The Goodnight Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “But why five-card stud, and why must there be so many players?”

  “Because six players puts thirty cards in play,” said McCaleb, “twenty-four of them face up before the showdown. If my hole card is an ace and I’m dealt two more without that fourth ace showing, then I’ve got two more cards coming, the final one with half the deck faceup.”

  “I’m just scared to death for Goose and Monte. It’s one thing to play for pistol cartridges with friendly riders, and something else to play for money with cutthroat gamblers.”

  “Before this day’s over,” said McCaleb, “that Indian’s going to show those gamblers how the cow ate the cabbage. All we have to do is keep him alive to collect his winnings.”

  The evening sun was only an hour high when McCaleb and Rebecca pushed through the bat-wings into Condor’s saloon. For the time and place, it was elegant. The floor was polished oak and the bar mahogany, with a brass foot rail running the length of it. Polished brass spittoons shone gold in the light from suspended, shaded lamps. On the wall behind the bar hung a full-sized painting. The buxom woman was spared total nakedness by filmy bits of lace in critical areas. A winding carpeted staircase led to the second floor. At the very rear of the long room was an enormous oak table. One end sat in the corner, and its length extended along the back wall. It would easily accommodate a dozen men. Clay Allison sat at the very end, his back to the wall. Next to Allison sat Monte Nance, and next to him, Goose. McCaleb nodded approvingly. The dealer for the house sat with his back to the open room, a position most of them avoided. Business was slow, and new arrivals failing to patronize the bar weren’t encouraged to linger. McCaleb and Rebecca leaned on the bar near the end, where they could observe the poker game in progress. The barkeep moved up behind them, waiting.

  “Two whiskeys,” said McCaleb over his shoulder.

  They needed a diversion, and McCaleb sighed with relief when it came in the form of the stove-up ex-puncher from the cafe who had first told them about Clay Allison’s violent past. The little man made his way to the bar, nodding to McCaleb.

  “Howdy, Salty,” said the barkeep. “Beer?”

  “Yeah,” said Salty, “an’ gimme th’ rest in chips. Ain’t played poker in a spell an’ I wanta see kin I sit in on that game.”

  Rebecca looked at McCaleb. His whiskey glass was empty. He had taken advantage of Salty’s arrival and had disposed of his whiskey in a convenient spittoon. Unobtrusively he swapped Rebecca his empty glass for her full one. Salty took his place at the poker table, next to the house man. McCaleb had to suppress a grin at the antics of Clay Allison. The vain bastard ought to have become an actor. He had his chair reared back on its hind legs, a cigar clamped between his teeth, and his big grey Stetson canted over his eyes, the epitome of a drunken cowboy trying to play poker and doing a poor job of it. He slapped his cards on the table in disgust as he lost another pot. McCaleb fed the spittoon another glass of whiskey, and when the barkeep spotted their empty glasses, ordered another round.

  It came as no surprise to McCaleb when Sheriff Parker swaggered through the bat-wing doors and backed up to the bar, hooking a boot heel over the rail. He glared at McCaleb long and hard. McCaleb ignored him. What did surprise McCaleb—and apparently Sheriff Parker—was the arrival of Judge Jeremiah Wolfe. It soon became evident he was not a frequent visitor, when Condor himself came out to extend a greeting.

  “First drink’s on the house, Judge,” he said, with all the enthusiasm he could muster. “What’ll it be?”

  “Nothing, thanks,” said Judge Wolfe. “Heard the Indian was sitting in on a poker game. Chips, please.” He slid a double eagle across the bar.

  The barkeep looked at Condor, shrugged his shoulders, and stacked the chips on the mahogany. Judge Wolfe scooped them up, took them to the poker table, and hooking his boot in the rung of a chair, dragged it back and sat down. It was time. Clay Allison leaned forward, clunking the front legs of the chair and his boots against the floor.

  “Hey,” he bawled, “had ’nough o’ this tea party! Le’s play a man’s game! Five-card stud!”

  Attracted by the increased activity, two more of Condor’s gamblers had come downstairs. Condor turned to them.

  “Take over, Sutton. Five-card stud. New deck.”

  Sutton was snake-thin and sallow-faced, with just a trace of a moustache. He had thin, bony fingers and long nails. He wore a derby hat, a white ruffled shirt with sleeve garters, gray pin-striped trousers which had been darned on the seat. There was a gold band on the little finger of his left hand. He pulled out a chair and sat down. In the first game of stud, Allison, Monte, and Goose bet low, failing to raise. Judge Wolfe took the small pot. In the next game, Allison, Monte, and Goose raised, building the pot to respectable proportions and the house won. The next small pot went to Salty, the biscuit shooter. Each time there was a decent pot, the house won. When Goose made his move, it was with the swiftness of a striking rattler. Like magic the Bowie appeared in his left hand, and with his right he snatched Sutton’s left wrist. Using the surface of the heavy oak table for a chop block, he severed the gambler’s little finger! Sutton tumbled over backward, bawling in pain.

  “Nobody move!” snapped Monte Nance. He stood with his back to the wall, his pale blue eyes cold, the Colt in his hand rock-steady. Nodding to Goose, he spoke:

  “Ganos, anillo de oro.”

  Calmly, Goose retrieved the severed finger and slipped off the gold band. He dropped it on the table, and it was more than a gold band. The set of the ring was a tiny mirror, detected by the sharp eyes of the Apache. Worn palm-out on Sutton’s dealing hand, it had allowed the gambler to know the value of the cards as he dealt them. Judge Wolfe got up and faced Condor.

  “I daresay, Condor, this sort of thing is likely to give visitors a poor impression of our town in general and your establishment in particular. Have you a single reason why I shouldn’t order the sheriff to close your doors?”

  “Now wait a minute!” bawled Sheriff Parker, coming to life.

  He froze as a slug from Monte’s Colt splintered the bar just inches from the hand hovering above his holster. He lifted his hands shoulder high, and Judge Wolfe continued as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  “Well, Condor?”

  “I had no knowledge of what he was doing,” said Condor suavely. “You’re through, Sutton. You know my rules. Get up and get out of here!”

  Sutton lay on the floor clutching his hurt hand against his belly, the bloody stain blossoming ever larger against the white of his shirt. He got to his knees and stumbled to his feet. So savage was the hatred in his eyes, Condor involuntary backstepped. He watched Sutton through the bat-wings and turned back to Judge Wolfe.

  “Unfortunate. I’m sorry this happened. You gentlemen are welcome to recover what you lost from what’s on the table. The game’s closed.”

  “I think not,” said Judge Wolfe. “You have other dealers, Condor, and I want to see if they’re following your rules any closer than Sutton did. Young man, you can put that pistol away now.”

  Monte holstered the Colt. Clay Allison cast McCaleb a secret wink. Monte had just taken a giant step toward becoming a man, and Goose, while performing in a totally unpredictable way, had proven himself capable of sound judgment. While he would have been perfectly justified in killing the gambler, it might have caused such a furor, they’d have been forced to leave town with their debt to Condor unsettled. McCaleb had no idea why Judge Wolfe had taken a hand in the game. He suspected the crusty old man sensed a showdown in the making between McCaleb’s outfit and Condor.

  “Mr. Tolliver will deal for the house,” said Condor.

  McCaleb was surprised when the gambler took the chair so recently vacated by Sutton. He sat right across the table from Goose; there was no way he could have forgotten the Indian had broken his arm. It was going to be interesting to witness his performance!

  Tolliver, whether by choice or upon orders from Condor, dealt an honest gam
e. He lost consistently. Just as consistently, Goose won. Judge Wolfe and Salty seemed to take more interest in Goose than in the game.

  “Levantar,” said Goose, when he wished to raise. The amount was never mentioned; he simply pushed the chips to the center of the table. He had an uncanny knack for drawing the very card he needed.

  Tolliver began to sweat. McCaleb saw the man’s hands tremble as he dealt the cards. Condor leaned against the bar, occasionally speaking to Sheriff Parker, making no secret of their alliance. The time came when Goose had more than a thousand dollars in chips before him, most of it Condor’s. Seeing his last faceup card before the showdown, he pushed five hundred dollars in chips to the center of the table.

  “Levantar,” said Goose.

  Tolliver paused and looked forlornly at his final faceup card. His hesitation was evidence enough that his hole card didn’t measure up and that he dared not match the Indian’s raise. He was finished. He folded. When he looked at Condor, the saloon man nodded him out of the game. Condor then said something to Sheriff Parker and the sheriff left the saloon. Without a word, Tolliver relinquished his chair and Condor took over, dealing for the house. He was slick. He fanned the cards from one hand to the other, spiraling them out in a graceful flow. He lost several large pots to Goose. While the others won occasionally, it had become a showdown between Condor and the Indian. Goose was calm, his hands steady. He had discovered a new and far more painful method of scalping his enemy!

  By the time Goose had accumulated $2500, McCaleb knew Condor’s move must come soon. McCaleb caught Clay Allison’s eye and the big man touched the brim of his hat. McCaleb nodded. They would make their move on this hand. Suddenly, as Condor began dealing the cards, McCaleb knew what was coming. Condor dealt each player two cards, one of them a hole card, face down. He dealt Goose a faceup king and himself a faceup ace. McCaleb’s suspicions were confirmed when Condor dealt Goose a second faceup king and himself a faceup jack. McCaleb was certain the Indian’s hole card was a king, allowing him two more chances to draw the fourth king. Good odds in an honest game, but this wasn’t an honest game. Condor’s hole card was almost certainly an ace, and if he dealt himself another ace on the next-to-last draw, Allison would stop the game.

  Again Condor dealt the cards around the table. There was a gasp from Rebecca when Goose was dealt a third faceup king! McCaleb stole a glance at Allison. The big man had eased his chair forward, all its legs resting on the floor. Condor dealt himself a second faceup ace, and McCaleb tensed as Goose did exactly what Condor had expected. The Indian swept all his winnings to the center of the table.

  “Levantar,” he said.

  “I’ll cover that,” said Condor. Slowly, dramatically, he began dealing the last hand. Goose drew a faceup nine of clubs. But before Condor could deal the last faceup card—his own—Clay Allison reached out and caught his wrist.

  “Put them down, Condor,” said Allison grimly. “Flat on the table.”

  Condor released what remained of the deck.

  “Now,” said Allison, “I want Judge Wolfe to draw that last card for you. From the top of the deck. Go ahead, Judge.”

  Carefully Judge Wolfe slid the top card off and turned it, revealing the queen of hearts.

  “Now let’s have a look at Mr. Condor’s hole card. Judge?”

  Judge Wolfe turned Condor’s hole card. It was the ace of clubs.

  “Now,” said Allison, “let’s see what’s on the very bottom of the deck; the last card. Judge?”

  Judge Wolfe drew the last card—the ace of spades.

  “You can’t prove a thing!” shouted Condor.

  “We don’t have to,” said McCaleb. “We’re settling the ownership of that last pot. Then maybe we’ll have another look at your rules.”

  Clay Allison turned the Indian’s hole card face up, placing the fourth king with the other three. Condor’s face paled but he sat there in silence.

  “Judge,” said McCaleb, “I’d appreciate it if you’d tally the pot.”

  It was the ultimate insult, but Condor kept his silence. There wasn’t the slightest doubt in McCaleb’s mind that Condor had cold-decked Goose, dealing him a four-of-a-kind, next-to-best hand. Then on the final draw—the showdown—the saloon owner would have dealt himself a fourth ace. From the bottom of the deck! It was brazen cheating, the very brazenness of it accounting for its occasional success. It was difficult to challenge a slick dealer, but McCaleb had seen some good ones. He could have stopped the game himself, but Clay Allison had wanted the satisfaction of exposing Condor’s crooked operation.

  “I count five thousand three hundred dollars,” said Judge Wolfe.

  “All right, Condor,” said McCaleb. “Ante up, in gold.”

  “I’ll have to get it from the safe,” said Condor sullenly. “Upstairs.”

  “I’ll go with you,” said McCaleb, “just to be sure you find your way back. Come on.”

  Condor got up and headed for the stairs.

  “Hold it, Condor,” said McCaleb. He turned to Judge Wolfe. “Judge, you and Salty had best be gettin’ out of here while you can. I can promise you we’ll be riding out just as soon as we finish our business with Mr. Condor. The rest of you, cover the front and back doors of this place until I return.”

  Slowly they ascended the spiral stairs, Condor walking ahead. McCaleb drew his Colt. How many of Condor’s men might be awaiting them on the second floor? McCaleb waited until they were near enough to the top of the stairs for him to see the length of the hall. He prodded Condor in the back with the muzzle of his Colt.

  “Not a sound out of you,” said McCaleb softly. “Where’s the office?”

  “Third door on the left,” said Condor.

  They paused before the door, McCaleb waiting impatiently with gun in hand while Condor fumbled for the key. The door swung open on oiled hinges and McCaleb waited until the saloon owner had entered the room. McCaleb followed, closing the door quietly behind him. There was a rolltop desk, a swivel chair, a pair of ladder-back cane-bottoms, and the squat, black gold-lettered safe. Condor knelt before it, turning the combination dial. He swung the door open, took a canvas bag, and began filling it.

  “Pile it on the floor,” said McCaleb. “When I’m satisfied it’s all there, then you can sack it.”

  They left the office, Condor walking ahead. Suddenly a door opened just ahead of them and McCaleb found himself looking into the startled eyes of a near-naked girl. She slammed the door and Condor used the distraction to his advantage. He dropped the heavy canvas sack, turned on McCaleb, and they fought for the Colt. The saloon man was bull-strong, and as he drove McCaleb’s arm upward, the Colt blasted a slug into the ceiling. Other doors opened and other men were on him, one of them from behind. A brawny arm encircled his throat, cutting off his wind. He caught one of his attackers in the groin with his knee, but there were too many of them. A blow to the back of his head sent him to his knees, and one of them slammed a boot heel into his ribs. Somewhere far away he thought he heard pistol shots. With a crash, one of his assailants went to the floor, and there was the sound of booted feet pounding down the hall behind him. McCaleb shook his head and through blurred vision saw Rebecca Nance at the head of the stairs, a Colt in her hand. He got up, stumbling against the wall.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled. “Condor—”

  “He went down the hall toward the back stairs,” said Rebecca. “I shot this one, but the rest of them went with him. We’d better get downstairs; there’s been shooting outside, front and back of the saloon.”

  Clay Allison stood next to the back door leading to the alley, a Colt in his hand. Monte Nance covered the front door, while Brazos stood beside a front window, peering around the heavy drapes. The right sleeve of his shirt was bloody from shoulder to elbow. He turned to McCaleb.

  “They’ve got a pair of dead-eyes coverin’ the front and back with rifles. They nailed me before I could get in here, and I don’t know where Will is. He was coverin’ the back door, and
it sounded like all hell busted loose in the alley. Soon as the judge and the others got out, they cut down on us.”

  “Condor and a couple of his men went down the back stairs,” said McCaleb. “With that rifleman already out there, I hope they didn’t catch Will in a cross-fire. Where’s Goose?”

  “He lit out the front door,” said Allison, “soon as he heard the fight upstairs. He knew somethin’ was wrong, and I’d say he’s gone looking for Condor.”

  “The Hogue boys are out there somewhere,” said Brazos. “That’s why they let Goose out; they aim to kill him.”

  “Keep firing,” said McCaleb. “I want to see where those sharpshooters are holed up. I’m going out there and take them out of the fight. Then we can maybe give Goose a fighting chance. Come on, Rebecca; I need your help.”

  He took the stairs two at a time, Rebecca right behind him. He went to the door of the near-naked girl who had made Condor’s escape possible. It was locked. He lunged at it, splintering the door frame above and below the lock. The girl, clad only in her underwear, came off the bed screaming.

  “Put a stop to that,” snapped McCaleb, “any way you can.”

  Rebecca brought a right all the way from her knees, connecting with the saloon girl’s chin. The girl slammed against the wall, slid down to a sitting position against it and was quiet.

  “Find something to tie her with,” said McCaleb. “Gag her too.”

  He set about ripping the sheets off the bed. He tied two together and dragged the bed over next to the window. He hoped they had positioned men to cover the front and rear of the saloon and hadn’t surrounded it. He tied one end of the pair of sheets to the bed frame and raised the window. He turned to find that Rebecca had stripped the woman of her undergarments and had used them to bind and gag her.