have so much to live for.”

Hotah, pressed a gentle hand over the top of Chances gun. “Keep in mind you went over your typical body count in the last town.”

Chance considered this, using the barrel of his gun to tip back his hat as he thought.

Hotah again offered, “Because of that maybe you could go light on this outing…”

Smiling, Chance said, “If you’re a betting man yourself, Mr. Fairer I suggest you place a few today.” He uncocked the revolver but kept it out nonetheless. “Gentleman, I say it’s time we drift on outta this ‘burg. I’ve had about as much of Texarkana as I can stand.”

The three men disappeared into the dark that consumed the alley behind the saloon.

After a few tense and silent moments Glenn ran to get the sheriff. Mr. Fairer failed in his attempt to catch the fainting barmaid. She hit the plank wood floors with a startling smack.