Calamity Jane 2

by J. T. Edson

  “Ready and raring to go,” Caillaird answered and nodded to the vacant chair. “Sit in and get your feet wet. Do you know everybody, Derringer?”

  After being introduced to Colonel Forgrave and the dude—who went by the name of Woodley—Derringer took his seat. Resting his cane-gun against the chair, he lowered himself down awkwardly. In doing so, his right hand flashed across to extract the cards. Without any of the others becoming aware of it, he transferred the deck from the pocket to a place of concealment beneath his left thigh. At that moment receiving the wound proved to be an advantage, permitting a certain clumsiness without arousing the other players’ suspicions.

  “It’ll be good to play with a new deck again,” Gilbert commented, breaking the seal and opening the box of cards placed with other necessary items on the table.

  “I sure wasn’t sorry when you brought them in, Derringer,” Turnbull went on. “My stock had just about run out.”

  If things went wrong, the words would be remembered and the fact that Derringer had arrived on the wagon which brought in the new cards given a sinister meaning.

  So far, however, nobody attached any importance to the saloon-keeper’s words and the game commenced. The cut gave Gilbert the deal, a fact Derringer considered to be advantageous. During the five hands before the deal reached him he could study his opponents’ play and establish certain traits of his own.

  Dropping his left hand below the level of the table he saw watchful eyes follow the move. Although he had a reputation for straight dealing, none of the players knew him personally. So they stayed alert and cautious; a point he expected and prepared to counter. Again the wound would be of assistance.

  “Damn it!” he said, scratching at his thigh. “Why does a wound always itch when it’s healing?”

  “They say it’s the flesh knitting together causes it,” Caillard replied.

  Derringer’s explanation of his actions seemed to satisfy the others. Provided he did not overdo it, he could lower his hand out of sight without arousing comment or suspicions.

  Before the first hand ended, Derringer knew that Sharp and Gitsen had given him true information. Every man around the table definitely classed as a “wolf.” For his part, he took the opportunity to pave the way for later actions by betting high when holding cards which justified such play. At the same time he kept an unobtrusive watch on Woodley and noticed that the dude still showed the same apparently uncanny judgment.

  Following her part of the plan, Calamity stayed away from the table. She mingled with the customers, but never so far away that she could not see how the game was progressing. When Caillard gathered up and started to shuffle the cards, she knew the time to take her part was drawing near. Crossing to the bar, she attracted Cromer’s attention. He came toward her, walking in a peculiarly strained manner.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Frank told me what you said for me to do with my bung-starter and I did it,” he replied with a grin. “What can I get for you?”

  “That’s what I like, loyal hired help,” grinned Calamity. “Put up a round of drinks for the big game, Harve. I’ll take it to ’em. You never know, I might get a big tip.”

  Although nobody could have guessed from his expression, Derringer felt a touch nervous as he watched Calamity approaching with the tray of drinks. He completed his low-wristed riffle-stack shuffle that prevented any chance of the other players seeing the bottom card and placed the deck down for Caillard to cut. The vital moment had come. If anything went wrong, if what came next should be discovered, neither Calamity nor he could expect mercy. There would be no credence given to an explanation of his motives, even if time be granted to make them. The bare facts would appear sufficiently damning for summary justice to be inflicted. Yet he knew he must go on with the plan.

  “Damn this leg!” he growled, dropping his left hand as Caillard completed the cut and shoved the cards in his direction.

  Alert for the signal, Calamity brought off her part as if she had rehearsed it for days in advance. Letting out a lurid curse, she pretended to slip. The tray fell, striking the floor with a considerable clatter and clashing of glass. At the table everybody but Derringer swung to look at the cause of the commotion, just as he relied on them doing.

  Like a flash Derringer’s right hand scooped the deck from his table and dropped it into his jacket’s outside pocket. At the same moment his left hand slipped under his thigh to fetch out the prepared cards. Before any of the others turned their attention back to the table, the substitution had been made and the cold deck lay where Caillard had placed the other.

  “Damn and blast it!” Calamity spluttered, glaring furiously from the damage to the watching men. “This son-of-a-bitching waiting on table’s a heap harder’n it looks.”

  “Serves you right for doing the help’s work,” Derringer answered. “Don’t it, gents?”

  “You want to take for the glasses out of Calam’s cut of the profits, Frank,” Turnbull suggested, and all grinned at the girl’s pungently obscene reply.

  Coming up with bucket, brush, scoop and sawdust, a swamper started to clear away the mess. However, dedicated poker players never allowed minor distractions to take their attention from the game for any length of time. After the two comments, they turned back to their cards.

  Picking up the deck, from which he had taken his hand immediately after placing it in position, Derringer began to deal. Nobody raised objections and he knew the switch—by far the most dangerous moment of his plan—had gone unnoticed.

  Out flipped the hole cards, with Woodley watching them fall and reading their value. Four of hearts to Gilbert, jack of spades for Forgrave, ace of clubs to himself, five of hearts to Turnbull, nine of diamonds to Caillard and queen of clubs to Derringer. The first up-cards followed and the opening betting began.

  “Ace to bet,” Derringer commented.

  “She’s away for a hundred,” Woodley answered, having received the ace of diamonds as the first of his up-cards.

  “I’m out,” Turnbull grunted, as any “wolf” would when faced with the five of hearts and ten of spades. The chances of improving on such holdings were so astronomically high that only the rawest “rabbit” would stay in a pot with them.

  “And me,” Caillard went on, folding his cards. A hand of nine and deuce not even the same suits did not rate worthy of attention as third man to bet.

  “Reckon I’ll have to see that,” Derringer said, the king of clubs showing.

  “I don’t think you’re trying,” Gilbert sniffed, sending the nine of spades and four of hearts into the deadwood.

  For a moment Forgrave hesitated—and Derringer held his breath. If the officer should stay in despite having no more than the deuce of hearts and jack of spades, the entire deal would be ruined. Derringer knew he could never get away with dealing from the bottom in that class of company.

  While a “rabbit” could only rarely resist playing in every pot, Forgrave had left that stage of development far behind him. Despite there being only two other players left, he did not consider jack-deuce of different suits offered hope of development. So he did the sensible thing and folded.

  “Only the two of us left, Mr. Derringer,” Woodley stated unnecessarily as he received the queen of diamonds for his next up-card and looked at the jack of clubs joining the king of that suit before Derringer. “Let’s make it interesting and play for two hundred.”

  “Your two and up two,” Derringer said calmly.

  “I’ll cover the two and raise it two more,” Woodley countered.

  “Which’s supposed to scare me out,” Derringer remarked. “All right, that two and up five hundred.”

  Interest showed on the other players’ faces and they studied the two hands, trying to calculate what the hole cards might be. Each hand offered a number of possibilities. So the four men sat tense and expectantly waiting to see what would come next.

  “Ace for you,” Derringer declared, sending the ace of hearts to
Woodley, then turning up his card. “And a little jack of hearts for me. Two aces to bet.”

  “One bullet kills each of your jacks. Let’s bury ’em with five hundred.”

  Sound play under the conditions. Even if the third ace did not lie in the hole, a wise man would try to scare off his opponent before the pair of jacks could be improved on. That was the conclusion drawn by the four watchers. Woodley knew that all Derringer held was the pair of jacks and receiving the second of them ruined his chances of making a flush. So the dude did not hesitate to re-raise when Derringer covered the bet and raised it by the same amount.

  In a silence that could be felt almost Derringer dealt the last of the up-cards. Eight of hearts to Woodley and the king of hearts to himself. Nobody spoke for a moment, then Derringer made the announcement.

  “Two pair to bet. If you’ve got ’em, play ’em, I always say. Let’s see how a thousand looks for starters.”

  “It looks good—for starters,” Woodley admitted. “So I’ll just see it—and raise you the same.”

  “You’re scaring me,” Derringer announced. “So much that I’ll just cover that thousand and bury it under another five.”

  While Derringer counted out the necessary amount of money—in hundred-dollar bills brought from the bank that afternoon—he watched the other players. Such high betting might not be the rule on every pot, but the non-players controlled their growing excitement. No greater breach of poker etiquette could be committed than commenting on the betting or play after folding one’s hand. So Gilbert, the Colonel, Turnbull and Caillard kept quiet and watched what went on. The last raise took almost all Derringer’s money, but he doubted if the betting would end there.

  “Here’s the five thousand,” Woodley said, confirming Derringer’s guess. “I’ll raise five more, if you’ll take my marker. Mr. Caillard can tell you I’ve enough in his bank to cover it.”

  “That’s true,” the banker agreed, thinking of the ten thousand dollars the dude had deposited with him on arrival in Banyan.

  “You’re on, then,” Derringer accepted and watched as Woodley drew up the necessary paper. “What’ll my share in this place amount to, Counselor?”

  Standing watching, Calamity could not hold down a gulp of mingled shock and excitement. While she expected the play to be high, the thought of it reaching such a staggering level had never occurred to her. She saw a flicker of surprise show on the four non-players’ faces, but still none of them commented or offered other advice than Gilbert’s answer to the question.

  “I’d say around ten thousand,” the lawyer replied in a low voice.

  “Then it’s your five and up five,” Derringer told Woodley, going on with the no-limit poker player’s chilling warning, “I’m going to tap you out for every cent you’ve got.”

  Caillard darted a glance at Gilbert, as if seeking advice on whether the bet were legal or not. However, the lawyer raised no objections to Derringer staking a half-share of the Harem before a probate of the will gave him the right to do so.

  Sweat trickled down Calamity’s back, while she clenched her hands until they hurt. She sensed rather than saw Claggert standing to one side, watching the play with cold-eyed attention. Then she looked at Derringer, wondering at the icy calm and complete lack of concern he displayed. Even knowing that the winning hand lay before her, she doubted if she could have matched his attitude of calm confidence.

  While Derringer made out and signed a marker, using the paper and indelible pencil provided by the saloon for that purpose, Woodley darted a glance at Turnbull. Possibly only Derringer of the other players noticed, or attached any importance to it. Yet that glance strengthened his belief that Turnbull shared Woodley’s knowledge of the cards being marked.

  Impassive-faced, Woodley returned his gaze to Derringer’s cards. A momentary worry gnawed at the dude. Maybe he had made a mistake. Even with the aid of the powerful glasses the marks on the backs of the cards did not show over-plainly across the width of the table.

  No. There could be no mistake. Even if he had read the value of the mark on the petals wrong, the fact that the second diamond-shape on the top row of the design lacked a point clearly indicated it to be a club. So the hole card could not be a king to complete Derringer’s full house. All he held was two pairs, which Woodley’s three aces licked all ways and then back again.

  True Derringer had bet like he held the full house, but that proved nothing. A man of his ability would show complete confidence even when making a bluff.

  All doubts left Woodley, but his financial standing gave him no alternative in the matter. As a stranger in town, he could not expect to be extended credit. Nor could he ask Turnbull for more money without arousing suspicion. Anyway, a wise player in his position, without the advantage of marked cards, would act as he must. So he made out another marker and dropped it into the pot.

  “I don’t think you’ve got another king,” he forced himself to say, itching to lay hands on the money he knew to be his. “But I’m feeling generous and’ll not take any more off you. I’ll see you. Here’s another little bullet. You’ll need that full house.”

  “And I’ve got it,” Derringer answered, reaching toward the pot without turning over his hole card.

  “But that’s the queen of clubs!” Woodley burst out before he could stop himself, finger stabbing toward Derringer’s cards.

  Just too late the dude realized how damning a statement had been shocked from him. He saw suspicion flare on every face—except Derringer’s. There he read only cold, mocking triumph. Somehow, the Good Lord only knew how, Derringer had learned of the cards being marked. More than that, he had used Woodley’s own crooked deck to his advantage, for the card he turned over was the king of diamonds.

  “Now what made you say th—!” Derringer began, ramming home the knife and twisting its blade.

  Throwing back his chair, Woodley lunged erect. His right elbow pressed against his side and a Remington Double Derringer flicked into his hand from the spring-operated wrist hold-out holster he wore. Hampered by his injured leg, Derringer could not hope to rise fast enough to draw his Colt, or bring up the cane-gun in his defense. Even as Calamity grabbed for her gun, a shot crashed to her right. Lead ripped into Woodley’s head, spinning him around with the hold-out pistol slipping from his fingers as he fell. The girl swung her head to see who had made such a timely intervention.

  Smoke curled up from the Adams revolver in Claggert’s hand as he walked toward the table.

  “Figured you couldn’t move fast enough to stop him, Mr. Derringer,” the Big Herd’s floor-manager said, “with that game leg and all.”

  “Thanks,” Derringer replied bitterly, for he had wanted to take Woodley alive and able to answer questions.

  A desire to avoid that was the reason for Claggert’s intervention. Proving it would be difficult, if not impossible.

  Fourteen

  Sitting on the bed in her room at the hotel, Calamity Jane thought about the events of the previous night. Although the sheriff had not yet returned—he had sent word in with the undertaker that he and Turk would trail Nabbes and question him on the killing of Banyan, then make other inquiries—Like-His Rigg proved competent to handle the affair. When the deputy asked to be told what happened, Calamity prepared to blurt out the whole story complete with accusations against Turnbull and Claggert. Catching a warning scowl and head-shake from Derringer just in time, she left the explanations to him.

  According to Derringer’s version, certain incidents caused Calamity and himself to suspect Woodley of cheating. Thereafter he told the truth, except that he left out all reference to Claggert’s part in the affair. Fear for himself did not cause the omission. Not knowing if Turnbull had brought backing guns along, Derringer wished to avoid a showdown that might end in gun-play and endanger innocent lives. Besides which, he lacked definite proof against the two men. By pretending ignorance of their part in the plot, he hoped to gain time to gather facts to connect them with it.
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  Give old Derry his rightful due, mused Calamity, he sure handled the whole affair a treat to watch. To hear him tell it, switching in the cold deck was to try out their theories, rather than toss unfounded accusations against a possibly innocent man. He sounded so convincing that the other players declared he should take the pot, even though winning it by a trick. Although a scowl twisted Claggert’s face and he seemed on the verge of protesting, Turnbull gave an almost imperceptible signal which stopped him. The saloon-keeper mastered his emotions well, she had to admit. Only by a tightening of his lips did he show what must have been a whole boiling of anger and disappointment.

  So the matter ran its course. Derringer stated that he would refund Werner’s money for the consignment of cards—no great loss considering the value of the pot—and gave orders for all the new decks to be taken out of use immediately. That offered Turnbull an excuse to leave. No honest saloon-keeper, or even a crooked one, would want marked cards in use at his tables. With the killing and Turnbull’s departure, the game broke up. Not until the Harem closed for the night, however, did Calamity learn just how Derringer had pulled the trick.

  He had used one of the marked decks, except for changing its king of diamonds for one, suitably marked as the queen of clubs, from a straight deck he had in his bag. Then the cold deck did the rest.

  The funeral of Sultan Banyan took place at ten o’clock on Sunday morning. Almost everybody in town attended; many out of genuine respect for the dead man, but others in the hope of seeing his four widows. All four attended, dressed in as near mourning as they could manage with their limited wardrobes, but they stood clear of each other. Face showing the marks of the fight, Sal wore a cheap black dress bought from a store in town to replace her ruined garments. Although she glared her hate at Calamity, she neither offered to speak nor resume hostilities.

  With the ceremony over, the mourners parted, but there was to be a wake in Banyan’s memory that night. Calamity ate lunch with Goldie, Derringer and Sharp. From what she gathered, the wake ought to prove a lengthy affair. So, after eating, she returned to the hotel, meaning to grab some rest.