Hastily the man closed the door, and Ten followed him up a narrow set of steps to the upper deck. He waited until the other man went to the rail before he walked to the opposite end of the deck. LeBeau’s companion had seemed upset when Ten had glimpsed LeBeau with the cards. Why? These two were up to something, and having seen the cards, Ten had a pretty good idea what it was. He had a little over eighty dollars. Old LeBeau looked flush enough to maybe double or triple that stake. Of course, Jesse wouldn’t have approved, but Jesse wouldn’t know.
2
Tired of the cramped cabin, Ten decided to explore the steamboat. Having spent some time on the St. Louis waterfront, he knew western boats were smaller, and mostly all stern-wheelers, as was The New Orleans. When a stern-wheeler encountered a sandbar, the pilot just turned the boat around and let the big wooden wheel dig a channel through the sand. If that wasn’t possible, they’d resort to “grasshoppering,” which allowed the steamboat to “walk” across the sandbar. Near the bow, one on each side, were long, heavy spars mounted vertically on derricks. When the boat became stuck on a sandbar, the ends of the spars were driven to the bottom of the river, their tops slanting forward. With the paddle wheel churning, in combination with block, tackle, cable, and capstan, the spars performed like huge crutches, moving the boat forward a few feet. After each “grasshopper” leap, the spars had to be reset and the procedure had to be repeated until the sandbar was cleared. One of the deckhands paused near the rail, tossing the butt of a cigarette into the murky brown water below.
“Just five paying passengers,” said Ten. “How can this boat go all the way to Fort Smith twice a week with so few passengers?”
“Government freight mostly. But we’ll have as many folks as we can board once we get to Natchez. Always do. Some feller built a quarter-mile track alongside the river, and there’s hoss races ever’ Saturday. We’ll dock there next Sunday mornin’, a full day ahead of the next boat from St. Louis. We’ll lay over to take on fuel and freight, and when we pull out, we’ll be loaded. Them high rollers from New Orleans that’s been to the races will be goin’ home. Ever’ poker table in the saloon will be full. There’ll be enough booze sold to profit the boat for the run to Fort Smith and back.”
Ten’s interest quickened. People who could afford the fare to Natchez to bet on the horses ought to have money to lose at the poker tables. Ten had known gamblers from the St. Louis waterfront who regularly bought passage to New Orleans and back to St. Louis for the express purpose of gambling in the boat’s saloon. But these smaller “working” boats, traveling to Fort Smith and other frontier outposts, offered the professionals few opportunities to ply their questionable trade. So this bunch that would be boarding at Natchez, bound for New Orleans, might be “gentlemen gamblers” who could well afford to while away the time at the poker tables. While Ten had but eighty dollars, he had made do with less.
Ten decided The New Orleans was larger than it looked, once you got aboard. Coming up the gangplank, stepping onto the main deck, you were at the open end of what might have been a long shed. Forward, in the center, was the housing for boilers and engines. Hatches opened to holds below deck for every conceivable kind of freight. Here were the many stacks of cordwood that fed the insatiable fireboxes under the boilers. Many immigrants bought “deck passage” and slept on the planks. There was nothing cheaper, except walking. The roof of this catchall deck was the cabin deck, and here were the fancy, first-class accommodations. There was a central lounge, and clustered about it were the individual cabins. The lounge was divided into thirds. The front portion was for male passengers only, the center was the dining room, while the extreme back part was reserved for females. The men’s lounge was large enough to include a saloon, complete with bar, polished brass cuspidors, and a dozen poker tables.
Ten climbed the steps to the very top of the vessel. It was the roof of the cabin deck, and was uncovered. It was called the hurricane deck, and in the central portion, forward, were quarters for the boat’s crew and deckhands. Finally, sitting atop this small cluster of cabins, was the pilothouse. It was octagonal, encircled with glass windows that offered a panoramic view. Immediately in front of the pilothouse two lofty stacks belched twin columns of wood smoke. At the rear of the pilothouse was a long bench. On it sat a gray-haired, gray-bearded man smoking a pipe.
“You can’t go in the pilothouse,” he said.
“Are you one of the crew?”
“One of the pilots. Most boats carry two. We’re working four hours on and four hours off.”
“How fast are we traveling?”
“Eight to ten knots an hour. Sometimes, on a good stretch, we might get twelve. But that’s daytime. Come dark, we drop to five or less.”
Two deckhands entered the pilothouse and brought out a pair of big lanterns, each of them standing maybe three feet tall. One globe was red, the other green. Ten watched the men clean the big globes. Finally, they filled the lamp reservoirs with coal oil.
“That’s our passing lights,” said the pilot. “Before dark, they’re lit and hoisted to the tops of the stacks. The green one goes on the river side, and the red one on the bank side. When we meet another boat in the dark, he knows which side of the river we’re on and where our near bank is.”
Even at a slower speed, and with the lessened motion of the boat, Ten slept very little. He was up with the first gray of dawn, ready for breakfast, long before the appointed time. Afterward, he returned to the cramped cabin and remained there as long as he could stand it. Finally he went into the central portion of the cabin deck, to the lounge area. Early as it was, the saloon was already in business. LeBeau, his companion, and the two drummers sat at one of the tables, engrossed in a poker game. The barman lifted his eyebrows questioningly, but Ten shook his head. He wandered to the table where the game was in progress, and was ignored. When it became obvious he wasn’t going to leave, LeBeau spoke in that bullfrog voice.
“Draw poker, boy. Dollar a game, if you feel lucky.”
Whatever LeBeau had in mind, it wouldn’t be for table stakes, with limited betting. Ten dragged up a chair and bought in. He received five cards, a perfectly lousy hand, nothing to draw to. Each of the drummers drew three new cards, discarding three of their original five. LeBeau looked at Ten.
“I fold,” said Ten.
LeBeau dealt himself three new cards, and the fourth man folded. LeBeau took the pot with three of a kind. He lost the next pot to one of the drummers, and took the one following with a king-high full house. Ten had gotten their attention. Three times he’d drawn a poor hand, and three times he’d folded, losing a dollar each time. The drummers, he was sure, had drawn equally poor hands, but had each taken three new cards on a second draw. It was poor odds, poor poker. One of them lucked out, with three of a kind. Ten hadn’t drawn a face card in three hands, so it came as a surprise when he drew two jacks on the fourth. He discarded three cards, took three new ones on the second draw, and threw another dollar in the pot. He won the pot with three jacks. LeBeau ordered a round of drinks. Ten shook his head.
“Ain’t you man enough to drink with us, kid?” asked LeBeau’s companion.
“Man enough that I don’t have to prove it,” said Ten mildly.
LeBeau and the drummers laughed. The fourth man, still nameless, didn’t see the humor. His thin lips were hard-set, his gray eyes cold. LeBeau might be the bull of the woods, but his companion was the man to watch. His coat bulged on the left side, poorly concealing the shoulder holster. Ten played three more hands, leaving the game two dollars poorer. The game had been boring. He decided he’d as soon stand on the deck, watching the big paddle wheel thrash through the muddy water of the Arkansas. Late that afternoon, they met and passed another steamboat scheduled to arrive at Fort Smith on Thursday. It was The Talequah, named for the capital of the Cherokee nation. Its pilot acknowledged them with a blast of his whistle, and the pilot of The New Orleans returned the greeting.
After supper, although it w
asn’t good dark, Ten returned to the tiny cabin. He listened for voices in the next room, but heard nothing. LeBeau and his cohort were probably still in the saloon, playing their low stakes game. He didn’t know how well he’d fare with the well-to-do gamblers from New Orleans, but he determined to risk a few hands. It might be worth it, if he could force his way in at LeBeau’s table and observe the old reprobate’s style. Those four years in St. Louis hadn’t been a total loss, he decided. It was hard to imagine there being any sleight-of-hand or slick-dealing he hadn’t witnessed in the riverfront saloons. Finally, done in by the lack of sleep the night before, he slept.
By Thursday morning they were steaming down the broad Mississippi, but it seemed to Ten they traveled more slowly than ever. While the mighty river was wider and deeper, in other ways it was more treacherous. No sooner were they out of one hairpin turn then there was another. The poker game in the saloon continued, but Ten steered clear of it. He took out a whetstone and honed his throwing knife until he could have shaved with it. Satisfied with that, he turned to his Colt. He owed a lot to that old ex-outlaw in St. Louis, whom some said had ridden with Bloody Bill Anderson; others claimed he’d been with Quantrill; but none of them said it to his face. The old-timer had taken an interest in Ten, showing him how to reduce the trigger pressure required to ear back the hammer. It required taking a file to the sear, the catch or lock in a Colt that held the hammer back until released by the trigger mechanism. The “doctored” Colt had always been sensitive to Ten’s touch, and now, with the file he kept for that purpose, he set about to even further reduce the pull. With his file he set to work on the sear, until the pull was so light he could draw and shoot without fear that the cocking of the weapon would pull the muzzle off target. Speed without accuracy could be the death of a man. His accuracy assured, he could further increase the speed of his draw, and with the Colt unloaded, he spent hour after hour in the small cabin, practicing his draw. He hadn’t lied to Jesse. Until he actually faced a man who could and would return his fire, he’d never be sure he could measure up. But when the time came, he would be ready.
Natchez was like all other river towns of the time. Everybody took an active interest in the river and the steamboats that traveled it. While there appeared to be no freight on the dock, there were passengers in plenty, male and female. They were impatient to come aboard, jostling one another as deckhands hauled loads of cordwood below the cabin deck. For the first time since leaving Fort Smith, the captain made an appearance, welcoming the new passengers aboard. They looked wealthy, most of them dressing as well or better than LeBeau. There was a scramble for the cabins, and considerable grumbling, as men had to share cabins with other men. Ten was glad his cramped cabin had but a single bunk. He headed back to it, in case some disgruntled newcomer tried to claim squatter’s rights. LeBeau and his companion seemed to have the same idea. One of the newcomers, a big man in a blue pin-stripe suit and bowler hat, stood watching them. Suddenly aware that Ten was watching him, he turned quickly away. What was his interest in LeBeau? Was he friend or enemy? It would be interesting to see where Bowler Hat fitted in once the gambling started. Ten waited what he judged to be an hour before leaving his cabin. LeBeau and his partner had long since departed, and chatter in the narrow corridor had ceased.
The saloon was filled to overflowing. Not only was every table fully occupied, but folding card tables had been set up in the adjoining dining room. There were now two barmen on duty, and three stewards hustling drinks to the tables. Men sat on every stool along the bar, most of them waiting for a chance at one of the poker games. A table could comfortably accommodate only four players, but some of them, including LeBeau’s, had as many as six. To LeBeau’s left sat his gun-toting companion, and to his right, the man in the bowler hat. He was a big, grim-faced man, with the red, bulbous nose of a heavy drinker. He chewed on an unlighted cigar and didn’t seem all that interested in the game. The other three men also had boarded at Natchez, and played with an abandon only the wealthy could afford. Ten wore range clothes, his fanciest piece of attire being a new gray Stetson. Some of the men nursing drinks at the bar looked curiously at him, their eyes dropping inevitably to the tied-down Colt he wore.
Ten made his way to LeBeau’s table and found they were playing draw poker. There appeared to be no set limit, but they’d begun with five dollars. Ten had about given up getting into the game when one of the men kicked back his chair and got up.
“I’m out,” he said.
“I’m buying in,” said Ten. He wanted to find out where LeBeau fitted in.
LeBeau cast him an unfathomable look but said nothing. He turned to his pistol-toting companion.
“Sneed, flag down somebody and order us another round of drinks.”
So his name was Sneed. The familiar manner in which LeBeau spoke to him changed Ten’s mind about their relationship. A typical “cold-deck” scheme would have depended on LeBeau and Sneed not knowing one another. LeBeau, appearing to lose like everybody else, would be feeding Sneed the winning hands. But if Sneed wasn’t part of a cold-deck team, what was he? A bodyguard? One of the men who’d boarded at Natchez was shuffling and dealing. Ten put his five dollars in the pot. His five cards were unworthy of a second bet, so he folded, losing his five dollars. Without at least a pair to draw to, the odds against bettering his hand with three more cards were poor. He watched the others, especially LeBeau and Sneed, but saw nothing to arouse his suspicion. He even won a pot. Down twenty dollars, he got two queens on the first draw. He put another five dollars in the pot, discarded three of his original cards, and drew three more. One of them was a third queen, and at the showdown, the sixty-dollar pot was his.
They seesawed along, each man winning an occasional pot. Ten was expecting the size of the bets to increase dramatically at some point, and when the proposal came, he was thirty dollars ahead.
“Gentlemen,” said LeBeau, “why don’t we elevate this to a man’s game, and increase our bets to twenty dollars?”
Nobody objected. Ten’s first hand offered him nothing to draw to, so he folded, losing his money. One of the men who’d boarded at Natchez took one pot, the big man in the bowler hat a second, and Sneed a third. It was LeBeau’s turn to shuffle and deal. Ten’s stake was dwindling fast, and he’d be forced to withdraw from the game if LeBeau didn’t make his move soon. But on the next draw, two of his five cards were kings. It could be the start of a bottom deal. Jacks, kings, and queens were dealt—scattered—so that nobody stood a chance of drawing more than three of a kind, making four aces an unbeatable hand. Was that what LeBeau had in mind? It would cost Ten another double eagle to find out. He put his money in the pot, calling for three more cards. LeBeau dealt them, and one was a third king. LeBeau dealt three cards to Sneed and was about to deal three more to himself when Ten made his move.
“Put the cards on the table, Mr. LeBeau. Facedown.”
Everybody froze except Sneed. He got his hand on the butt of his pistol, only to find himself looking into the rock-steady muzzle of Ten’s Colt. His thin face paled, and he slowly withdrew his hand. Without a word, LeBeau placed the deck facedown on the table.
“Now,” said Ten, “deal yourself three cards. Off the top. Slow.”
LeBeau dealt them.
“Now deal me three cards. Off the top.”
LeBeau dealt them. Then he glared at Ten, his face livid.
“I’ll have you horsewhipped for this, you young fool!”
“You’ll have it to do,” said Ten. “But let’s wait until after the showdown before we decide who gets the whipping. Show your hand, LeBeau.”
With hands not quite steady, LeBeau faced up the two cards from his original hand, revealing a pair of aces.
“Now,” said Ten, “show the three cards you just dealt yourself. I’ll bet my horsewhipping against yours, one of them will be an ace, and one of the other two a king.”
LeBeau turned over the cards, revealing an ace, a king, and a ten. There was a moment
of shocked silence. Then one of the men across the table kicked back his chair and got to his feet.
“I’ve got three queens,” he said, “and I have the feeling I could sit here all day and never get the fourth.”
“I’ve got two jacks,” said another. “Where’s the other two?”
“Mr. Sneed has the queen and two jacks,” said Ten.
LeBeau jumped up, kicking back his chair, and there was a yelp of pain as it struck somebody at another table.
“Hold it,” said Ten. He still gripped the Colt, and shifted it quickly to cover the furious LeBeau.
“We haven’t finished the game,” said Ten. “Show your hand, Sneed.”
Reluctantly, the little man turned his cards faceup. Among them was the missing queen and two jacks.
“This is an outrage!” shouted LeBeau. “You can’t prove a thing!”
“I reckon I can prove this pot belongs to me,” said Ten. “The rest of you, show your hands.”
Nobody had anything close to a winning hand. The big man in the bowler hat glared at LeBeau with something akin to murder in his hard eyes. The shouting and chair-kicking had brought everything else in the saloon to a standstill. Ten had an audience that hung on his every word.
“There’s not a winning hand on this table,” he said, “except LeBeau’s. While my three kings would have beaten three jacks or three queens, none of us stood a chance against four aces. That’s the hand Mr. LeBeau would have held at the showdown, had he been allowed to deal as planned. He’d have dealt himself two cards from the top of the deck. One of them would have been an ace and the other the king I needed. He would then have dealt himself a fourth ace—the ace of diamonds—from the bottom of the deck.”
The angry man who had held the three queens took the remainder of the deck, slowly peeling off the bottom card. It was indeed the ace of diamonds. There was pandemonium in the saloon. Amid the thud of fists, men shouted and cursed, chairs crashed, glasses and bottles shattered. LeBeau and Sneed were wrestled to the floor, lost in a sea of thrashing arms and legs.
The Chisholm Trail Page 3
