The Bloody Spur

Chapter Thirteen

Friday, just before eight o’clock, the Victory was jumping, which was not unusual, and yet the place didn’t seem itself.

As Caleb York pushed through the batwing doors into the imposing saloon with its fancy high tin ceiling and kerosene chandeliers, he found merchants, clerks, menial workers, and cowboys shoulder to shoulder at the long well-polished carved oaken bar at left, attended by a double-size staff of bow-tied, white-shirt-wearing bartenders. At the rear the small dance floor was packed with dance-hall girls and their customers jigging to a lively tune from the barrelhouse piano player. In the central casino area, stations for dice, faro, red dog, and twenty-one were doing business as usual, but roulette, chuck-a-luck, and wheel of fortune were shut down.

At York’s immediate right, tables and chairs normally arranged for the pleasure of drinking men were positioned in clusters to face three round green-felt-topped tables, set well enough apart that the seated spectators might have been viewing three separate theatrical stages lined along the far wall, each with plenty of breathing room.

Those spectator tables and chairs were filled not only with menfolk of Trinidad, but in many cases by their distaff counterparts, as well, gentle creatures not often seen... almost never seen... on these premises, which were, after all, an exclusive male preserve.

Exclusive, of course, but for owner Rita Filley and her dance-hall girls, whose satin and lace and low bodices were in direct contrast to the calico and gingham and high collars of these rare Victory visitors, women whose lack of Sunday-best apparel said something of their attitudes, although the daily wear they sported was clean and crisp and, one might say, wholesome.

As he wandered in, York couldn’t help but grin, pushing his hat back on his head, though the smile didn’t last long, as he spotted Alver Hollis and his two cronies huddled over by the staircase to Rita’s quarters, near one of the trio of green-felt tables. Spotted around the crowd, as well, were various of the city fathers whom York had not long ago interrogated concerning a murder.

Rita herself, in dark blue satin and black lace but sporting less daring a bodice than usual, was threading through the crowd, speaking to the cowboy and town regulars and then winding through the spectator tables to welcome the women gracing her establishment, and their husbands, too, of course. From the ladies, Rita harvested an array of stiff, polite nods before she spotted York standing near, though not at, the bar.

She came over fluidly and stood with her arms folded across the generous shelf of mostly clad bosom and smiled. “Ready for the big game?”

York nodded. “A private word?”

“Of course.”

He held one of the batwing doors open for her, and she slipped out. He followed. The night was as crisp as the calico and gingham dresses of the Trinidad wives in attendance, and almost as cold.

“I want to thank you,” he said as they stood to one side of the entry, “for providing me with that list of names.”

As promised, she had sent over a complete listing of the eighteen players in the draw-poker tournament. With six seats available at each table, that had been the limit.

“Ten locals,” York said, “including myself and damn near all the town fathers — mayor, druggist, hardware and mercantile store owners, newspaper editor, even the undertaker.”

Shrugging, she asked, “Does that surprise you? Who else in Trinidad could afford the hundred-dollar buy in? And each one has promised, if the winner, to donate the two thousand dollars at stake for the building of a schoolhouse. That’s why you have so many wives gracing my tawdry establishment on this fine night.”

“Makes sense. And I see Raymond Parker is on the list, as well.”

She nodded. “Not a local, but local ties. He’s made the same schoolhouse pledge.”

“Which, I would imagine, can’t be said of the Preacherman and his two choirboys.”

A wry smile appeared on the lush red-rouged lips. “No. And the same is true of the remaining seven. We have several professional gamblers, a couple of small ranchers from around Las Vegas, a saloon owner from Ellis, and, well, you get the idea.”

“But do you?”

She frowned in confusion. “You’re going to have to spell it out, Sheriff. I’m not following you.”

He nodded toward the saloon. “You know how the Preacherman operates. He’s a hired gun, but he always gets away with it because he stages his kills as fair fights... fair fights grown out of disagreements, such as if somebody’s been cheating at cards. I know of three men he gunned down in just that manner.”

Still frowning, she shook her head. “The mayor and the others... they won’t be armed. You ever remember seeing any of them with a gun on his hip?”

“No. But that won’t matter.”

The dark eyes flashed. “But of course it will!”

“No. I’ll be armed, and so will the Preacherman and his little gang, and some of the other players. Not the city fathers.”

Incredulity colored a smile. “If one of them is his intended victim, what would Alver Hollis do? Gun them down in cold blood?”

“That’s exactly what he’ll do. In at least two previous instances, Hollis was first to his fallen adversary, to bend over and check for vitals... and to point out a derringer in the freshly dead man’s vest or coat pocket.”

“Which he claimed the man had reached for.”

He nodded once.

The big brown eyes tightened. “Meaning it was anything but a fair fight. That his opponent... his victim... was unarmed.”

“And Hollis planted the little gun on each of them, yes.” York’s shrug was slow. “Now, it’s not always been that way. Preacherman’s very fast, they say, and real good at goading a man into going for his gun.”

The blood had drained from her face. “You think he’s going to kill somebody tonight — here at the Victory.”

Another nod. “I think he plans to. That’s why I had you seat me at his table. I want to be right on top of things.”

“Understood.” She sighed deeply, shuddering and not entirely because of the chill. “Now I’m regretting not using Cole and a couple of his professional pals.”

House dealer Yancy Cole would not be dealing and would instead be a kind of roving referee — this would be strictly a player-dealt game, the entrants at each table passing the deck after their deal. That decision had unwittingly paved the way for one player to accuse another of cheating while dealing.

Also, when the players at a table were reduced to two, as the others lost and departed, those top two players would move into seats made available by losers at the other two tables. Eventually, there would be one table, and one winner. And the process might last a very long time, probably longer than the visiting ladies could endure, even at the prospect of a schoolhouse.

“You’re right in thinking,” York told her, “that one of the players here tonight is the Preacherman’s target.”

The pretty eyes were hidden in slits now. “And not any of the out-of-towners.”

“Probably not. Likely one of our city fathers. Possibly Raymond Parker, particularly if the George Cullen murder was the work of the Preacherman, too.”

“I don’t follow.”

He grunted something deep in his belly that wasn’t exactly a laugh. “Cullen’s murder guaranteed his partner and oldest friend, Raymond Parker, would come to town for the services. But I’m not sure how anyone could make the leap that Parker would stay for the poker tourney, as well. Perhaps our friend from Denver was somehow manipulated into participating.”

She shook her head. “I have no way of knowing. He simply came into the Victory the evening of the Cullen burial and asked to be added to the list. I had a seat left, and I gave it to him.”

York looked toward the saloon, from which raucous music could barely be heard under the conversation and laughter.

“Well,” he said, “Hollis is here to kill somebody. So I’ll do my best to stay in the game and follow him to the table where his potential victim is seated.”

“You play well, Caleb, but there’s no guarantee of that.”

“No, there isn’t,” he admitted.

She shivered, hugged her arms to herself. “This is terrible. Some innocent bystander could be shot!”

He rested a gentle hand on her bare shoulder; it was warm, even if she wasn’t.

“Probably not,” he said reassuringly, squeezing her shoulder, then removing his hand. “The Preacherman’s a professional. But that’s a valid concern. And he’s backed up by those other two reprobates, so it is possible bullets could fly.”

“Oh, my God.” It was almost a prayer.

Nodding toward the Victory, he said, “There are still a few audience tables open in there, despite the crowd. Grab one for me, would you, before somebody at the bar comes over and fills it? And move it into the front row?”

“Of course. Why?”

“I’m going to position Tulley with a shotgun on his lap in full view of the players. Encouraging caution on their part. And I’ll have Doc Miller seated, with his medical bag under the table. We’ll be ready for anything... Here they come now.”

Footsteps on the boardwalk announced the bandy-legged deputy and Doc Miller, his suit looking pressed for once, chugging toward them. Tulley’s scattergun was cradled, and the doctor’s bag was in hand.

A hand on York’s sleeve, Rita asked, “Anything else I can do?”

“Tell Yancy Cole what’s going on. He isn’t wearing a sidearm. Have him sling one on. Were you planning on table service?”

“Yes. I was going to use one of my girls...” She grinned impishly. “Just to sort of rattle the holier-than-thou ladies.”

“Use Hub Wainwright instead. And tell him to have a gun stuck in his belt under his apron.”

“My lord, you make it sound like a war is coming.”

“No. A battle, maybe.”

She shuddered, nodded, and quickly pushed her way back inside.

York waited for Tulley and Doc Miller, to give them instructions. So far all he’d told them was just to meet him here.

After he’d given them their directions, Doc Miller said, “Seems like everywhere you go, Caleb, a physician ought to follow.”

“And yet,” York said, “I get no share in the fee.”

Soon the stage was set, with York himself part of it. He was seated across from Alver Hollis, with pop-eyed Lafe Trammel to the man’s right, one cheek covered by a bandage now, and porky Wilbur Landrum to the left. The Preacherman was in his usual black, his hat on, and his partners were in battered hats, arm-gartered work shirts, and bandanas no less filthy for the occasion. Each had his small stacks of one hundred dollars’ worth of chips before him — white bone chips edged blue (ten dollars), red (five dollars), orange (two dollars), and natural white (one dollar).

Also seated with York and the Preacherman flock were undertaker Perkins and Enterprise editor Penniman, everyone with their little towers of chips, whites tallest, blues shortest. Two Bicycle decks were in front of York, who had drawn first deal when house dealer Cole — in his trademark white, round-brimmed hat, gray suit, and ruffled shirt — came around and had each player draw for high card.

York exchanged smiles with all the men, even Hollis, although his idiot companions just scowled.

The next table over included Mayor Hardy, Newt Harris, and Raymond Parker, and three out-of-towners, two who were likely ranchers and another whose riverboat gambler apparel marked him as a professional. The table beyond that one included Clarence Mathers, Clem Davis, several area small ranchers, and more nonlocals.

The tables were spaced far enough apart that players at one table would have to damn near yell to be heard by the next. A good six feet had been allowed between the green-topped ones and tables occupied by the seated audience, who must have approached one hundred.

But down at the street end, almost to the front windows, one table had been slid between the front row of spectators and the wall. There sat Jonathan R. Tulley, who had finally bought a shirt — gray flannel — to wear over his BVD top, his scattergun nestled in his lap like a loyal dog. Next to the deputy sat Dr. Albert Miller, his Gladstone bag at his feet.

Well, Caleb York thought, with the deputy, doctor, undertaker, and newspaper editor all close at hand, every contingency should be covered.

Cole, friendly and handsome in his skinny-mustached way, strode to the front of the seated audience and raised his palms to quiet them.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the house dealer said in a Southern drawl that might have been genuine, though York wouldn’t have bet more than a white chip on it, “welcome to the Victory. Ladies, we are particularly pleased to have you brighten up our lowly establishment, and perhaps in future we can find entertainment more suitable to your gentle sensibilities.”

The wives of Trinidad mostly smiled at that, and a few even blushed.

“I will be supervising tonight’s games,” Cole said, “to assure one and all that this is an honest, well-intended endeavor on the part of the Victory and these players. And now I’d like to introduce you to your hostess, Miss Rita Filley.”

Gesturing openhandedly, Cole made way for Rita, who took center stage to applause that was merely polite, since the husbands dared not clap too loudly and the women barely clapped at all.

“Welcome,” she said in a strong, clear voice. “We have separated our three tables in order to provide you good people a better opportunity to follow the action. Our players have been instructed to call out their bets and their requests for additional cards, as well as their hands when laying them down at the conclusion of betting.”

With considerable grace, Rita moved up and down the edge of the audience. Eyes male and female followed her.

“If you have difficulty hearing any of our competitors,” she continued, “please page Mr. Cole, the gentleman who just spoke to you, who will be monitoring the action. He will do his best to rectify the situation. We do ask you to watch quietly, as draw poker is a game requiring considerable concentration, and we are already subjecting our players to a circumstance that is unusual, to say the least.”

Now Rita again deposited herself at center stage.

“I must add,” she said, “that we have no way of knowing how long our tournament may last, and we understand that you may need to leave temporarily or for the evening, should we extend into the wee hours. As Mr. Cole mentioned, we are pleased to see with us this evening so many of our lovely Trinidad ladies, who are likely, as am I, to be rooting for a new schoolhouse... thanks to the participation of our Citizens Committee and our guest Raymond L. Parker of Denver.”

Those players, at Rita’s urging, stood and half bowed, and a solid round of applause echoed off the tin ceiling.

Then Rita said with her own half bow, “Thank you, gentlemen... and ladies.”

This time the applause for their hostess was perhaps more than polite, though still not ringing.

Cole called out, “Gentlemen... you may begin play!”

As York shuffled, he considered how key it would be for the Preacherman to win and keep winning, should his intended target be at one of the adjoining tables. As he dealt, he wondered who among these city fathers might be that target.

In the West, one never knew the history of a seemingly upstanding citizen. Only the background of editor Penniman, who had worked in the newspaper trade for some time, was known to York. But he could certainly have made a powerful enemy in that pursuit.

And who could say what sin lurked in the past of the undertaker here, a man so comfortable with death? Or whom the druggist, Davis, might have accidentally or even purposely poisoned? Had the barber or the hardware man stolen money or swindled a partner elsewhere to set up shop in New Mexico? That mercantile store would take real money to get going.

Who is the target?

The first hand was won by Hollis — three jacks taking it over York’s pair of aces, the others having dropped out. With an ante of a dollar chip, a first round two-dollar bet, and York meeting the Preacherman’s five-dollar bet, that was twenty-eight dollars sliding down to Hollis at his end of the table, with York eight dollars the poorer.

This could go fast, he thought.

But things evened out as each player took his turn as dealer. York noted that when Hollis first dealt — and the Preacherman had a riverboat gambler’s touch that Yancy Cole might have envied — lanky, bandaged Trammel pulled in a pot with the best hand of the night so far: full house, queens over tens.

Both Trammel and Landrum had to be reminded when they displayed their hands to announce their cards to the crowd, but by the time the cards came around to York again, they’d fallen in line. York’s deal this time earned him a small victory — a pair of kings besting the undertaker’s eights — and by the start of the second hour, he was up fifteen dollars. Trammel was keeping alive, largely based on that big pot he’d landed, though Landrum’s stacks had dwindled considerably.

Down half maybe?

Then it was the Preacherman’s deal and, lo and behold, Landrum pulled in his own healthy pot, with a straight to the king, which knocked out York’s three queens and decent hands that had kept both Perkins and Penniman in for several raises. Their stacks were withering. Only Trammel had been smart enough to get out.

Trammel smart enough?

That was the moment when York realized how Hollis was operating. Whenever the deal was his, the Preacherman was feeding big pots to Trammel and Landrum to keep them in the game. Hollis was sharp enough a player not to have to cheat for his own benefit, at least not at this point.

But the way the tournament was set up, only two players from this table would move on to the next one. So why keep them both in? Why didn’t the Preacherman select one of his cronies — the better gun between them, most likely — to move on to the next table with him?

Something at the back of York’s neck was tingling.

The deck was his now. He shuffled four times, gave the cards to Penniman for a cut, then began to deal. When he looked at his cards, they almost smiled back at him — an ace-high flush. A lovely hand. Hollis opened for two dollars. Everybody stayed in, and York raised it another orange chip.

Again, everybody stayed.

Nobody liked it when York said he was pat, but nonetheless, everybody stayed in for the second round of betting. That could make uneasy even a player with a hand as good as York’s. He decided to see where the power was and raised Penniman, who had bet two more dollars, a red-edged chip. Five whole dollars.

At that, everybody dropped out but the Preacherman, who saw the five and raised it ten — the first raise of a blue-edged chip at this table. York saw the bet and raised it another blue chip — the final bet allowed. All eyes at the table traveled between the two men, and the audience near their table was paying rapt attention, as well.

Hollis saw York’s ten dollars and raised it another blue chip.

And York knew. Suddenly he knew. Knew exactly who the Preacherman had come to town to kill...

Caleb York.

Casually, he dropped his right hand from the table as he flipped with his left another blue chip into the pot, seeing Hollis’s bet.

“Three kings,” Hollis said, showing them.

York turned over the ace-high flush.

And just as he knew would happen, the Preacherman snarled, “You’re a goddamned cheater, York! You been dealing off the bottom, and my friends and me saw it!”

The Preacherman’s right hand slipped from view.

With his left, York upended the table, putting it between him and Hollis, and chips and cards flew everywhere, and the players to his right and left scattered almost as quickly as the .44 in Caleb York’s fist punched three holes through the table in the Preacherman’s general direction.

The thunder of it, the splintering wood, the smoke from the gun, the shrieks of women, the yells from men were everywhere as York, ready to shoot again, kicked his chair away and stepped to his left.

Hollis crawled out from behind and under the upended table, Colt .45 in hand, and rolled onto his side, tried to bring the gun up, hand quavering, then passed out.

The Preacherman’s stunned gunny Trammel backed away, eyes bulging, and bumped into the staircase, going for his own .45 as an afterthought. York sent a shot through the goggle-eyed scarecrow’s right shoulder, rocking him, turning his gun hand a limp thing that could barely hold on to its fingers let alone a weapon, which careened away on the floor somewhere. Then Trammel lost his balance and sat down hard on a stair step and slid down to the next one and sat hard again.

Somewhere an explosion happened, and York glanced to his right to see that the pig-faced Landrum, 45 in hand, had taken a blast from Tulley’s scattergun in the back and was weaving on two pudgy legs that did not have a chance in hell of holding him up. In the next instant the pudgy saddle tramp flopped facedown onto the back of the table, cracking it, the bloody, jagged, gaping hole in his back revealing his spine had indeed been severed.

York had barely heard the screams of the men and women who had been so nearby and were now down on the floor, knocking chairs aside, scrambling away like the frightened animals they’d become. And he did not see Rita Filley watching with big eyes and a hand over her mouth. Nor did he see Hub Wainwright and Yancy Cole coming up with their weapons in hand, ready to back him, if he needed it.

He didn’t.

York went over to the Preacherman, who was on his back now, hat askew, his breathing heavy and bubbling, mouth frothing scarlet, two red holes in his black-vested chest and another in his belly, and plucked the .45 from the dying man’s fingers.

Turned out the ivory handles did have angels carved on them.

York stuffed the gun in his waistband just as Hollis’s eyes fluttered open. Then the killer’s face contorted into something ugly with pain and hate, though it included a terrible grin. A slight bob of the head bid York to lean closer, which he did.

“See you... see you in hell,” the Preacherman whispered.

“I don’t remember that one,” York said. “What’s that? Proverbs? Psalms?”

Then the Preacherman’s grin was gone, and so was he.

To his final reward.