Ace in the Hole

by J. R. Roberts

  When he had circled the house completely, he walked over to the barn and entered. Inside he found a man unsaddling two horses, which had obviously just been ridden.

  “More guests?” he asked.

  The man turned quickly, saw Clint and relaxed. He was one of the three men who had ridden in with Clint and Arliss Morgan.

  “Sorry,” Clint said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “I’m glad I recognized you,” the man said. “If I’d gone for my gun…”

  Neither of them wanted to think about what might have happened.

  “Yeah, two more players got here a little while ago,” the man said.

  He went back to unsaddling the horse he’d been working on. The other mount stood by impatiently.

  “Let me help you with that other one.”

  “Much obliged,” the man said. “I ain’t supposed to be handlin’ horses.”

  “You know my name,” Clint said. “What’s yours?”

  “Andy,” the man said, “Andy Blevins.”

  “What’s your job supposed to be, Andy?”

  “Security.”

  “Inside and outside?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Outside, like we done with you.”

  “Do you know the names of the men who arrived after we did?” Clint asked.

  “Naw,” the other man said. “I don’t get told no names if I ain’t around when the question’s asked.”

  “Like with me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many men are there working outside security?”

  “Don’t rightly know,” the man said. “I heard a dozen, but I ain’t never seen more than five or six at one time, myself. There’s also ranch hands. I don’t know what the whole payroll looks like.”

  “I met Mrs. Pyatt,” Clint said. “She seems to rule the house with an iron hand.”

  “Ya gotta watch out for her,” Andy said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Just watch out for her,” he said. “Don’t get caught alone with her. I don’t wanna say no more.”

  Andy removed the saddle and blanket and began to rub the horse down. Clint was only seconds behind him.

  “Okay,” Clint said, deciding not to push it. Except for one question. “How long has she worked for Mr. Deal?”

  “Longer than the rest of us,” he said. “She came here with him when he bought the place.”

  “Bought it?” Clint asked. “I thought maybe he’d built it.”

  “Nope,” Andy replied. “He bought it off of Mr. Stevenson last year.”

  “And did you work for Mr. Stevenson?”

  “No,” Andy said. “Mr. Deal cleaned house when he bought it. Let everybody go, hired his own people.”

  “That when you got your job?”

  “Nope,” Andy said. “I got hired specially for this—whatever this gatherin’ is. Don’t rightly know. Heard it was a poker game, but don’t know for sure.” He stopped and looked at Clint. “What kind of poker game needs all this security?”

  “A big one,” Clint said.

  “You here for that?”

  “I am.”

  “You know how many players?”

  “Half a dozen or so, I hear,” Clint said.

  “That ain’t such a big game.”

  Andy went back to rubbing the horse down. Clint didn’t bother telling him that in this case the word “big” had nothing to do with the number of players involved. He finished the second horse, then told Andy he’d see him around.

  “Obliged for the help,” Andy said. “Us security types gotta stick together.”

  Apparently, Andy assumed Clint had been hired for inside security. Clint hesitated, then decided not to disabuse the man of that notion.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Clint got back to his room without running into Mrs. Pyatt, and he got dressed for dinner. Arliss Morgan had provided the funds for him to buy a new suit, one that he would wear not only to dinner but to the game as well.

  When he found the dining room after taking a couple of wrong turns, he found a long table set with ten places. He knew that didn’t mean ten players, since he was playing and Morgan wasn’t. The same situation probably existed in at least one or two other instances.

  Already present at the table were the host, John Deal, the banker, Arliss Morgan, and Mrs. Pyatt hovering about.

  “Ah, Mr. Adams,” Deal said. “Please, do come and join us. Mrs. Pyatt, get Mr. Adams a drink, please.”

  “What would you like, Mr. Adams?” she asked. “We have many selections—”

  “What would you advise, Mrs. Pyatt?”

  “Mr. Deal has a very nice brandy he has imported from back East.”

  “Then that will do, thanks.”

  “Have a seat,” Deal invited, then added, “anywhere you like.”

  Deal was seated at one end of the table—presumably the head—and Morgan had taken the chair just to his right. Clint walked over and sat to the head’s left, directly across from the banker.

  “How is your room?” Deal asked him.

  “It’s excellent, thanks. You have a beautiful spread here.”

  “Ah, have you seen it?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “obviously not all of it. We saw what we could as we rode in, and then I went for a walk just before dinner. I noticed there were two horses in the livery.”

  “Yes, some of the others have arrived. They should be down for dinner shortly. We also had two gentlemen come in from Sacramento in a buggy.”

  “So there are six here?” Clint asked.

  “Yes,” Deal said, “but we set the table for more, just in case. Whoever does not arrive today will be here tomorrow. We’re due to begin the game Sunday night, and continue to play until one player has all the money.”

  “That suits me,” Morgan said.

  Clint was about to agree when two more men entered the dining room, coming in together.

  “Gentlemen, welcome,” John Deal said. “Already seated at the table are Arliss Morgan, a banker from Virginia City, and his proxy, Clint Adams.

  “And these are Mr. Arne Blom, a banker from Sweden, and Monsieur Philippe Marceau from Paris.”

  Clint assumed, since no profession preceded Marceau’s name, that he was a gambler by trade.

  “Monsieur Marceau is Mr. Blom’s proxy. Gentlemen, please be seated.”

  The two newcomers each executed a small bow, and took seats across from each other, the Swede next to Clint and the Frenchman next to Morgan.

  “Mr. Adams,” Blom said, with just the slightest Swedish accent, “I have heard your name.”

  “As have I,” Marceau said. His English had a heavy French accent. “But I do not recall hearing your name in connection to poker. More as a—how do you say it—légende?”

  “Legend,” Arne Blom translated.

  Clint had gotten the gist, but he said, “Thank you.”

  But Marceau kept trying.

  “You are a—ah, spécialiste? With a pistol?”

  “A specialist?” Clint asked.

  “I believe Monsieur Marceau means an expert with a gun,” John Deal said.

  “In that case,” Clint said, “yes, I’m an expert with a gun. And a legend? Probably, although I don’t personally lay claim to that title.”

  “Ah, then this should be—how you say—facile? For me?”

  “Easy,” Deal said.

  “Oui, easy.”

  “You think so?” Clint asked.

  “But of course,” Marceau said. “You are ze expert with ze gun, while I am ze expert with ze cards. Easy work. Facile!”

  “You just keep thinking that, monsieur,” Arliss Morgan said. “It will work in our favor.”

  “And other players?” Blom asked.

  “One other upstairs,” Deal said, “the others are arriving tomorrow, no doubt.”

  “And if they do not arrive?” Blom asked.

  “We will begin without them.”

  “What abo
ut their money?” Morgan asked.

  “All the money has been deposited,” Deal said. “My banker will be here tomorrow to give each player his chips. If a player has not arrived, his money will be added to the prize.”

  “Equally distributed among the players?” Clint asked.

  “That was one way we could have done it,” Deal admitted, “but I decided to simply award it to the winner. That way each player still begins with one hundred thousand.”

  “That sounds fair, I think,” Morgan said.

  Fair, Clint thought, to the players who were already there. Then again, two of those players had come all the way from Europe and had arrived on time. Perhaps there should be a stiff penalty for late arrivals.

  Mrs. Pyatt came into the room.

  “Shall we serve, sir?”

  “I believe we have one more guest, Mrs. Pyatt,” Deal said, “but you may remove the other place settings.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As she did so, he told the others, “There’s one more gentleman upstairs, getting ready—ah, and here he is.”

  Clint turned his head and was startled to see one of the most famous gamblers in the West enter the room. Although why he was surprised, he didn’t know. Dick Clark had owned gambling establishments in Dodge City and Tombstone, among other places. Still owned some in Tombstone, as well as nearby Bisbee, Arizona. So why would he not be involved in one of the biggest private games in the West?

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “Son of a bitch,” Clint said, getting out of his chair. “Dick, how the hell are you?”

  He approached the man with his hand outstretched, and Dick Clark took it and shook it enthusiastically.

  “Clint Adams,” he said. “It’s been a while. What are you doin’ here?”

  “Being outclassed by you, apparently.”

  The smaller, more slender man slapped Clint on the back and said, “Not much chance of that.”

  Clint was about to reply when the Frenchman appeared at his elbow.

  “Excuse,” Marceau said, “but zis is Dick Clark? The famous gambler?”

  “This is him.”

  Clint stepped back and allowed the Frenchman to introduce himself. He was infinitely more excited to meet Dick Clark than he had been to meet Clint Adams, whom he considered to be facile.

  Clark joined the other men at the table, shaking hands with both bankers, Blom and Morgan. He chose to sit on Clint’s side of the table, with Blom between them.

  “Mrs. Pyatt,” John Deal said, “you may have dinner served now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The dinner was delicious, but the men were more interested in the conversation than the food and drink. Clint was interested in hearing what was going on in France and Sweden, both with poker and with life in general. The Frenchman Marceau, on the other hand, wanted to hear about Dodge City and Tombstone and Abilene, and he wanted to hear about it from Dick Clark.

  “He loves the famous gamblers of the Old West,” Blom explained to Clint. “Bat Masterson, Luke Short, Ben Thompson. And Mr. Clark, there. He considers them all gods.”

  “Well, those others have something Dick doesn’t have,” Clint said.

  “And what is that?”

  “They’ve all been lawmen and can all handle a gun.”

  “And not Mr. Clark?”

  “I can’t recall Dick ever being in a fight, or picking up a gun,” Clint explained. “His right-hand man, Billy King, usually handles all that for him. Dick is a true gambler, with no other interests on the side.”

  While he was talking with the banker Arne Blom, Clint could hear Arliss Morgan trying to pump John Deal for the names of the remaining three players. He also wanted to know if they’d be playing for themselves or bringing someone to play by proxy, as he had.

  “I can’t tell you that, Arliss,” Deal said. “I did not even know that you were bringing Mr. Adams. But you know the rules. As long as the money is on deposit, you may bring anyone you like to play for you.”

  “I have a question,” Clint said to Deal.

  “Of course.”

  Everyone stopped talking in order to listen.

  “Can the proxy be replaced by his backer at any time?” Clint asked.

  “Only if the proxy must withdraw due to illness or injury,” Deal said. “Otherwise only one player is allowed, from start to finish.”

  “Do you want to be replaced, Monsieur Adams?” the Frenchman asked. “Now zat you see Mr. Dick Clark and myself are here to play, eh?”

  Before Clint could answer, Dick Clark cut in.

  “If you think Clint is a soft touch because his main reputation is with a gun, Monsieur Marceau, you are sadly mistaken. Clint Adams is a first-rate poker player.”

  “Zis is true?” Marceau asked, looking around the table.

  “I guess you’ll just have to find out the hard way, Marceau,” Arliss Morgan said.

  Dick Clark looked chagrined, figuring he’d just given away an edge that Clint thought he had with the Frenchman. He gave Clint an apologetic look, which he simply waved away.

  After dinner Deal asked all the men to accompany him to the den, where they could have more drinks and cigars.

  On the way out, Dick Clark came up next to Clint and said, “Sorry about that. I thought he was running you down.”

  “It’s okay,” Clint said.

  “He probably would have found out by the first hand, anyway,” Clark said.

  Clark walked ahead, and for the first time Clint thought that maybe the man hadn’t given him away by accident at all. Maybe Dick Clark was looking for his own edge, giving the Fenchman the desire to see how well Clint could play. Maybe Clark was thinking he’d slip in there in the first few hands and get an early lead.

  Gambler. Clint had enough friends in the profession to know they’d do anything to get an edge.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  In nearby Gardner, California, Tito Calhoun and Dave Coffin were sitting in a saloon, catching up on old times and planning what to do with the money from this new score.

  “When are Kent and those other boys gettin’ here?” Coffin asked. “Jesus, we could go in there tonight an’—”

  It was the liquor talking and Calhoun had to rein Coffin in.

  “The other players won’t be there tonight,” he explained, “and neither will the banker.”

  “Banker?”

  “According to my source,” Calhoun said, “they have a banker from Sacramento holding all the money, and he will also be there for the game—to give each player his stake.”

  “If we knew when that banker was coming,” Coffin said, “and by what route, we could hit him before he got there.”

  “Yeah, but we don’t,” Calhoun said. “Kent and the others should be here tomorrow night, so we go day after tomorrow.”

  “So meanwhile we just sit here and wait?”

  “No,” Calhoun said, “we’re gonna take a ride out there tomorrow and check on security, see how tight it is. We can either slip through or bust through. We’ll have to decide which.”

  “I’d just as soon smash through ’em,” Coffin said, his voice slurred.

  “I know that,” Calhoun said. “Why don’t we turn in for the night?”

  “Huh? The night’s young. And you been in prison. Let’s find some women.”

  “Well, then, how about you stop drinkin’?”

  Coffin narrowed his eyes and stared across the table at his partner.

  “You sayin’ I can’t hold my liquor?”

  Calhoun leaned forward and said, “I’m sayin’ you can’t hold your liquor.”

  Coffin stared for a few moments, then burst out laughing so hard it drew the attention of the others in the saloon.

  “By God, Tito, you’re the only man who could say that to me and live.”

  “So you’ll stop drinkin’?”

  “No,” Coffin said, still laughing, “but we can go and get somethin’ to eat before we find some women.”

  Calhoun decided to
take what he could get.

  Camped somewhere between Carson City and Gardner, Tom Kent sat at the fire, drinking coffee while the other men slept. Two of them seemed to be competing to see who could snore the loudest, while the others occasionally leaned over and nudged them into silence.

  Kent didn’t like being separated from Tito Calhoun. For all he knew, Calhoun and his partner had already hit the game and were riding off with the money. He didn’t know what had made him trust a man who had just gotten out of prison. Sure they’d known each other years ago, but they were not friends, not by any means.

  He touched his pocket, where his badge still resided. He hadn’t yet tossed it away. He took it out and held it in his hand, let the light from the fire reflect off it. He remembered how proud he’d been to wear his first sheriff’s badge, after all the years of wearing a deputy’s star. Now he was preparing to just chuck it away, for a woman and for some money.

  Some money?

  Six hundred thousand dollars was more than some money!

  There could be no second thoughts when it came to that much cash.

  He held the badge out over the fire, then let it drop from his hand into the flames.

  THIRTY-SIX

  After brandy and cigars in the den, Clint decided to call it a night and go to his room. He wanted to be well rested for the next day. As usual, he had a book in his saddlebags, and as usual it was Mark Twain. He’d decided to read everything the man had written, and this was a collection of Twain’s short stories.

  But before reading, he walked to the window, which overlooked the rear of the house. Below him he could see the glow of light from Arliss Morgan’s room.

  There was a knock on his door at that point. He had removed his gun belt and hung it on the bedpost, so now he drew the gun and carried it to the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Don’t shoot,” Dick Clark said. “It’s just me.”

  Clint opened the door, found Clark standing there alone.

  “No more brandy and cigars?” Clint asked.