by Win Blevins
Sam laughed. “My mom used to give my dad soda water when he got into the whiskey.”
Man, being reasonable, must get drunk;
The best of life is but intoxication.
“Now that,” Sam said, “is a verse the fellows would like.”
“We don’t need whiskey to be intoxicated,” said Hannibal.
Hannibal also promised to get Sam some more books, so he could read on his own. That thought made Sam sad, because it reminded him that he and Hannibal wouldn’t always be partners. Hannibal liked too well to go his own way.
ON HIS SATURDAY nights in town Sam kept his promise to Grumble and earned his share of the horses Grumble paid for—he helped with the cherub’s deceptions. Here in Santa Fe, where Grumble wanted to stay for a while, that meant nothing more elaborate than card games. Certainly, though, no one could call what Grumble did either playing or gambling.
Every day Sumner worked on his card skills under Grumble’s tutelage, practicing dealing off the bottom of the deck for hour upon hour. “Look here,” he said, when Sam walked into their lodgings one Saturday afternoon. He put the two black aces on top of the deck and the two red aces on the bottom. Then he dealt Sam a four-card hand—all aces. Sumner did it several times. Sam and Hannibal watched intently, but neither of them could ever see that Sumner was dealing from the bottom.
Coy barked sharply, whether in applause or protest none of them knew. Sumner chuckled. “He wants to play. That coyote be a gamblin’ man.”
“Next step,” said Grumble. He told Sam to put the four aces together, split the deck, and tuck them directly into the middle. Sam did. Grumble dealt a three-card hand to each man, three cards being the right number for the most popular card game in Santa Fe, called brag.
Each man got an ace.
“You gotta be a witch to deal out of the middle,” said Sumner.
None of them had imagined such a thing could be done. They watched as Grumble did it again, and again. None could spot it.
“All right, teach me,” said Sumner.
Sam could hear lust in his voice.
“When these greenhorns aren’t here,” said Grumble. “We con men want to keep some secrets within the fraternity.”
“I’ll never play cards for money again,” said Hannibal.
“Best not,” said Grumble with a sly smile.
Grumble said nothing about his biggest card secret. Abby had a Baltimore manufacturer make her decks of cards from her own design. Though the swirls and whorls on the back of each card looked the same, they were not. When Abby saw the backs, she knew what every card was.
Grumble possessed one of the decks, an advantage in card games that could not be beaten.
“Now, this last is what you might call an honest trick. In some games it’s a big advantage to know which cards have been dealt and which are still in the deck, especially the face cards.”
He handed the deck to Sam. “Sam, pick any thirteen cards, any thirteen, and lay them face up.”
Sam did.
Grumble studied them for a few seconds. “Now pick them up. Hold them so Hannibal and Sumner can see them and I can’t.”
Sam and Sumner split the cards and fanned them.
“King, two queens, ten, three eights, seven, six, a pair of fours, trey, deuce,” recited Grumble.
He was exactly right.
“Now I can memorize the face value of thirteen quickly. One day I’ll be able to memorize the value and the suit.”
No one had a word to say.
“Of course, as Sam knows, winning at gambling is child’s play. What’s fun is what you might call the more elaborate cons. Deceptions that become works of art.”
“And we won’t do those here, not while we plan to stay here,” Sam said.
“As you wish.” Grumble smiled. “Merely winning is a little dull, but we’ve managed to attract some monied gentlemen who see losing as a challenge to rise to. I look forward to tonight. Along about seven, as we say in Nuevo Mexico.”
“DON GILBERTO, WELCOME!” Grumble called. A Mexican gentleman bounced up to their table, fat and dressed like a fop. This man’s style was to think everything in the world was funny, including losing a hand. Which was a good thing, because he lost lots of them.
“Don’t you ever take the game seriously?” said the American who sat across from the Mexican. This man, whose name was Charles, or Don Carlos to the other dons, played with a fierce American competitiveness and lost almost as often as Don Gilberto, and with a good spirit. Sam thought his gravy-dripping accent was comical. The man hailed from New Orleans.
Sam had discovered he didn’t much like cards or smoky cantinas. But he got a kick out of seeing Grumble play the pigeons for all they were worth.
The pigeons tonight were Don Carlos and Don Gilberto. Grumble said the men of the upper class were all disenfranchised hidalgos, sent to this most remote of Spanish outposts as punishment, and so treated life as a bitter joke.
Sam couldn’t remember Charles’s last name. A Creole and a Catholic, he had come from St. Louis with a trading outfit on the Santa Fe Trail, taken Mexican citizenship, and set up a trading company. According to Paloma, all the traders dealt in slaves.
Two pigeons tonight, then, plus Grumble and cappers, “what we in the con game call our helpers.” Grumble liked to put on the air of an elegant, wealthy alcoholic, always sloshed, and win only an occasional hand himself.
On one night Flat Dog and Hannibal would leave with full pockets, another night Sam and Sumner. And most nights one Santa Fe local would break even or win a little, and two would lose big. Which just made them more avid to come back another night and get even.
Brag was a simple game. Grumble predicted that within a decade a more complicated version called poker would dominate. Every player put a coin in the pot for ante and got three cards. Then, clockwise, the players bet—you got no more cards, and you either had to bet or fold. Sam didn’t make his own decisions—he waited for a signal from Grumble. Around and around went the bets, and when only two were left, they showed their hands. The best possible hand was a pair royal, or “prial,” three of a kind.
By Grumble’s minute signals—he was reading the backs of the cards—he told his cappers when to fold, when to match the bet, and when to raise.
Though Sam was bored by the cards, he was intrigued by the men.
Now Grumble dealt, and on his left Gilberto made no one wait. “I play blind,” he said. This meant he would bet without looking at his cards. “Dos pesos.” The fat man liked to take big chances and laugh a lot. He’d probably lost fifty pesos so far tonight, a modest amount by his standards.
Don Carlos played cards the way he carried himself, tightly and stiffly. At the table or on the street, he always seemed to have a suspicious set of mouth and an eye eager for an edge. He caught up with the bet and added five pesos.
Sam and Flat Dog watched Grumble’s small signals and built up the pot. When Sumner’s turn came, he made a show of it. “Ah likes this,” he said in his slave English, “Ah likes it fine, just fine. I see…how many to me, Mr. Grumble?”
“Thirteen,” mouthed the cherub. His lips pursed. He thought these displays of Sumner’s too ostentatious, but half of him enjoyed them.
“Thirteen to me. Thirteen pesos, that is, oh, don’t I wish it was thirteen dollars. I don’t hold with these no-account pesos.”
“Suh,” said Don Carlos. He disliked Sumner, and these antics only made it worse. “In front of that man,” Sumner had confessed to Sam privately, “Ah loves to play the Nigger.”
Now Sumner stood up, beaming, taking his moment in the sun. “Do NOT interrupt me. Do NOT get in my way. I am a man came to play and I will PL-A-A-A-Y.” He made the word into a whinny.
Coy gave a short bark at him.
Slurring his speech, Grumble said, “Place your bet, sir.” Sam never knew what Grumble did with the brandy—winners bought rounds constantly—but he knew very well that Grumble was sober and sharp.
“Thirteen, I say,” and Sumner put those down, “I say thirteen”—he picked up his pile of coins—“and I raise, I raise…ten.”
Ten was the agreed limit.
Grumble pushed out his coins crookedly, as though even his hand couldn’t help weaving. He gave the table a cupid smile.
Around and around the table the bet went. After another round, Gilberto folded, still not having looked at his cards. “I must see what’s going on in the kitchen,” he said. “It smells delicious.”
At his turn Sumner stood up again. He preened. He took a breath and held it. His eyes grew huge. It appeared that he would explode if he held his words inside any longer.
Carlos looked so irritated that Sam thought he needed watching.
“I FO-O-O-LD,” said Sumner grandly, and sat down.
Coy whined.
Grumble, whose head now seemed to sag toward his belly, said, “You can’t beat this company for bonhomie.” He winked at Sam, because it was a word he’d taught Sam just today. The cherub pushed his coins out, and the betting went on.
When only Flat Dog and Don Carlos were left, they raised each other over and over. Finally the Louisianan lost his nerve and called.
Flat Dog smiled and slowly plunked his cards down on the table, one by one—three jacks. It was a hand to bet big on, for sure, but now the Crow waited. Not only could a prial of queens, kings, or aces beat him—by rule the best possible hand was three treys.
Carlos spilled his hand onto the table faceup. Three nines.
Everyone laughed and congratulated Flat Dog loudly. The pot he collected was two months’ wages, and he was the big winner for the night.
Sumner got up and clapped both his shoulders from behind. “What a man! What a man!”
Don Carlos gave the black a sour look.
Sam was tickled. If Grumble enjoyed gulling anyone the most, it was Carlos. Aside from being arrogant, Grumble said, “The man is infected with racial hatred.”
Whenever Sumner won, which was seldom, he scooted all the coins into his hat, stood up, did a dance, held the hat over his head, jingle-jangled the coins, and sang, “This child done won! This child done won!”
Sam said to him outside the cantina one night, as they walked home, “Don’t you worry about going too far?”
“Black man can’t go too far playing the fool. White folks nod their heads and say, ‘Look at that Nigger. What a fool he be.’ Believe anything, them white folks.”
Grumble nodded in agreement.
Now it was late and Sam was weary of cards, weary of the brandy, weary of the smoky room. “Just one more hand,” he said.
“Give this child of God that deck,” said Sumner. It was his turn to deal. Though he was under strict instruction from Grumble not to try dealing seconds or bottoms yet, Sumner always grabbed the deck with great enthusiasm, as though he could make something special happen. “I have a very good card here for my friend Don Gilberto.” He snapped a card facedown in front of the don, who was almost too drunk to keep his eyes open.
“And equally good cards for”—he clicked them down in front of each man—“my friends Sam, Carlos, Flat Dog, the stodgy old Grumble, and my humble self.” He stroked his own card as though it were a pet, and made a cooing sound.
“Now!” he said, pausing dramatically. “That first card is a beauty. Any one could be a winner. The question is the second. Here’s for you, Don Carlos. What do you say, is it good?”
Carlos didn’t touch his facedown cards.
“Our Louisiana friend has nothing to say.”
Sumner dealt the other cards and paraded out questions for every man. Gilberto was loud in his confidence. Sam said, honestly, that he was too tired to care. When he peeked at his cards and saw two queens, he still didn’t care.
Grumble said, “The dealer should not be a performer.”
Sumner laughed and dealt himself the last card. “A card of genius, I assure you all. Without looking, I can tell you I have a pair.”
Grumble’s face didn’t change, but Sam saw a glint in his eyes.
Sam slid his third card off the table, saw the third queen, and put it back down. He looked words at Sumner. You’re dealing off the bottom, you devil.
Coy gave a short, muffled bark.
Sumner grinned at Sam. Was he proud of the three queens? Or did he know Sam’s thought? This is dangerous.
Carlos went for a raise of five pesos whenever it was his turn to bet. Sam raised quietly, one or two pesos, without emphasis. Grumble had taught him to keep the suckers in the pot.
Sam was getting uneasy. Sumner wasn’t just pretending to have fun. There was something here he really liked.
Coy shifted from lying at Sam’s feet to sitting up. He also smelled trouble coming.
Round and round the bets went. Finally, three players were left, Sam, Don Carlos, and Sumner. The pot was huge, probably eight hundred pesos.
Suddenly Don Carlos dropped words into the air like individual stones plopped into a pond. His voice curdled with something that gave Sam a chill.
“I think the Nigger is cheating.”
Quick as a snake, Sumner’s hand dived inside his coat.
Just as fast, Grumble locked his forearm in a fierce grip. “Let us all remember our manners,” the cherub said casually.
Everyone at the table tensed, ready to dive for cover or grab a weapon. Coy growled, and Sam thought that if he snapped out a bark, everyone at the table would attack everyone else.
“My dear sir,” said Grumble to Don Carlos, “I think you know better. This child of nature has neither the guile nor the intellect to commit such chicanery.”
Carlos’s face was boiling red. Everyone waited, poised.
“I will prove it,” said Grumble. “Sam, show us your cards.” His voice was as smooth as a hand stroking a cat.
Sam turned over three queens.
It seemed like the whole table gasped. A prial, and a high one.
“Don Carlos, my esteemed friend, now your cards.”
Carlos hesitated. Then, one by one, a sneer on his face, he turned them over.
King of diamonds.
King of hearts.
King of spades.
Now the gasp was louder. A higher prial.
“And last let us see what the good Sumner’s cards are.” Grumble reached out and turned them over himself.
Ace of spades.
Ace of hearts.
Ten of clubs.
Everyone laughed uproariously. No one had seen anything so funny in his life. Don Gilberto, not Don Carlos, seemed to enjoy it the most. He guffawed, tried to drink his brandy at the same time, and spilled the brandy all down his front.
Everyone hee-hawed louder. Two of them were laughing out of relief—Sam and Flat Dog knew damned well that Grumble had palmed that third ace and dropped the ten in its place.
“Take your pot, sir,” said Grumble to Don Carlos.
Carlos raked the coins toward himself.
“The finest pot of the night, it appears,” said the cherub. “And I believe this will make an evening for me. Good night, gentlemen.”
Carlos scooped the whole pot into his hat, stood up, held the hat over his head, jingle-jangled the gold and silver loudly, and did a mocking dance. All the while he fixed his eyes fiercely on Sumner.
Sam wanted desperately to go, but Grumble’s rule was that they leave one by one, to put off suspicion of collaboration. Still, after two more hands Sam was on the street in the cold night air, breathing freely.
As they all crawled into their blankets later, Grumble said nothing to Sumner about the event except, “It would be well if you don’t attend the games for a week or so.”
SO WENT THE winter for Sam. He spent five days a week with Paloma at the rancho, training her horses, teaching her his training methods, getting to know her in every way. Every weekday he had lunch with Flat Dog and Julia so he could be around Esperanza. One day while he was dandling her on his knee, Julia said, “Do you
realize you are never quite comfortable with Esperanza?”
“I’m fine with her,” said Sam.
Julia shrugged. “It doesn’t seem so. Do you resent her for causing Meadowlark’s death?”
“Sure not,” Sam said quickly.
Julia cocked an eyebrow at him.
Sam picked up the child and turned away from Julia.
He spent weekends with his other amigos reading and gambling. At Rancho de las Palomas he earned some money, and at the gambling table he got hold of more. Though he spent some on cute baby clothes, his hunting pouch held a lot of coins, and he kept more in a pouch hung around his neck.
The best of the winter, though, was that he healed. Sam’s body got its first rest, really, in a year and a half. He gained weight and fleshed out some hard edges on his body. Though Meadowlark’s death still felt like a spike driven into his chest, he found a way to live with the pain. He knew that what healed him, mostly, was Paloma’s love. Love in the physical sense and love, even if she never said so, in another and better sense. In her eyes he was a good man.
He improved his reading more and more, because he liked it and he worked at it. He even started picking out written Spanish words. When he and Paloma rode or walked the streets of Santa Fe, she would tell him the meanings of the signs in front of the shops. To help with pronunciation, she explained what sounds each of the letters made and had him speak the words after her.
One afternoon Sam and Paloma sat in the courtyard in the sun. Sam read one of her father’s books in English. “English,” she said, “what an ugly language, all full of sounds that grate on the tongue. And when you look at the words, you have no idea how to say them.” Though Paloma’s father did teach her some English, and she understood it, she disliked the language and declined to speak it.
“The only advantage of Spanish,” he half mumbled, “is that the rules make it easy to figure out how to say the words.”
“Spanish,” she said, “is a lovely language of classic beauty. It flows as water runs smoothly over rocks. The Spanish language is beauty.”
“I like English,” he mumbled.
“Ha! I will show you.”
