Bowie then sauntered back to the bar where the wicked trio were celebrating their success with a bottle of Moët & Chandon. Bowie bellied up to the bar, casually exposing a bulging purse. The sharpers saw no reason why they should not crown their success by adding the seemingly wealthy, well-dressed gent to the list of their victims and, after a few minutes of polite conversation, suggested a game of poker, which Bowie said was a splendid idea. Again, as when suckering in the young man, the three “gulls” let Bowie win a few pots and then moved in for the kill. One of the “planters” dealt Bowie a hand such as comes only once in a lifetime and upon which even the most cautious poker player would go the limit. The “planters” threw in their hands after a few bets, but Bowie and the “cotton buyer” kept raising each other until the pot had grown to seventy thousand dollars. At last, Bowie spied what he had confidently expected: the sharper’s agile fingers dipping into his sleeve. Quick as a flash, Bowie gripped the cheat’s wrist while at the same time producing from beneath his coat a wicked-looking knife.
“Let’s see your hand,” Bowie shouted. “If it holds more than five cards, I’ll cut your goddam throat with this!”
The sharper tried to tear himself loose, but Bowie twisted his wrist so that he had to drop his cards—four aces, a jack, and a seven.
“I think I will take the pot,” Bowie pronounced with an icy smile, “holding four kings and a queen you yourself dealt me.”
“Who the hell are you?” asked the gambler, furtively groping for his derringer.
“I am James Bowie, at your service.”
“The voice was like velvet,” says the legend, “but it cut like steel into the hearts of the chief gambler’s confederates and deterred them from any purpose or impulse they might have had to interfere. They shrank back from the table, smitten with terror by the name. Bowie softly swept the bank notes into his large slouch hat and lightly clapped it on his head.”
One of the cardsharps got up enough nerve to try to stab Jim from behind, “but Bowie drew his pistol and shot him off the wheelhouse, just as the great orb of the sun, like a golden cannon ball, sank into the waters of the Father of the Rivers.”
Chivalrous, kindhearted Jim gave the young man two-thirds of his winnings, keeping the rest as his own spoils of war. With tears welling up in his eyes, the innocent from Natchez vowed never to play poker again, while his bride planted a chaste kiss on the cheek of him who had saved her young husband from ruin, dishonor, and suicide. Whether the young man kept his promise the saga does not tell.
The Curly-Headed Little Boy
“Make your bets, gentlemen, Come down, gents! All down, gents?”
“Hold on!” exclaimed a shrill, puerile voice, as if coming from under the table. Everyone looked down, and there was apparently a curly-headed boy, whose mouth was little above the level of the bank. He cautiously, coolly, and methodically thrust forth a small hand and laid down two dimes upon the ace. Everyone laughed—all but the dealer, who with the same placidity thrust back the dimes and dampened the little fellow’s ardor by observing; “We don’t take dimes at this bank.”
But no, the little fellow had spunk; he was not so easily dashed. Picking up his dimes, his hand suddenly reappeared, this time holding a very weighty buckskin bag apparently filled with the yellow dust. This he tossed upon the ace, exclaiming, “There, I guess you’ll take that. Six ounces on the ace!”
Everyone was astonished. All looked around to see if he had any relatives or friends in the crowd. He appeared to be entirely alone and a stranger to everyone; but the play began—and, strange to say, the ace won!
“Good, bully! Lucky boy!” were the exclamations on every side.
The fortunate little gambler pocketed his bag and placed upon the deuce the six ounces he had just won. Wonderful to say, the deuce won! He was now the gainer by twelve ounces. He was the hero of the table. All eyes were upon him; and it was seen that he was not as young as he seemed—an old head upon a child’s shoulders! For the remainder of the deal old players regulated their bets by his, and he carried them along upon the wave. The bank looked a little sickly from this bleeding.
The deal being out, the banker, the same cool imperturbable figure, chose another pack of cards, and shuffled and cut and reshuffled and recut until the patience of the crowd was almost exhausted. It was the boy’s cut, and a layout was made.
“Twenty-five ounces on the deuce,” said the little man, piling all his winnings around the card. But few other bets were made; the older hands were afraid this sudden luck would change, and they all held back. The plucky lad was pitted against the man of fifty—youth, enthusiasm, and dare-all luck arraigned against the craft and cunning of the experienced gambler! How our sympathies were warmed by the fearlessness of the boy! The play began, the deck was faced; and, as I live, the deuce was in the door! The boy won the full amount of his bet.
The successful urchin was the least excited person in the room. He hauled in his winnings as carelessly as if those stacks of dollars were only chips. Another shuffle, and another layout was made. The field was now given up entirely to the two antagonists. The ace and the five were the cards; against all our hints the boy staked his fifty ounces on the five. We were breathless with fear; the dealer himself paused a little before drawing the card—but at length the deck was faced, and slowly and cautiously the cards were drawn, one by one—deuce, tray, king, queen, and seven appear in succession—and then—the five! The boy was again victorious; his fifty ounces were now one hundred. The last round made a huge chasm in the appearance of the bank, and the table in front of the little hero was absolutely covered with money.
The banker was as cool and methodical as ever; taking a fresh deck, he shuffled it carefully, and made another layout. The boy bet his hundred ounces and was again victorious! Two hundred ounces were now piled up before him. We advised him to desist, not to tempt his luck too far; but he coolly replied: “I’ll break the bank or it’ll break me!”
Did any one ever hear of such determination, even in a man? He increased in our estimation, and we liked him all the better for his grit. More than half the bank was his already, a fortune in itself! But the little, round, gray eyes of the boy were not upon his winnings, but were feeding eagerly on the money that was not yet his.
“Queen and tray, come down!” said the dealer.
“How much have you in the bank?” asked the boy.
“A hundred and fifty ounces.”
“I tap the bank upon the queen.”
This would decide the game. A stillness of death was upon the crowd; our breath was hushed; our very hearts almost ceased to beat; the suspense became painful; even the banker paused and wiped the cold drops from his brow.
The deck was faced at last, and calmly, steadily, and without hurry the cards were drawn, one by one. One—two—three—four—five—he had lost! The queen had thrown him; and his entire winnings were swept away by the sharp croupier beyond.
Dizzy and sick with the result, we turned our eyes upon the loser; he bore himself bravely and did not seem to feel the loss as sensibly as ourselves. He looked about with a stern, defying air, as if to chide us for our sympathy. As yet he had lost nothing. His large buckskin bag was still intact. Laying it upon the table, with the air of a Caesar, he put his all upon the throw, defying fate to do its worst! Our pity was suddenly changed to admiration. We felt that he was lost; but we were sure he would die game.
The cards were again shuffled and cut. The seven and the king were laid out; the boy chose the king. The cards were drawn. At last the seven appeared and the game was ended. He saw his well-filled purse stowed away along with many others within that Chinese box and, whistling “O Californy,” turned his back upon the scene. The crowd parted sympathetically to let him through; and he strutted out with all the importance of a noted hero.
I passed out silently after him and joined him in the street. He looked at me furtively with one eye, without ceasing to whistle. I took his arm, leading hi
m around the corner of the house, begged to know the amount of his loss, and if he had any money on which to come and go. He did not cease his whistling, but planted himself firmly before me and looked up. I took out my purse and offered him a part; the whistling instantly ceased; his face swelled out into a broad and homely grin. Looking cautiously around for fear of being overheard, he whispered: “Mum’s the word; I believe you’re a good egg! You want to know how much was in that bag? Well, I’ll tell you; just four pounds of duck-shot mixed—and—nothing more; what a swarin and a cussin’ when they open it!” and the little imp laughed till the tears were in his eyes.
The game in question, if anybody is interested, was faro.
Shall We Have a Drop?
Two men were observed playing poker in Tombstone’s luxurious Birdcage Saloon. On the stage can-can girls threw their legs high up into the air, exposing waterfalls of rustling frou-frou unmentionables, while a “Turkish” odalisque, straight from Brooklyn, did the hootchy-kootchy, clad only in striped silk pantaloons, writhing like a rattlesnake about to give birth. The players paid them no mind. They took poker seriously and had Venus, the goddess of love, risen out of the ocean foam before their eyes, floating in glorious nakedness on an iridescent seashell, they would not have honored her with a single glance.
One of the two men was a stout, dandified fellow with a black goatee, dressed in a brown velour jacket with black cuffs over a brocaded vest. His silken cravat was fastened with a stickpin whose diamond was just a trifle too large to be genuine. The magnificent jacket had suspiciously wide sleeves.
The other gentleman was likewise fastidiously dressed—not as flamboyantly as the first, but in the best of taste, to wit: a well-tailored black broadcloth suit, a snow white “b’iled” shirt, and a black string tie. He was a keen-eyed, long-legged individual, thin as a rail, with corn-colored hair and sweeping mustachios. This citizen as could have been guessed by the description of his person, was none other than the “King of Gambling Men,” also known as the “Dangerous Dentist,” namely “Doc” Holliday—gamester, cardsharp, dental surgeon, and notorious gunslinger.
“Shall we start the ante at a hundred dollars, sir?” inquired the velvet-cuffed gent, whose accent betrayed a hint of New Orleans’s Vieux Carré.
“Suit yourself,” agreed Doc, a slender cigarillo dangling from his lips. “The sky’s the limit.”
They played for a while with varying success, Lady Luck frequently changing sides from one man to the other. To those watching the game, it was apparent that both gentlemen were most accomplished at cheating, which, one might say, made this a “square” game.
“Shall we have a drop?” Doc interrupted the action. “Poker needs brandy like a cock needs hens.”
“I second the motion,” said the goateed dandy, “let’s liquor. Garçon, a couple of brandies, if you please.”
The drinks arrived. Doc moved the flickering candle to one side, knocked down his snort at one gulp, and slammed the glass down upon the table, spilling a few drops of the “good creature.”
“I really should refrain from both strong waters and the use of tobacco,” ’ he said offhandedly, “but what is a gent to do in this godforsaken desert?”
“What indeed, but, voilà, here we are.”
“I out of sheer necessity,” sighed Doc, “to cure a pair of bad lungs. Dry air is good for them.”
They continued to play, and from that moment on Lady Luck was unashamedly on Doc’s side. A small mountain of silver began to grow before the sometime dentist. Soon his opponent was out more than a thousand dollars. The velvet-cuffed one seemed momentarily sunk in thought as he contemplated his shrinking pile of gold. Losses sharpened his wits. He noticed that, when dealing, Doc held the cards lightly at the edges, manipulating them in such a way that they were reflected in a drop of brandy illuminated by candlelight. His eyes fixed on the drop, the eagle-eyed dentist could read every card reflected in it.
The goateed fellow went for his gun then, but already Doc’s “gambler’s friend,” a small, ivory-handled derringer was staring him in the face.
“Sir,” sputtered the goatee, rising with whatever dignity he could muster, “you are a low-down cheat. I thought I was dealing with a gentleman.”
“So did I, stranger,” was Doc’s answer, “until I saw that extra ace up your sleeve. Please keep your hand off that cannon—I assure you that I am much faster on the draw. You wouldn’t have a chance. Don’t look so sad. There’s a multitude of green horns around here for you to recoup your trifling loss, which may I say, is but a small tutoring fee. Never take on a fellow who tells you that he won’t play poker until ‘he gets a drop.’ With that I bid you adieu.”
Colonel Tubbs Strikes It Rich
The Golden Nugget gambling saloon at Whoop-Up was the mining camp’s classiest joint. Here prospectors, speculators, green-horns, bullwhackers, officers from the 7th Cavalry, cardsharps, railroaders, adventurers, and their attendant bevy of “cyprians,” rubbed elbows at the gaming tables, where roulette, faro, vingt-et-un, monte, poker, keno, and other games of chance were played beneath tinkling crystal chandeliers whose lights were reflected in silver-dust mirrors imported from France.
Here the click of the roulette wheel mingled with the noise of dice rattling in their boxes, and the raucous voices of the dealers, shouting: “Come down! Come down! Come down on the red! On the black! Make your pile, gents! Make it quick! Why work? The money’s here! The money’s yours! Walk up, gents, walk up! Get it while it lasts! Step up! Step up! Step lively!”
Here the reek of cheap rotgut mingled with the aroma of choice liquors, the enticing odor of fine perfumes with the smell of patchouli, with which the lowest of the “soiled doves of the prairie” bedaubed themselves—all of this blending with a cloud of smoke from a hundred cheroots. Here a pound of gold dust was wagered upon a throw of the dice.
This unvarying scene of wickedness, sin, triumph, and dejection was presided over by the Golden Nugget’s owner, Countess Eleanor Dumont, whose presence had once graced the halls of French châteaux and the palace of Napoleon III, but whom a stranger fate had brought to Whoop-Up Gulch.
Beautiful and alluring she was, this sometime mistress of kings and revolutionaries, the sweetheart of the mighty, the rich, and the famous of this world. Her ivory skin glowed in the soft light shed by flickering chandeliers, her ruby lips smiled a welcome to one and all, while her limpid, flashing eyes turned sober-minded gents into madmen at her feet. Her raven hair was crowned with a small circlet of diamonds, her tiny waist was girt by an emerald-studded belt, while upon her alabaster bosom rested a golden locket whose lid was never lifted and whose contents no man durst behold. It was rumored that within it rested a miniature of the French emperor. In contrast with such splendor stood the vile stogie on which she puffed with evident gusto, and the large tumbler of raw whiskey ever at her elbow.
But our tale today is not concerned with the notorious gambling queen but with “Colonel” Joseph Tubbs, the grizzled old galoot of a gold miner who has struck it rich more than a dozen times, only to repeatedly lose it all at cards and in the fruitless search for the “great mother lode,” which like a mirage evermore kept eluding him. Where and how old Tubbs acquired his epithet of “colonel” was an unsolved mystery from which he had never lifted the veil.
Tubbs was a short, stubby old fellow, with a genial face and bulbous nose, reddened somewhat by long exposure to the sun, and more so perhaps by a love for the miner’s favorite, “tarant’ler juice.” His merry visage was framed by a large, untamed beard, stained with tobacco juice. His equally primeval junglelike hair fell down over his shoulders, while his mighty “stummick” seemed to burst the somewhat worse-for-wear flowered vest that was his hallmark. Such was the big-hearted, eccentric old codger, a living legend of the Black Hills, the Golden Nugget’s foremost habitué, who never laid by a cent. It was the self-same Tubbs who had founded the town and composed its doggerel anthem:
The world was made
in six days,
The seventh was for booze an’ grub,
We named the town in one day,
The next we Whooped her Up.
The colonel used to boast: “That’s a fact, stranger, I war the originator of this here gleeorious town o’ Whoop-Up. I war the fust mortal who ever diskivered auriferous ore in these parts an’ staked his claim, an’ made this pile, yer bet, by gum!”
Now, as I said before, old Tubbs had hit pay dirt and then had lost it all at gambling and prospecting. He had given up “lookin’ for that pizen called gold.” He was living in a dugout at the lower end of the gulch. He asked no favors. He had his own proud but peculiar way of earning his square meal a day, his plug of ’baccer, and his jolts of tanglefoot. He showed up punctually every evening at dusk in the Golden Nugget in order to place his daily bet.
Tubbs had his own unique system of winning at roulette. From his once-considerable fortune he had saved exactly sixty-two shiny silver dollars, which constituted his entire gambling stake. Invariably, he plunked himself down at the roulette table, placing a single simoleon on the red. Should black come up, he simply doubled his bet. If it came up again, he once more repeated the doubling. If the little silver ball, upon whose whim his life depended, came down on black six times in a row, he would have staked his whole capital. If it stopped at black seven times, he would be ruined and faced with starvation. Therefore, he did not so much bet on the red as on black never coming up more than five times in a row. Should the red come up at the first turn of the wheel, he would simply pocket his winnings, always one dollar, and never more, then wander over to a table, permanently reserved for himself, to treat himself to a good meal, a Havana seegar, and a generous tumbler of his preferred brand of poison.
Legends and Tales of the American West Page 33
