by J. T. Edson
“Now what the hell was all that about?” she breathed, walking toward the alley at the other end. There was no point in returning to the window. With it closed she stood little chance of learning more and might be caught trying to listen. “I’ll tend to my team, then go ask Derry what he thinks.”
With the work on the six horses completed, Calamity returned to the saloon. She found Derringer talking with Gilbert. Clearly the conversation had come to an end, for the lawyer left.
“He was just asking about last night,” Derringer explained as the girl joined him. “Reckons we ought to give an accounting through him to the wives on how we’re doing. I agree. Is that all right with you?”
“Sure. Say, let’s go upstairs. I’ve heard something you can maybe make a mite clearer for me.”
Going up the stairs, she repeated the conversation overheard at the hotel. When she mentioned the identity of the speakers, Derringer showed visible interest. As soon as they entered Banyan’s office and closed the door, Derringer pointed to the deck of cards on the table.
“I was just fixing to look them over,” he said. “Only Gilbert sent word up that he wanted to see me.”
Before they could say more, a knock at the door prevented conversation. On opening it, Calamity found a wizened old swamper outside.
“Brung this magnificating glass for Mr. Derringer,” he told her, holding out the object. “Say, that was some hum-dinger, sock-dollager of a fight last night, ma’am.”
“Do tell,” she replied. “I didn’t see much of it.”
Chuckling at the comment, the swamper departed. Returning to the table, she watched Derringer with much interest. Taking the deck firmly in his left hand, he rubbed his right thumb across their upper edges. Focusing all his attention on the backs’ design, he noticed that instead of maintaining a steady image it varied a little. For all that, the naked eye barely showed the cause of the variation. So he took up the magnifying glass and held it over the cards.
“They’re marked, Calam!” he breathed. “Look!”
The design was of two matching flowers, one above the other and the rest of the surface covered with diamonds of equal size, petals, center of flower and diamonds being colored in Bletchley’s traditional blue, while the surroundings of the decorations were white.
Following the direction of Derringer’s pointing finger under the glass, Calamity saw each flower bore thirteen petals. The one Derringer indicated had a small part of its upper edge filled in with white. Not much and if the naked eye noticed the discrepancy it might have been regarded as no more than a printer’s error.
“Could be a mistake,” she said.
“It’s called shading,” Derringer answered. “And it’s no mistake. The bottom flower’s marked the same way. Then look at the second diamond from the left. It’s lost one point. Same at the bottom right. That’s so the marks can be seen whichever way the card’s being held. First diamond marked means hearts, second clubs, third diamonds and fourth spades. Starting from the top, whichever petal’s marked tells him the card’s number.”
Checking on several other cards, Calamity found what Derringer said to be true. “A man’d need real good eyes to see them marks across a table,” she said.
“Not if he knew where to look and wore glasses with strong lenses,” Derringer replied. “Only how the hell did he do it?”
“Do what?”
“Switch in this deck. It’s ready marked, not done at the table. The only time he got chance to touch the deck was to cut in his turn. The house man shuffles and deals. So he couldn’t—Unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Go ask Buck Gitsen for some more of these new decks, Calam, will you?”
“Sure,” answered the girl, and left the room.
Standing at the table, Derringer stared at the cards with an air of fascination almost. Improbable though his theory might seem, he felt sure it must be correct. Bletchleys produced only blue-backed cards, so the dude could have brought in his own deck. But he would hardly have been able to switch it into the game due to the house ruling that the cutter shuffled and dealt.
On the girl’s return he broke the seals on two of the new decks and examined the cards. By the time he finished with the first he knew that he had called the play right.
“Calam!” he said. “Every damned deck we brought in with us’s marked.”
“You mean by the folks who made ’em?” she gasped, realizing the implications of the statement.
“I don’t reckon so. A big company like Bletchley’s wouldn’t chance ruining their good name by doing it. But there’re crooked gambling supply houses that could handle it. They’d buy the straight cards from Bletchley’s and mark ’em easy enough. Then they pack them in a genuine Bletchley box and pass them to whoever gave the order.”
“But those cards come to us from the railroad depot,” Calamity objected.
“And arrived so late that the box went on the back of your wagon,” Derringer pointed out. “Remember how the canopy was open and nothing taken?”
“Yes—You mean—?”
“They switched the boxes after luring the dog off. It wouldn’t take them long and if they’d got hold of a bitch “in” heat, she’d keep the dog away long enough for them to make the switch. If I hadn’t come into the yard, you’d never’ve known he’d gone. Maybe me coming stopped them fastening the canopy down, or it could be they counted on you figuring the dog’d’ve bawled should anybody be around and’d think you forgot to lash the covers down the night before.”
Calamity let out a lurid mouthful of annoyance and slapped a hand against her thigh. “Damn it to hell! Now I know where I saw that dude and Claggert afore. They were with the other loafers standing outside the yard watching us load my wagon to come up here. Let’s go get ’em, Derry!”
“How’d we prove it?” he asked.
“Prove—?”
“Sure. Don’t forget, we brought in the cards. From what I’ve seen of Sheriff Wendley and his deputy, they’d need proof, and good proof, before they’d start tossing accusations around. Or afore they’d reckon we acted right by handling it ourselves.”
Before Calamity could make further comment, Sharp knocked at the door and looked into the room.
“Undertaker’s just come in, Derry,” he said. “Edgar Turnbull from the Big Herd’s down at the bar asking to see you.”
“I’ll be right down,” Derringer replied.
Throwing an interested glance at the open decks of cards, Sharp withdrew. After warning Calamity to watch her jaw, which brought a blunt answer, Derringer left the office and walked down to the bar. Claggert stood with a tall, neatly bearded and elegantly dressed man. Holding out his hand, the latter advanced to meet Derringer and the girl. Farther along the counter, the dude engaged a bartender in a game of first-flop dice.
“Derringer, Calamity,” the man greeted. “I’m Edgar Turnbull. Run the Big Herd. I thought I’d come along and pay my respects. We might be rivals, but that’s no reason why we can’t be friends. I always was with Sultan.”
Transferring the cane-gun to his left hand, Derringer shook hands with Turnbull and nodded in acknowledgment of the saloon-keeper’s introduction to Claggert. Calamity favored them both with a friendly smile which was not sincere in the floor-manager’s case. However, she acted as charming and demure as a schoolmarm being interviewed for a prosperous position—if one could imagine a schoolmarm standing with a foot on a bar rail, cigar in hand and glass of whiskey ready for drinking. Calamity accepted the smoke and drink from Turnbull, grinning a mite to herself as she sucked in smoke and watched the men waiting for a burst of strangled coughing that would not come.
“I’m damned sorry about Sultan,” Turnbull said. “He was a fine man. Making a will like that’s just like him though. Will you be keeping open today, or closing until after the funeral?”
“The boss always said we should stay open if anything happened to him,” Sharp put in.
“It was in
his will too,” Derringer went on. “So we’ll be open tonight.”
“Then we can hold our regular Saturday night game here?” Turnbull asked. “I reckon Sultan’d want that and it’d be a tribute to his memory.”
Listening to the words, Derringer felt a slight tingle of expectation run through him. Financing a deal like the business with the marked cards would come expensive and require the right contacts. It seemed hardly likely that an outsider could pull it off. Nor did Claggert strike Derringer as possessing the planning ability and money to organize it. Should the game succeed, the profits would be enormous. Sufficient of the new decks would be in use around town for a man who knew their secret to clean up.
There might also be a chance of nipping the game in the bud if things went as Derringer expected.
“What game’s this?” he asked.
“Didn’t Sultan mention it to you?” Turnbull said. “Every Saturday four or five of us, Lawyer Gilbert, Colonel Forgrave from the Fort, the banker, Sultan and me mostly, got together here for stud. It’d be your kind of a game, sky’s-the-limit and real hot competition.”
“I’d count it as an honor to be asked in,” Derringer stated.
Just as he expected, Derringer saw the dude coming along the bar toward them.
“Excuse me, gents,” the man said, smiling in a winning but apologetic manner. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. I hope you don’t mind me billing in on it.”
“Feel free,” Derringer replied.
“I heard you say there’s a no-limit game coming off here tonight,” the dude continued. “Would I be out of line to ask if there’s a chance of sitting in?”
“We play kind of high, mister,” Turnbull warned.
“That’s how I like it,” the dude assured him. “And I can afford it now my rich uncle died and left me all his money.”
Derringer admitted that the thing was well done. Without his suspicions, he would probably have been taken in by the dude’s performance. After telling of his inheritance and reason for coming West, the dude bought drinks and generally made himself pleasant. Obtaining permission to sit in on the big game, he returned to the waiting bartender. After a little more talk, Turnbull and Claggert left.
“Let’s go upstairs, Calam,” Derringer said and started to do so.
“What’s up?” she asked as they entered the office, for she had caught the excitement in his voice.
“There’s a chance we might nail their hides to the wall tonight,” Derringer told her. “It’ll be risky as hell—So risky that I don’t know if I should ask you to lend a hand.”
“You need me?”
“I need help and I’d’s soon not ask anybody from the saloon.”
Something in Derringer’s manner warned Calamity that considerable danger might be involved in whatever he was planning. If anything, the knowledge strengthened her intention of taking a part in the scheme.
“Tell me what you want and I’m damned if I don’t give it a whirl,” she said.
Thirteen
While not a girl given to worrying about the future consequences of her actions, Calamity could not help feeling a touch concerned as she listened to Derringer’s plan. All too well she could imagine the penalty if anything went wrong. Which did not mean that she refused to help. Risk or not, she aimed to go through with her part in the affair. So she listened attentively as Derringer went through every detail and asked for him to repeat the instructions which applied to her. Not until certain she knew exactly what to do did she relax.
“I can handle it,” she stated. “Do you want me to stick around for anything right now?”
“Not unless you want to,” Derringer replied.
“I’ve got a few things to do around town,” Calamity said. “So I’ll mosey off and do ’em. See you when I get back.”
If Derringer had realized the nature of the “things” commanding Calamity’s attention, he might have raised objections. Having learned where to find all the wells around town, she planned to visit them. Figuring that Derringer’s male ego would stand edgeways at the thought of a mere girl taking such a risk, she omitted to mention her plans.
Visiting the owner of the first well, she set about the business with typical Calamity efficiency. Under the pretense of looking for a site on which Killem could erect a depot for his outfit, she asked about the problems in sinking a well. Not only did the owner answer her questions but also allowed her to examine the well’s shaft while explaining various points. From what she learned and saw, Calamity concluded that was not the well in which Banyan had hidden the Russians’ jewelry.
All her other inspections proved equally fruitless. In every case her charm and ability to get on with people paid off and the story of Killem’s proposed depot did the rest. With a skill many a trained interrogator would have envied, she extracted information from the unsuspecting owners of every well. The sum findings proved to be negative. Every well had been dug by its owner, on his arrival in the town; which seemed to rule out the possibility of Banyan selecting it as a hiding-place. Nor could he have hidden the jewelry without the owner being aware of the fact. From the easy way every owner answered her questions, she doubted if any knew Banyan’s secret.
With night coming on, Calamity headed toward the saloon. A thought struck her as she arrived at the building. On entering, she went down into the storage cellar. Carved out of the solid rock, it appeared to stretch under the rear half of the bar room. However, there was nothing in it that might possibly be called a well.
“Calam gal,” she said, walking back to ground level. “Could be old Sultan was just rambling.”
With that she left the cellar and went up to Derringer’s room. On arrival, she found the door locked. Derringer opened it at her knock and allowed her to enter.
“I didn’t want anybody walking in and seeing what I’m at,” he said.
One glance at the table told Calamity why. Walking over, she looked down in an interested manner at it. Two complete poker hands lay on the table and six pairs of cards.
“Why six?” she asked, realizing their function.
“I’m not sure how many players there’ll be,” he replied. “That’s something else you’ll have to help me with.”
Much thought had gone into the selection of the hands and even more to picking the apparently unconnected pairs. Considerable experience in gambling helped with the latter. During lunch with Sharp and Gitsen the talk had turned to the forthcoming poker game. Clearly considering the honor of the Harem to be at stake, in addition to their employer’s finances, the two men had given willingly of their knowledge. Keen and able poker players, they knew how best to help Derringer. So they had described how each of the regular players handled his game.
From all he heard, Derringer concluded that he would be up against poker wolves, not rabbits. Not a comforting thought in view of what he had in mind. Yet in a way the skill of the opposition helped. One of the first attributes which led a poker player up from “rabbit” to “wolfdom” was the ability to throw in a worthless hand. Within certain bounds, a “wolf” could be relied upon to react in a certain manner; whereas a “rabbit” stayed in with cards no matter how unpromising.
Telling Calamity what he wanted her to do first, Derringer repeated her instructions for later in the game. Nor did she object to the repetition considering the stakes they were playing for.
At eight o’clock Calamity stood on the balcony and looked down across the crowded, busy saloon. Already the players in the game were starting to gather about the table set up in a well-lit rear corner. Caillard, the banker, stood introducing the dude to Lawyer Gilbert and Colonel Forgrave, a tall, lean, tanned cavalry officer. Leaving Claggert at the bar, Turnbull crossed the room to join the others and they took their seats around the table. That was what Calamity had been waiting for and, after watching them sit down, she went into the office. Derringer stood by the table, ready dressed in his cutaway jacket and a new pair of trousers, with the cane-g
un leaning against a chair and his Colt in its holster.
“You’ve got Gilbert next to you on the left,” Calamity said. “Then the soldier, the dude, then Turnbull and the banker at your right.”
“Just the six of them?”
“That’s all. Claggert come in with Turnbull, but he’s over at the bar and don’t look like he’s fixing to play.”
“Go keep an eye on things while I get ready,” Derringer ordered, reaching for the cards on the table. “Let me know if anybody else sits in.”
Before Calamity reached the door, Derringer had slipped two of the pairs of cards on to the bottom of the deck. Then he placed two more pairs at his left, followed by the lower ranking of the complete hands. The remaining two pairs came next and the second complete hand finished the circle. Picking up a card from each pile in rotation, he gathered them in and placed them on top of the deck.
Made by a tailor who specialized in outfitting professional gamblers, Derringer’s jacket had a small pocket not normally found in conventional suits. Situated just inside the left flap, it offered a convenient hiding-place for a small pistol or a deck of cards. For the first time since buying the jacket, Derringer made use of the pocket. Slipping in the deck of cards, he made sure that he could extract it easily and unobtrusively. Satisfied that he could do so when the time came, he walked out of the room and down the stairs.
Approaching the table, he saw with relief that no fresh players had joined the game and the men remained in the places Calamity reported. The girl did not follow him to the table, for her part in the work ahead would come later.
“Sorry I’m late, gents,” Derringer said, approaching the table. “The bandage on my leg came loose and I had to fix it.”
“Is it all right now?” Turnbull asked.
“Sure. Are you gents ready to make a start?”
