Butler's Wager

CHAPTER 19

Just inside the batwing doors, Butler and M.J. were stopped by a tall, slender man with a large moustache.

“Now, come on, M.J.,” he said, the two obviously well acquainted, “you know Chalk don’t like you comin’ in here.”

“Chalk’s not here, is he, Bill?” she asked.

“Well, no, he’s away with his cowboy band,” Bill Harris said. “They’re playin’ at the capital.”

“Bill Harris, this is Tyrone Butler,” she said. “I was bringing him here to show him the best place to gamble.”

“Butler?” Harris asked. “The fella who busted young Master Deaver out of the game last night?”

“That’s me,” Butler said, frowning. “But she’s not bringing me in here, Mr. Harris. I was on my way here, anyway.”

The two men shook hands and Harris said, “Oh, I know that, sir. Our M.J., here, is an accomplished little liar when she’s trying to get what she wants. You’re welcome in the Long Branch, Mr. Butler,” Harris went on, then looked at Mary Jane Healy and added, “but you are not, little lady. We’ve told you before, you want to write about what goes on in here, send your brother.”

“If my brother came in here he’d get too involved with the whiskey, the women, and the cards to write anything,” she complained.

“Don’t complain to me about your family, M.J.,” Harris said. “I got my own to worry about. Now shoo.”

“But Butler and I were gonna—”

“Shoo, I said,” Harris repeated. “Whatever you and Mr. Butler were going to do, do it later and somewhere else.”

He took her by the arm and purposefully—not forcefully, walked her outside.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said, when he reentered. “Come on in. Let me buy you a drink and show you around.”

Harris walked Butler to the bar—easily as long as the one in the Alhambra, maybe longer—and waved a bartender over.

“Beer,” Butler said.

“How long has she been bothering you?” Harris asked Butler.

“I didn’t even know she was bothering me until I read the newspaper today.”

“Yes, I read that article,” Harris said. “I have to admit it was interesting reading. I also wonder who it was gave her the story? I’m sure she wasn’t in the Alhambra last night.”

“No, I would have noticed her.”

“And she’s right about her brother,” Harris said. “He loses all his focus as soon as he comes into a saloon.”

“Lots of men do.”

Harris laughed. “I’m sure those are the men you like to take money off of in poker.”

Butler turned to face Harris, beer in hand.

“I prefer to take money from men who are alert and know what they’re doing. There’s sport in that.”

“I’m sorry,” Harris said, putting his hands up in front of him, palms out. “I didn’t mean any disrespect. You’ll have to excuse me, but it’s my partner Chalk who usually, uh, deals with the public.”

“Chalk?”

“Chalky Beeson,” Harris said. “He won’t even tell me how he got that name. He and I have been partners for some time now.”

“And you get along?”

“Famously,” Harris said. “You see, we know each other’s strengths.”

“You’re from the East?” Butler asked.

“New Jersey.” W.H. Harris had come west from Long Branch, New Jersey, so when he and Chalk Beeson became partners in a saloon he called it the Long Branch.

“I can hear it.”

“And you? New York?”

“Philadelphia.”

“Close enough,” Harris said. “Well, would you like me to show you the games—”

“I don’t want to take up any more of your time, Mr. Harris,” Butler said. “I think I’ll just look around at my own leisure.”

“Very well,” Harris said. “If there’s anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to ask. We’d like you to do your gambling here.”

“What about Ben Thompson? Does he play here?”

“Very often,” Harris said, “but Ben likes to move around. On any given night you might find him here, the Lady Gay or, as you did last night, the Alhambra.”

“Any other gamblers of note in town?” Butler asked.

Harris worked an ear with the tip of his little finger. “I heard some talk of Luke Short coming into town, but I haven’t seen him.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“If you like to cross swords with the best,” Harris said, “I can probably set up a private game upstairs.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Butler said. “I’ll let you know.”

Harris turned to the bartender. One more on the house and then he pays.” He looked at Butler.

“That’s fair,” the gambler said.

Harris nodded, turned, and walked away. He went through a door in the back of the place, which Butler assumed was an office.

“Want that second one?” the bartender asked.

“When I do,” Butler said, “I’ll wave.”

The bartender nodded, said, “That’s fair,” and went off down the bar.