Dead Man's Poker

by Giles Tippette

  I looked at Justa. He was slowly chewing a piece of flour tortilla. I said, “Well, hell, you certainly can make yourself clear when you want to.”

  He said, “I let Nora explain it so you wouldn’t think I was doing it behind her back and object on her account. Not,” he added right quick, “that I ever do anything behind her back.”

  Nora raised her eyes to the ceiling. She said, “We built a good strong roof on this place. Not so much to keep the rain out as to keep Justa’s lies from rising up to heaven.”

  I said, “Only thing about your plan is I’m starting to get a little itchy. I’m feeling pretty good and I’d like to get kicking. When was you thinking of going to Galveston?”

  Justa said, “Well, tomorrow’s Sunday. Wouldn’t be much point in going then. We’ll go Monday. That’s just two more days. Ought to make it up and back the same day. Besides,” he said, “I got to take those tents out of your wounds this afternoon.”

  “Like hell,” I said.

  “You heard Dr. Adams. Got to jerk them out. You might not be so spry and ready time I get that done.”

  I’d forgotten all about removing those tents. My wound had been itching at both openings, which, from past experience, I knew was a good sign. It meant they were healing in a proper manner. I said, kind of resignedly, “All right. I guess it’s got to be done. But you damn well better not act like you’re enjoying it.”

  Justa said, to Nora, “Honey, will you find me some kind of bandages? They’ve got to be wrapped around his chest.”

  She said, “I know just the thing. I’ve got a clean sheet that’s seen better days. I’ll rip you some strips from that.”

  Justa said, “Better bring plenty. It’ll probably start the bleeding again.” He looked at me. He said, “Them tents are really stuck up in them holes a good ways.”

  I said, “Why don’t you just go to hell?”

  When lunch was over, I had a drink of brandy, and then Justa and I went into the bedroom I was occupying. Justa had the bandages his wife had given him. I took off my shirt and sat down in a chair. Justa unwrapped the old dressing that the doctor had put on. The tents, the cloth strips, were hanging out of the bullet holes. Of course I could only see the one in front, but it looked remarkably clean, like the wound hadn’t drained much at all.

  Justa said, “You want me to work these out or just jerk them out in one pull.”

  I said, “Just jerk them out.”

  “All right. Grit your teeth.”

  But, amazingly, they slid out with no more pain than a stubbed toe. Justa said, “This back one ain’t even bleeding. Some little pink stuff kind of leaking out.”

  I looked down at the hole in my side in the front. I said, “Same here. I believe it is doing all right. I may live.”

  Nora came in then and pushed Justa out of the way and took over the job of wrapping the bandages around my chest. I think she’d known without me saying nothing that I hadn’t wanted her in there when the tents came out in case I had to let out a yelp. But she could do the bandaging better than an old fumble fingers like Justa.

  After I had my shirt back on, we went and sat in the parlor and had a drink, and I told Justa about my visit with his father. I said, “He wants to play poker and no mistake.”

  “He try to work you for a drink?”

  I looked innocent. I wasn’t going to tell on the man. I said, “Naw. What are you talking about?”

  Justa shrugged. He said, “I’m just surprised. Howard has got a peculiar honor system when it comes to the whiskey. The bottle sits in there all day, and he could have half a dozen if he wanted, but he generally won’t sneak one. But if he can get somebody to bring him one so that he’s drinking with a guest, why then he figures that one don’t count. Not that he don’t sneak them anyway, but he don’t count them others that he finagles his way into. Yeah, I reckon we ought to play some poker. Howard don’t get all that much recreation. And he does love to play poker.”

  I didn’t much want to play with friends. I said, “What we going to play for, two-bit, four-bit?”

  Justa said, “With Howard? Hell, no! He’d tell you right quick that’s just draw out. Howard can play, believe me. And he knows how to use a bet. He don’t figure it’s a bet unless it’s going to hurt you to call and lose. I imagine we’ll play dollar ante, pot limit.”

  That kind of poker could build some sizeable pots and also dig into a man’s pocketbook. I said, “Justa, you reckon we ought to play for that much?”

  He said, “Howard won’t play for less. And we ought to have a sixth player. I guess I’ll loan Ray Hays some money, five hundred or so.”

  “Five hundred?” I couldn’t imagine loaning a cowhand that kind of money. I said, “He draw those kind of wages? Where you can loan him that much money?”

  Justa said, “Hell, no!” He looked at me like I’d lost my mind. He said, “He draws what everybody else draws. We are just a good deal freer about loaning him money.”

  “How does he pay it back?”

  “He don’t. But we can’t pay him more than the other hands. That would cause trouble. Besides, any money I give him won’t leave the game. I’ll see to that.”

  I said, “Well, if you’re sure this is going to be all right. I guess I could play kind of bad.”

  He cut his eyes around at me. He said, “You think you’re a better poker player than I am?”

  I said, “No. I don’t think I’m a better player. I know I am.”

  “We’ll see,” he said.

  Out of respect for the old man’s bedtime we started in playing early, about seven o’clock that evening. I didn’t play too hard, kind of hiding my light under a bushel, except when I got a shot at Justa. Ben, as might have been figured, was a wild, plunging player, having no idea of managing his money or any of the strategies of the game. Norris was a very cautious better, throwing in his hand too early sometimes and then other times not betting enough when the odds were on his side. Ray Hays played like a man playing on borrowed money. On the few occasions when I found myself head up with him at the close of a hand, I threw my cards in just to make sure he won enough pots to stay about even.

  Justa played a good, solid game. That evening he wasn’t catching many good cards, but, over the course of time, he would take the money of most amateurs. I nearly had him sandbagged one time in a hand of five-card draw when I drew one card to a hand of three kings, a hand I’d normally have drawn two cards to. The one-card draw made him think I was holding two pair. He could have thought I was drawing to a straight or a flush, but I’d opened, so he knew I had at least jacks or better. I checked my three kings, and Ben bet twenty dollars. Justa raised him fifty dollars, making it seventy dollars to me. I called the seventy and then raised two hundred. Ben folded, and then Justa spent an awful long time looking at me and then at his cards. Finally he said, “I think I got the best hand,” and he showed me three tens. He said, “But I’m going to throw them in. I don’t think you made a full house. I think you got two pair.”

  I said, “What I got is two hundred dollars. How about you?”

  He pitched his cards in. He said, “I’ll bet you fifty dollars on the side you ain’t got better than two pair.”

  I showed him the three kings, and he silently passed me over fifty dollars in chips. Ben said, “He make his full house?”

  “I can’t say,” Justa said. But I could see he was broiling to make some sort of remark about people who disguised their hands by making a one-card draw to three of a kind.

  But it was the old man who was the revelation. He, indeed, had done his fair share of shearing the sheep. I imagined that more than one nail that had gone into the roof over our heads had been paid for with poker winnings. I took special note during the early part of the game that he was careful to get caught bluffing, especially when the bet was small. Of course the purpose of that was to trap you, later on, when he was holding the real goods and the bet was much larger. Then you’d think the old man was just trying
to buy another pot, only to discover, to the reduction of your pile of chips, that he had the best hand.

  We had resolved to quit no later than ten o’clock so that Howard could get to bed. We were playing five-card stud, and my first four cards were all of a row—a four, five, six, with a seven in the hole. All I had to do was catch a three or an eight on the next card, and I’d have the straight. But Howard had been betting hard almost from the very first. Of course I didn’t know what his hole card was, but before the last card, he had a pair of aces showing and a ten. His hard betting had driven out everyone but me and him, and I’d called a twenty-dollar bet to see the last card. Justa was dealing and he gave me an eight. I had my straight. Then he gave Howard a ten, and the old man had two pair showing, aces and tens.

  He said, “Heh, heh, heh!” pracitally rubbing his hands in glee. He said, “Oh, I’ve got you now, Mr. Wilson Young. You have made your straight, an eight high I’ll bet. And I’ve got a full house and you don’t believe it! Yes, sir, I have got you now! With that straight which I am convinced you’ve got, you’ve got to call any bet I make. And I’ve got a full house!”

  Of course he’d known I was drawing for a straight since I’d stayed through some stiff bets without any pairs showing, certainly nothing that could have beat his aces. He couldn’t necessarily know I had the straight, though if he had the full house, he’d sure be hoping I did. The odds on drawing a straight in five-card stud are very long. The odds on drawing a full house are very, very long. The sad part about making a full house in stud is that usually no one can beat the two pair you’ve got showing, so everyone folds and you don’t make any money off a superb hand. What you dream of is to have the full house and to have some poor sucker have a straight, or even a flush. Or even three of a kind. All of those beat two pair, and he can’t fold without seeing your hole card.

  So Howard had me over a barrel. He said, “Yessir! Yessir! I have got me one professional gambler and I’ve got him good. Tell you what, Mr. Young . . . I am going to make this mighty light on you. I am just going to bet a hunnert dollars into you. Now you can raise, you understand.” And then he went, “Heh, heh, heh,” again.

  I said, to Justa, “That’s some poker face your daddy has got there. What does he act like when he actually get a good hand?”

  Howard said, “You’ll think good hand, Mr. Young, if you pay to see this here hole card.”

  I looked down at my pile of chips and calculated that I was about three hundred ahead. I thought I’d give the old man a little fun for his money. I knew he didn’t have the full house. The other players in the game were careless about throwing their hands back in the discard pile when they folded, and some of them had been thrown back faceup. I had already seen two aces and two tens, and unless the old man was playing with a different deck, there wasn’t another ace or ten for him to have facedown as his hole card. I said, “All right, sir, tell you what I’m going to do.” I picked up chips and threw them in the jackpot in the middle of the table. I said, “There’s your hundred, and I’m just going to raise you back fifty dollars.”

  “Fifty dollars!” he said. “Is that all you be going to raise? My Lord, son, you are playing a child’s game. I never heard of such a thing, man raising just fifty dollars with a wired straight. I’ll show you what a raise is.” He went to fumbling around in his chips with his old, gnarled hands and pushed two stacks forward. He said, “There! There’s your fifty and two hunnert besides. Now, that’s what we call a raise.”

  I looked at him for a moment and laughed. He was having a mighty good time. Finally I looked sour. I said, “What the hell. You convinced me. I guess you’ve got the full house.” I turned my cards over and threw them in.

  Boy, that got a rise out of him. He raked in the chips, chortling all the while like a rooster in a henhouse. Then nothing would do but that he had to show me he’d bluffed me out of the pot. It ain’t considered real good etiquette in a serious poker game to do so, but he turned his hole card over to show me it didn’t match his aces or tens. It was a jack of diamonds. Naturally I had to swear around for a minute or two and call him some names for bluffing me out like that and generally just let him enjoy the moment.

  That was one of the last hands. Walking through the night, Justa said, “You knew Howard didn’t have a full house. How come you let him win?”

  I yawned. I said, “What would you have done? Reckon how much fun that old man has from day to day?”

  Justa said, “Well, you done good. Though I didn’t know you could be a professional gambler and have a soft heart. I thought you was supposed to be willing to win the milk money off new mothers.”

  “Only the ugly ones,” I said.

  But my mind was really elsewhere. Now that I was nearly healed, I was itching to get the business settled with Phil Sharp and get back to the running of my establishment. I had no idea of how I was going to get at him because I expected that he would be wary for some time to come. But I just had to hope that I could manage to arrange matters to my advantage somehow. But of course I knew better than to put much faith in hope. Hope and four quarters make an even dollar.

  I got up around eight o’clock, having lain awake studying on how I was going to approach Sharp, went into the bathroom and washed my face and tended to my teeth and then wandered into the kitchen. Justa was sitting at the table drinking coffee. I said, “Where’s Nora?”

  He said, “It’s Sunday. She’s gone in to church. Had to leave early on account of she teaches Sunday school.”

  I said, “How come you didn’t go?”

  He was measuring sugar into his cup. He said, without looking up, “I don’t teach Sunday school.”

  I got myself a cup and went over to the stove and poured myself out some coffee from the pot. Justa said, “Juanita’s around here somewhere. She’ll fix you some breakfast. I already ate.”

  I wasn’t particularly hungry, but Justa thought it was a good idea that I eat, so he hollered up Juanita and she fixed me some ham and eggs.

  After breakfast we went out and Justa saddled up a couple of horses. He kept three in the little trap right behind his house. He rode the dun he’d been on when he’d come into town and saddled a little roan mare for me. I protested that I could saddle my own horse, but Justa said it was best not to risk tearing anything at this late date. He said, “I can’t have you ruining all that careful doctoring I done for you just because you got to be bullheaded.”

  We mounted up, and then Justa took me on a circuit of parts of the ranch. Of course it was too big to cover in one day, being about two hundred thousand acres in grazing land. But we took a look at the purebred Hereford herd, which was Justa’s pride and joy. They were little square-built cattle that Justa said were gentle and easy to work and pure beef from one end to another. He said they were worth, when the market was right, better than twice what a crossbred steer would bring and that there was no comparison between them and the old longhorns.

  Every now and then we’d see a rider tending to a small herd of mama cows. Justa said the calving was just about over, so they’d given half the men the day off. The other half would get the next Sunday off.

  We fooled around until just about noon and then rode up to the big house. We’d take lunch there, as Nora wouldn’t be back until the afternoon and Juanita was given Sundays off as soon as she fixed breakfast.

  The five of us ate around a great big old-fashioned round dining table that looked like it must have weighed a ton. Ben said, to me, “We’re in luck. Buttercup’s drunk.”

  I didn’t quite get that until Justa explained that Buttercup was an old bronc buster who’d been with his daddy since Noah and the flood. Justa said, looking at his daddy, “He can’t cook a lick. In fact he’s going to kill somebody someday, but Howard insists on letting him cook for the family. We got two Mexican women that are good cooks, and they cook for the crew. The hired hands would all quit if they had to eat Buttercup’s cooking, but Howard figures it’s all right if he poisons
the family.”

  Howard said, “Now, Justa, you got to leave a man a little pride. Tom Butterfield helped me settle this place—I wish you boys would quit calling him that awful name—and he’s entitled to his dignity. He won’t take a pension without earning it. That’s the way of the man.”

  Ben said, “But it’s all right today. The Mexican women will do us up fine.”

  Howard was looking to be in pretty good shape. Justa said he didn’t often get up to eat with the family, just took a light meal back in the dayroom he stayed in right off the office. Now he looked at me and said, “Well, Mr. Young, run into any more bobtailed full houses lately?”

  I said, “Next time we play with my deck.”

  He give a pretty good “Heh, heh, heh” at that one, but I was just glad to see the old man feeling fine. Justa had talked about him in Del Rio and had said he didn’t know what he was going to do when Howard finally crossed on over. He said, “I know as much about ranching as any man in the country. And I know how to direct Norris in his business ventures and how to control Ben when he gets out of hand. But there’s something about knowing that Howard is always there, that I can go to him for advice, that gives me a sure feeling about matters. I don’t go to him that often, but I dread the day when he ain’t going to be there to go to.” Justa had said he had his good days and his bad days, but he’d said, “As time passes he’s having more bad days than good ones. One day a bad day is going to be his last one.”

  For lunch we had a beef stew that was just about the best I’d ever had. It was in a good thick gravy with big chunks of tender beef and potatoes and carrots and onions. To go with it the Mexican women brought in big platters of thickly sliced light bread, and I just ate until I thought I’d pop. We drank beer with the meal. The Williamses kept a number of kegs down in the cellar, and the women kept bringing up big pitchers of the cool beer. When we finally finished, I wasn’t sure I could walk.