Butler's Wager

CHAPTER 12

There was no house dealer at the table. The games were dealer’s choice. The stakes were higher than the other two tables, due to the presence of Ben Thompson. None of those facts deterred Butler. This was his kind of game—the kind he could win or lose a lot of money in.

He introduced himself to all the players, who nodded and muttered their names. Ben Thompson simply nodded, assuming Butler would know who he was. This was either arrogance or Thompson had already sized Butler up as a man who, in turn, sized up his opponents before sitting down.

The other possibility was that he had heard of Butler before.

The game was five handed. Aside from Butler and Thompson, there were Ed Rahy, the town tailor; Harry Kane, who owned and operated the largest livery in town; and Mike Deaver, a local who considered himself a gambler, with a source of money to back him up. There was always one in the game, Butler thought, thinking of Wichita. Hopefully, this one’s father was not a banker.

Butler was sitting right across from Thompson. On his left was Rahy, who was dealing. That was good. They’d go completely around the table before he had to deal for the first time. He could watch them each closely while they dealt.

Rahy chose five-card stud, and dealt out the first two cards; one up, one down. Butler followed the cards around the table. Thompson got a four of hearts, Deaver a king of spades, Kane a seven of clubs, he got a jack of diamonds, and the dealer, Rahy, gave himself a ten of spades.

Deaver was the first to act. “Fifty dollars,” he said. “Finally got somethin’ I can play.”

Butler saw a look pass over Thompson’s face. He had the feeling the youngest man at the table was bothering him.

“Call,” Kane said.

Butler checked his hole card. “Call.”

“I call,” Rahy said.

“Raise,” Thompson said.

“With a four?” Deaver asked. “Come on, Mr. Thompson. You can wait for a better card than that to bluff with.”

“I raise a hundred,” Thompson said, without looking at or acknowledging Deaver.

“Well, I’ll just have to call that raise,” Deaver said, and tossed in his money. They were using real money, mostly paper, not chips, so there was only a slight rustling sound.

Kane folded.

“I call,” Butler said.

“Now see?” Deaver said. “Him I’m afraid of. He’s got a jack.”

He seemed to be talking to no one in particular, or to the table at large, but Butler had already figured out that Deaver was needling Thompson, and had probably been doing it all night. He also noticed that Deaver had more money in front of him than any other player. Butler hated when the biggest mouth at the table had the biggest poke.

Rahy, the dealer, folded his ten. That left only Deaver, Thompson, and Butler.

“Pot’s right,” Rahy said, and dealt the third card.

Thompson got a three of hearts, Deaver a queen of spades, and Butler a ten of diamonds.

“Looks like we’re all headed for straight flushes,” Deaver said, “but mine’ll be a royal, Mr. Thompson, and yours’ll just be a little baby straight.”

Butler couldn’t understand why a young man like Deaver would needle a known man like Thompson, unless it was the younger man’s intention to try Thompson, at some point.

“It’s your bet, Mike,” Rahy said, sounding fatigued, probably from listening to the young man run his mouth all night.

“I’m gonna bet two hundred,” Deaver said. “I really like my hand. What about you, partner?” He looked at Butler.

“I believe I’ll just call.”

Now they all looked at Thompson.

“Raise two hundred.”

“Mr. Thompson,” Deaver said, shaking his head, “no offense, sir, but your luck has been so bad all night that I’ll just have to call.”

“Call,” Butler said.

“Pot’s right,” Rahy said, and dealt the fourth card around. Thompson paired his fours, killing any chance of the baby straight flush Deaver was predicting for him. However, Deaver got a jack of spades, which kept his chances of a royal flush open—except for one thing.

Butler got a ten, giving him a pair of tens and making him high man on the table.

“I’ll go a hundred,” he said.

“Call,” Thompson said right away.

“Now, how come I’m the onliest one you ever raise, Mr. Thompson?” Deaver asked.

“Maybe it’s because you got a big mouth, Mike,” Rahy said.

“Now you’re a dealin’, Ed, but otherwise you ain’t in this hand, so why don’t you shut up?”

Rahy just rolled his eyes.

“Make your play, Deaver,” Butler said. “None of us is getting any younger.”

“Well, all right then,” Deaver said. “Here’s your hundred and I raise three. How about that?”

“Call,” Butler said.

“I call,” Thompson said.

“Oh, now yer just callin’?” Deaver asked, smiling, showing gaps where teeth used to be. Butler wondered if he’d gotten them knocked out in a poker game or two.

“Last card,” Rahy said, and dealt them out quickly. Nine of spades for Thompson, no help. Ace of spades for Deaver, who now had the jack, queen, king, and ace.

“Woo-wee,” Deaver said, “Lookee that. All I need is the ten—or do I already got it in the hole?”

Butler’s last card was an eight of hearts. He was still high man with a pair of tens.

“Two hundred,” he said.

“I call,” Thompson said, immediately.

“Ain’t nobody afraid of my itty-bitty royal flush?” Deaver asked. “Mr. Thompson, with them fours you’re likely to keep yer luck runnin’ poorly—”

Suddenly, Ben Thompson’s gun was in his hand. Rahy and Kane, spectators, pushed their chairs back, as if to jump up and run, but all Thompson did was put his gun down on the table.

“You gonna bet yer gun, Ben?” Deaver asked. “Runnin’ short of funds?”

“No,” Thompson said, “I’m gonna kill you if you say one more word. Just play your cards, boy. You been runnin’ your mouth at me since you sat down. It stops now. Just play your cards and shut the hell up.”

“Now, Mr. Thompson, I didn’t mean—”

Thompson cocked the pistol and the table fell quiet. Suddenly, people around them noticed the gun and the room quieted as well.

“Play, you pansy fucker, and don’t say another word except ‘raise’ or ‘call’.”

Butler watched Deaver closely. The younger man bit his lip, eyed Thompson’s gun. If he’d been trying to goad Ben Thompson, he certainly didn’t want to make his play with Thompson’s gun already on the table.

Finally, he made up his mind and pushed all his money into the pot.

“I have three thousand and some dollars here,” he said. “I bet it all.”

Butler looked into the younger man’s glassy eyes and knew he was bluffing. He knew there was no royal flush, but he also knew that both he and Thompson had the boy beat. Deaver was desperate to bluff them out and take their money—especially Thompson’s.

“I’m going to have to go into my pocket to call this bet, Ben,” Butler said to Thompson. “That all right with you?”

“Go ahead,” Thompson said. “I have no beef with you, Butler.”

Butler pulled some money from his inside jacket pocket. It was the five thousand he’d gotten from Three-Eyed Jack for the marker the kid had written him. He peeled off three thousand and put the other two back.

“I call,” he said, and tossed the money into the pot.

“You call?” Deaver asked, in disbelief.

“Not only don’t you have a royal, son,” Butler said, “you’ve got nothing at all.”

“H-how do you know that?” Deaver demanded. “I could have a royal.”

“No you can’t you stupid shit,” Rahy said. “I folded your ten of spades. If you’d watch the cards you’d know that.”

“Huh?” Deaver thought a moment, then said, “I want my money back.”

“Leave it!” Thompson shouted.

By now everybody in the Alhambra was either watching or, if they were too far away or blocked, listening.

“He’s right,” Thompson said, “we both got you beat. I’ve got three fours, but I’m folding because I think Butler has us both beat.”

Ben Thompson turned all his cards facedown.

“You’re called, Mike,” Rahy, the dealer, said. “Whataya got?”

“Huh? Oh, I got…well…”

“Just turn the card over,” the dealer said.

Deaver did. Butler had been wrong. He did have something. A pair of kings. Still would have made him third in a three-handed pot. Butler turned over his third ten.

“Three tens is the winner,” Rahy said.

“Nice hand, Mr, Butler,” Thompson said, putting his gun away.

“Thank you, Mr. Thompson.” Butler raked in his money.

Mike Deaver sat with a stunned look on his ace. Butler watched him carefully, now that Thompson’s gun was off the table.

“You still playing, Mike?” Rahy asked as Ben Thompson gathered the cards for his deal.

“Huh? Oh, uh, no, I’m…busted.”

“Then get the hell up and let somebody else play,” Thompson said to him. “Go on…get!”

Deaver stood up and Butler saw the silver gun with a pearl handle on his hip. The boy was no gunman, just a show off.

As Deaver left and new players sat down, Butler thought it had been a hell of a first hand.