by Doug Bowman
It was not yet ten o’clock when Rollins returned to the Texas, but the place was already crowded, with men jostling each other for a position at the bar. Tim Overstreet was hard at work, as was his counterpart at the far end of the plank. Rollins stood leaning against a post for a few moments, then moved closer to the gaming tables. Many house dealers would not deal more than six poker hands at a time, and Rollins saw immediately that six players sat at each of the tables. He spoke to the dealer of a draw poker game: “I’d like to take a hand when you get an open seat.”
The man gave him a quick glance, then continued to shuffle the cards. “The only way to guarantee yourself a seat is to put up some money. Then if you ain’t here when a seat comes open, you’ll have to pay the ante anyway. Every hand that’s dealt, you’ll have to pay the ante, just like you would if you was sittin’ there.”
Rollins shrugged. “I understand.” He laid a double eagle in front of the dealer. “I won’t be far away; I’ll be able to see when somebody drops out of the game.” Then he headed for the crowded bar to see if he could catch the eye of Tim Overstreet and get a drink. The bartender spotted Bret immediately. He motioned him to the bar and handed him a glass of whiskey, waving away his attempt to pay. Bret accepted the glass and returned to the post. Standing in the dimly lit center of the room, he had a good view of the gaming tables, and could even read the facial expressions of a few of the gamblers.
Half an hour later, a man at the poker table threw down his cards in disgust and cursed loudly, pushing his chair back. Knowing that a seat was about to become available, Rollins was there quickly. “Hope this damned chair treats you better’n it did me,” the departing gambler said. “I sat there nearly two hours and won one stinkin’ little pot.”
Rollins smiled at the man and took the chair. “I’ve had my share of cold seats, too,” he said. “Maybe it’ll warm up after a while.” The man disappeared, and Rollins laid a hundred dollars on the table.
“Table stakes with a dime ante,” the dealer informed him, then began to gather up the scattered cards. “Five-card draw with nothin’ wild.”
“How about checks and raises?” Rollins asked. “After you’ve checked your hand to the man behind you, can you raise the pot if somebody else bets?”
“Damn tootin’,” the dealer said, motioning to him that he should ante up. “Around here, we call it settin’ a trap. If you check your hand and a man’s fool enough to come bettin’ into you, you can raise his ass every penny he’s got in front of him. That’s why we call it table stakes. You can bet a man everything he’s got anytime you want to; he’s got to call the bet or fold his cards.”
Rollins nodded and dropped a dime in the pot. He had not needed the dealer’s explanation of how the game was played. He had mentioned checks and raises mostly to plant a seed in the minds of his opponents around the table, hoping to make them wary of betting into him if he chose to check a weak hand. He had also asked the question because he had played in games before where raising after checking a hand was not tolerated. He had long ago made it his policy to ask questions before taking a hand of cards at a strange table. It simply cleared the air and left less room for arguments.
The “cold” chair the man had left Rollins did not warm up as the night wore on. When the dealer called a halt to the game at midnight, Rollins was sixty dollars in the hole. He had won only a few small pots. Several times, when he had good cards, he dragged only the ante, for everybody else folded when he opened the pot.
Rollins rose from the table and pocketed his money, offering each of the players a broad smile. “Enjoyed it, gentlemen,” he said, nodding to each man individually. He was not dejected in the least, for he knew that both winning and losing streaks ran in cycles. Sometimes a man could win money blindfolded; at other times he could not even buy a pot. The trick was to weather the cold streaks by betting light, then bringing the big money into play when the good cards began to fall in your favor. Rollins never allowed a run of weak hands to dampen his spirits. He could recall many times when the cards had run against him all night long, then gotten worse after daybreak. At such times he usually stayed away from the games for a while, which was much cheaper than trying to ride out a losing streak.
He had a drink of whiskey at the bar, then walked next door to an all-night restaurant, where he ate two bowlfuls of vegetable soup. Some of the men he had played poker with were also busy eating, but Bret spoke to none of them. He had already socialized with them as much as was necessary and was hoping that the next time he spoke to any of them, he would be looking at a winning poker hand. He paid for his soup and walked to his hotel room.
Sleep was a long time coming, for as was usually the case after a night of poker, it took a while for his mind to unwind and slow down. He lay on his bed thinking of Zack Hunter and his County Line Ranch. Hunter was the best friend he had ever had, and he loved him like a brother. He also knew that although Zack would work his fingers to the bone to make a go of his ranch, the place was simply too small to offer the degree of security that Zack sought and so richly deserved. While the ranch would have been considered a large holding back home in Tennessee, in Texas it was of small consequence, barely large enough for a man to eke out a living. Rollins thought on the matter for a long time before going to sleep. What Zack needed, he decided, was more property.
Bret could see that the sun was already shining against the outside of the shaded window when he opened his eyes the following morning. Rising to a sitting position, he reached into his pants pocket and consulted his watch, which informed him that the hour was well past nine. Thinking that Zack had probably been at work for at least three hours, he began to walk toward the pan of water provided by the hotel.
He was on the street a half hour later. He had two cups of coffee at a small restaurant, but ordered no food. He had already seen today’s menu at the Texas Saloon. The noontime special would be chicken and dumplings, with rice pudding for dessert, and Rollins expected to be on hand. He had literally been raised on such food, and though he seldom saw it served in a restaurant, he never passed up a chance to eat it again.
At four in the afternoon, Rollins was sitting at the bar in the Texas Saloon, talking with Tim Overstreet. “Do they ever play for big stakes over there?” Rollins asked, motioning toward the poker tables.
“Oh, yeah,” Overstreet answered. “Sometimes one of the little games turns into a big one. Just ’cause they start out small don’t mean they’ll stay that way. After all the little fellows go broke, the big boys might bet each other a hundred dollars a card. Right after I went to work here, old Wesley Ames won over forty thousand dollars one Saturday afternoon.” He pointed past his shoulder. “Right there at that table in the corner.”
Rollins wet his lips with the beer he had been nursing for the better part of an hour, then got to his feet. “Forty thousand, huh?”
“Forty thousand.”
When Rollins was halfway to the front door, he called over his shoulder, “Guess I’ll play poker again tonight, but I intend to get an earlier start.”
He returned to his hotel room and stretched out on his bed for a nap. He wanted to be fresh and well rested when he revisited the saloon. “Forty thousand dollars,” Overstreet had said. The words had a nice ring. Bret fluffed up his pillow and dozed off.
He was back in the saloon at seven o’clock and played poker till the game broke up at midnight. He had won slightly more than a hundred dollars in five hours of play. The main topic of conversation around the table had been the “Big Game” that was scheduled to take place on Saturday, beginning at noon. “That sure ought to be something to watch,” one player said. “It’s gonna cost a thousand dollars to buy into the game, and a fellow has to put his money up first.”
Rollins was listening. “Do you know who’s gonna be playing?” he asked.
“Nope. Heard they got three players lined up already, though. I reckon Lonny Weeks, over at the bank, is holding the buy-in money. Anybody that
wants to be guaranteed a seat has to go talk with Weeks, and take him a thousand dollars.” The man continued to look at Rollins, who was rising from his chair. “Why do you ask?” he said. “You figure on getting in the game?”
Bret dropped his winnings in his pocket, then turned to leave. “Might be a little steep for me,” he answered, and walked from the building.
He was up early next morning and stood in front of the little restaurant waiting for it to open. When he had eaten breakfast, he walked to the barber shop and waited for it to open. After a shave and a bath, he returned to the hotel to change his clothing. He dressed in the simplest things he owned: jeans, flannel shirt and Mexican short jacket, all of which combined had cost less than ten dollars. He only wanted to look clean, not prosperous.
Half an hour later, he was at the bank. “I’d like to speak with Lonny Weeks,” he said to the bearded teller who greeted him.
“Junior or Senior?” the man asked.
“Well I … uh, really don’t know,” Rollins stammered. “I just heard that a man named Weeks is putting together a poker game for next Saturday.”
The man smiled. “That would be Lonny Junior,” he said, pointing to a closed door. “He’s in there alone. Just knock a few times and go on in.”
Rollins was soon shaking hands with a tall, lean man who appeared to be in his early thirties. Green-eyed, with a complexion that needed some sunlight, he pumped Bret’s hand several times and offered the standard businessman’s smile. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mister Rollins,” he said after Bret had given his name. “Is there something I can do for you?”
Rollins matched the banker’s smile. “I hear you’re putting together a poker game for next Saturday,” he said, “and I’d like to have a seat at the table.”
Weeks began to bite his lip, then reseated himself behind his desk. He seemed to be searching for the right words. “Has … has anybody told you the particulars of the game? I … I mean about the buy-in?”
“You mean the thousand dollars up front?”
Weeks nodded. “Well, yes. That’s what I meant.”
Rollins took his saddlebag from his shoulder and counted out a thousand dollars, laying the money on Weeks’ desk. “I’d like a receipt for that,” he said, “and the names of all the men I’ll be playing against.”
Clearly impressed with Rollins’ forthright manner, and surprised that he had come up with the cash, the banker bagged the money and wrote out a receipt. “I suppose you have a reason for wanting the names of all the other participants,” he said.
“Of course I do,” Bret said quickly. “It’s the same reason a prize fighter has for wanting to know who’s gonna be in the ring with him. He—”
“I’ll make a list of the names for you,” the banker interrupted, laughing. He was still smiling when he handed the names to Rollins. “You’ll notice that there are five names besides your own. As of right now, it is a closed game. Nobody else can get in it now or later. When a player goes broke and drops out, we’ll just deal fewer hands. It’ll finally come down to only two players, and they’ll butt heads till one of ’em has all the money.
“There’ll probably be a lot more than six thousand dollars in the game, though. A thousand is not the most a man can put in, it’s the least. A man can keep putting in new money all day if he’s got it. You can’t bet out of your pocket, though—the money has to be on the table. Table stakes.”
Rollins folded the list and shoved it into his pocket. “I understand the game,” he said, turning to leave.
Weeks stood behind his desk, nodding. “I’ve just got a feeling that that’s an understatement,” he said, only half in jest. “Good-bye, Mister Rollins, and I suppose I’ll see you again on Saturday.”
Bret walked the streets for a while, ending up at the livery stable. He was greeted by the big hostler, who offered him a cup of coffee. Bret accepted and leaned against the wall as he sipped the hot liquid. “How long have you had the stable?” he asked, mainly to make conversation.
“Since my daddy died, back in sixty-eight. He had it for more’n ten years, kept it open right on through the war.” He motioned toward the corral. “Been meaning to ask you,” he said. “You want me to put some new shoes on that roan of yours? I sure believe I heard one of ’em rattling this morning.”
Rollins nodded. “He’s a good horse; do whatever needs doing.” He offered his right hand to the liveryman. “By the way, my name’s Rollins.”
“Potts,” the hostler said, matching Rollins’ firm grip.
Rollins drank the last of his coffee and placed the cup on a nearby table. Then he handed Potts the list of names given to him by the banker. “Know any of these men?” he asked.
Potts scanned the list with squinting eyes. “Know ’em all,” he said, then returned the list to Bret.
When the liveryman said nothing else on the subject, Rollins tried again. “Can you tell me something about the nature of the men on the list?” he asked.
“I don’t know nothing about the nature of ’em. All I know is that they all eat a lot higher on the hog than I do. They don’t associate with working men like me. The only times any of ’em ever spoke to me was when they needed something.”
Rollins shoved the list into his jacket pocket. “Thank you, Mister Potts.” He turned to leave, then said over his shoulder, “Go ahead and shoe the horse; I’ll see you later.”
Shortly after noon, Rollins seated himself on a barstool at the Texas Saloon. He bought a beer, then handed the list of names to Overstreet. “Do you know anything about these men, Tim?”
The bartender glanced at the list, then nodded. “I guess so. What do you want to know?”
“Anything you can tell me. Just start at the top of the list.”
Overstreet spent the better part of the next hour discussing the men on the list, halting only occasionally to serve a drink to a thirsty customer.
When Bret left the saloon, he had a mental picture of the men he would be facing in the poker game. He had already met Lonny Weeks, and Overstreet had supplied a good description of the other players: Wallace T. Huffstuttler was a local businessman of about sixty, who sported a milky-white beard. Rollins had already seen the man’s name posted above the front door of a large hardware store.
Will Dempsey was a well-to-do rancher who lived north of Waco. He had sent two herds up the trail to Kansas last spring and according to local gossip, had profited quite handsomely. At least one man had called Dempsey’s margin of profit “obscene.” Will Dempsey was clean-shaven and weathered, and even with his stooped shoulders, stood well over six feet tall. He was also about sixty years old.
Johnny Shook was the owner of two saloons, both of them across the river in East Waco. He was fat, and about fifty.
Al Foster was the oldest of the lot. The bartender knew his boss’s exact age, for only two months ago he had been asked to chip in some money to buy a present for Foster’s sixty-third birthday. Being the owner of the establishment, Al Foster seldom played poker in the Texas Saloon. On the rare occasions when he did play, Overstreet said, he bet his cards heavily. “No skin off my ass no matter who wins the money in that game,” Overstreet had said, handing the list back to Rollins, “but if you break that bunch, you damn sure won’t ever have to work again.”
Rollins sat in the small restaurant on the corner, picking at a piece of pie and sipping coffee. Today was Thursday, he was thinking, and two days hence he would be playing poker for more money than he had ever seen. He would also be bucking more experience than at any other time in his life: most of his opponents were more than twice his age, and he must assume that they had spent more time at a poker table. He had played old men before, however, and knew that most of them were cautious, usually sitting around waiting for a cinch before making a large bet. Rollins also knew that it was possible to milk a player dry while the man was waiting for his “cinch.” An overly cautious player could be bled to death a few dollars at a time; then when he found h
imself deep in the hole, he would have to come out and play. He would be trying to regain lost ground, therefore at his most vulnerable, ripe for an ambush. Pleased with his thoughts, Rollins finished his coffee and got to his feet. Leaving a coin on the table for the waitress, he paid for his pie and coffee, then headed for the hotel.
* * *
At a quarter past eleven on Saturday morning, Rollins walked into the Texas Saloon and took a stool at the far end of the bar, waving away Overstreet’s offer of a drink. “They’re all here,” the bartender said, motioning to a cluster of men who were in animated conversation beside one of the gaming tables. “Looks like you might be the only sober one in the game, too.”
Rollins flashed his usual smile and said nothing, while Overstreet moved away to serve a customer. Rollins watched the men who were to be his opponents passing a bottle back and forth amid an occasional burst of boisterous laughter. He had no desire to meet any of the men till it was time to play. Nor did he intend to join them in their drinking. Today he would be serious, for he was here to take care of business. When he sat down at the table, he would be out for blood.
At five minutes to twelve, Rollins walked to the table and took the only vacant chair. The other five players were already seated. The banker had placed six stacks of poker chips around the table, each stack worth a thousand dollars. As Bret made himself comfortable, with his long legs under the table and his saddlebag across one knee, all eyes turned to the banker.
Weeks introduced the players simply by pointing to each man and calling his name, then explained the value of each of the poker chips according to its color. When each man had counted his stack, the banker spoke again: “Draw poker with nothing wild, men, and it’s legal to raise after you’ve checked your hand. I’ll deal the first hand, then the deal will revolve around the table to my left.” He dealt five cards facedown to each man.
