by J. T. Edson
Exchanging another brief glance with his brother, who replied with an uninformative shrug, the dealer next darted a hurried look around the barroom. There were several men present who, as was the case with him and his sibling, had been brought to Tennyson by Leo Wallace. The primary purpose of two of these was to prevent such unwelcome instructions being enforced. However, at that moment, both were fully occupied with members of the saloon’s staff elsewhere and he could not think of any safe way to attract their attention. What was more, knowing the gamblers had made themselves unpopular with the other workers, he felt disinclined to provoke an incident which would almost certainly lead to violence. Neither he nor his brother were naturally aggressive or courageous and, if the behavior of Turner was anything to go by, the new owner had already acquired at least one ally willing to stand up for her.
‘Sure, Joe,’ the dealer mumbled, having made his brief summation of the situation and not cared for its conclusions. ‘If that’s the way you want it!’
‘Me my ass!’ Turner corrected, refusing to grant Abel Fletcher even that much of a face-saver. ‘That’s the way the boss-lady wants it and what she says goes for everybody who works in here!’
‘Come on, blast it, all this talk’s holding these good old boys from doing some more losing,’ Madam went on, waving a hand towards the interested—albeit, clearly puzzled—players. Then, exuding an obvious and definite authority for the first time, she ordered, ‘So open up the drawer and get out a fresh box, or I’ll have to ask around for somebody who knows where it is and will.’
Flickering another worried look about him, the dealer found the two hard-cases were still engaged in their respective activities and neither were so much as glancing his way. Not entirely disappointed by the discovery, considering it absolved himself and his brother of all blame for obeying, he directed a shrug of resignation to his sibling. Receiving a gesture signifying an equal acceptance of the circumstances from Cain, their parents having had a taste for biblical names—although some people might have considered the choice a strange selection—he yielded to the inevitable.
Despite his protestations of ignorance, Abel reached to press a switch disguised as a knot in the wood and caused a carefully concealed drawer to open. As he was putting his hand inside, he gazed for a moment at the three dealing boxes and half a dozen identical looking decks of cards it held. Then he realized the blonde was in all probability aware that the differences in their construction were not merely intended to grant an increased resistance to damage if stepped upon. Therefore, he took out one with only a small hole in the center of the lid and left the others which, like the example she had destroyed—deliberately, he now felt certain—had the whole of the top left open apart from a small rim.
That’s just the kind I want,’ Madam confirmed, being able to see the entire contents of the drawer and having noticed the slight hesitancy in making the selection. ‘And, seeing as how we’re trying to change these boys here’s luck, you might as well give them a clean deck while you’re at it.’
‘A new deck?’ the dealer suggested, aware of the connotation amongst professional gamblers which was implied by the word, “clean”.
‘Hell, why not?’ the blonde challenged, adopting an air of jovial recklessness. ‘A doctor I’ve sat in games with on occasion, feller called Holliday and he was really a dentist when he worked at it, [10] always said dirty cards are plumb unhealthy. So let’s go hang with the expense. Throw that deck you’ve been using away and hand me another one from the drawer. I’ll break the seal personally and give the deck a stack with my own lily white hands for luck.’
Repeating the shrug of resignation, the dealer placed the box on the table and, having tossed the cards with which the game had been played on to the floor, took an unopened deck from the drawer. They would, as he had been instructed, qualify for the required ‘cleanliness’. Not that, he told himself with gloomy satisfaction, the fact that they were devoid of secret marks denoting their value to him, be of any further importance under the circumstances.
To make use of a marked deck when playing faro, a ‘second dealer’ box was necessary. Unlike the one which the elder of the Fletcher twins was now being compelled to operate, wherein almost all of the uppermost card’s back was concealed and there being a slot only sufficiently wide for it to pass through alone, the slit in a cheating device was open enough to permit at least two to be moved out. Having the majority of the top removed to allow the secret markings to be visible to the dealer, the box ruined by the blonde was of the latter variety. When in use, should the markings indicate the card on top was unfavorable to the ‘house’, it could be retracted by a skillful manipulator and one more suitable be put into play.
Handing the ruined second dealer box to Turner, instead of returning it to the table, Madam took off and tucked her gloves into the right side pocket of the traveling costume’s jacket. Then, accepting the wrapped packet which was being offered to her by Abel Fletcher with a suggestion of reluctance, she broke it open with her thumb and extracted the cards. Removing and tossing aside the jokers, she held the rest firmly in her left hand—which was devoid of rings—and bent them at the top with her right thumb. Watching them carefully, as they were being allowed to return one after another in rapid succession to the upright position, she allowed them to slip free from the thumb in a riffling motion.
Whatever lingering doubts might have been held by the dealer and case-keeper, with regards to the knowledge of such matters possessed by the new owner, were quickly dispelled by her latest behavior. Being experienced in cheating methods themselves, they were not taken in by her apparently casual treatment of the cards. Abel, in particular, felt relieved over having decided against disobeying the demand she had made for a clean deck. By watching the design on the backs of the rapidly moving cards, she was carrying out a test for detecting a marked deck. If they had been treated in any such fashion, the kaleidoscopic effect of the movement would have caused slight variations in the pattern instead of it remaining constant.
‘There you go, boys,’ Madam announced, having completed the shuffling of the deck with a flamboyant style and manual dexterity reminiscent of a magician specializing in sleight of hand. ‘All stacked neat and lucky with my own dainty lil fingers. Have them cut by somebody and put in the box, Mr. Dealer-Man. Then let’s see happen we’ve done something to change these good old boys’ luck for them.’
‘Yes’m!’ Abel assented gloomily, accepting there was nothing to the contrary he and his brother could do at that moment.
‘I reckon you Fletcher boys will soon enough come around to my way of thinking about which kind of box’s better,’ the blonde went on, having no qualms due to the sight of the cards she had shuffled being placed in a legitimate dealing receptacle. ‘Happen you stick around long enough, that is.’
Clearly, Abel concluded—as he exchanged quick looks with his brother and detected a similar understanding of exactly what had been implied by the remark—the new owner did not intend to allow her customers to be cheated by Leo Wallace’s employees. Furthermore, at least where cards were concerned, she had proven herself sufficiently well informed to detect attempts to do so and, in all probability, would be equally knowledgeable concerning the other games such as chuck-a-luck. However, regardless of the house having an advantageous percentage which ensured a steady income from every game of chance it operated, their actual employer had always insisted upon the use of dishonest means to increase the profits.
The dealer wondered how Wallace, a far from meek and compliant man given adequate backing, would react when he heard there was to be a change of policy?
Six – I Was Just Lucky, I Guess
Having delivered what the dealer and the case- keeper knew to be a warning, Madam Bulldog retrieved the gloves from her pocket and donned them. She was satisfied that, for the time being, at least, there was no further need on her part for supervision of the faro table. What she had done would render any more cheating impossibl
e as, she felt confident, the Fletcher brothers would not chance substituting another second dealer box and deck of marked cards from the concealed drawer until they had seen what took place between herself and Leo Wallace. Therefore, reaching out with her left hand and taking the ruined receptacle from Joseph Turner, she turned away without waiting to watch the play being resumed.
‘I didn’t know there was a drawer down there, boss,’ Turner apologized, feeling he might be considered remiss in having failed to make the discovery and holding his voice to a level which would not reach the players he and the buxom blonde were leaving.
‘It was damned well hidden, so don’t blame yourself,’ Madam replied. ‘I expected there would be one, though. There mostly is when the top of the table’s that thick.’
‘Are you going to fire the Fletcher boys?’ the floor manager inquired.
‘Would you?’ the blonde consulted.
‘They’re not such ornery sons-of-bitches as some’s Wallace brought in with him, and they know how to handle the table. A good faro crew’s not easy to find.’
‘Then it all depends on them. They’ll likely be smart enough to spot cheating from the outside as well as doing it themselves. So, happen they’re willing to play straight all the time and say they want to, I’d be willing to keep them on.’
‘Do you want to tell them, or shall I?’
‘You can do it, like you’re doing them a favor, then send them to see me. But it’ll wait until later.’
‘You handled things back there real well, boss,’ Turner praised. ‘What with that goddamned table showing up just the day before you arrived to say you’re taking over, it’s likely you’d’ve been blamed and not Leo Wallace had anybody been slick enough to figure out how they were being cheated.’
‘Something of the sort did cross my mind,’ the blonde admitted with a smile, pleased and flattered by the frank admiration the burly man was showing. ‘Is there anybody else from around town you reckon I should know about, before we go and meet those high mucky-mucks Counselor Scrope’s fetched in to show me off to?’
‘None of the ranchers are in tonight,’ Turner replied. Glancing around, he discovered that Viola Grant and the bartender who had announced the arrival of the gambling staff were turning away from the two hard- cases they had been distracting ever since they had seen their new employer making for the suspect faro table. Pleased they had shown such a ready grasp of the situation and were willing to supply their support unasked, he noticed somebody he felt qualified to be mentioned. ‘There’s that bunch over at the vingt-un table.’
Following the direction surreptitiously indicated by her floor manager, also without making the interest obvious, Madam studied the half a dozen obvious town dwellers to whom he had referred. Wise in such matters, sensing Turner did not hold them in very high esteem, she deduced who was the most likely candidate to be their leader. Tall and thickset, albeit running to fat, the man was swarthily handsome in a florid fashion and clearly had a high opinion of himself. He was dressed in the kind of loud check suit and derby hat frequently worn by traveling salesmen, particularly those dealing in cheaper brands of liquor. However, she felt it unlikely this was his present occupation.
‘Who are they?’ the blonde asked.
‘The jasper dressed so quiet and tasteful’s Josh Gilmore,’ Turner supplied. ‘He owns the blacksmith’s forge.’
‘He doesn’t look much like the poem says,’ Madam commented.
‘That’s because he won the smithy from the feller’s owned it in a poker game,’ the floor manager explained, being equally conversant with the piece of verse by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. [11] ‘And the same feller’s doing all the work there, reckoning on one day getting it back the same way.’
‘How about the rest?’
‘They’re his cronies and butt-lickers. Either own or work in different places around town and reckon they’re a real sporting bunch, what with running dog fights, cock fights, fist fights and such in the Barnhof Saloon. That’s owned by Rudolf Schanz, the fat, middle sized hombre rigged out like a Mississippi riverboat gambling man.’
‘Maxie told me there were a couple more saloons in town.’
‘Sure, but neither of them’re near here and they don’t pull in so much trade as we do, being on the Square.’
‘I’m right pleased to hear that.’ Madam declared with a smile. ‘Not’s I’m scared of having fair competition, mind.’
‘They’re neither of them any competition,’ the floor manager asserted. ‘But, should there be any from Schanz, I wouldn’t count on it being fair, was I you.’
‘Has Maxie had trouble with him?’
‘Nope.’
‘Has Schanz or the other owner got cause for complaint over us being here?’ the blonde asked, knowing the erection of a new establishment could cause resentment on the part of the owners of older businesses.
‘Not on account of them being here longer, happen that’s what you mean,’ Turner replied. ‘The Hide and Horn Saloon’s the oldest in town.’
‘So Maxie got on all right with Schanz and the other owner?’
‘You know Maxie, he could get on with most folks. Used to get invited to whatever sporting doings’s Schanz had going—But only when Gilmore wasn’t figuring on being there.’
‘So he didn’t get on with Gilmore?’
‘Let’s put it this way, boss,’ the floor manager suggested. ‘Gilmore got on with Mrs. Higgins in a way that’s a whole heap cozier ’n’ safer done when the husband’s not around. Only, word has it, just recent’ she’s been tending to favor Lloyd Bowman. He’s—’
‘County sheriff and mostly stays down to Garnett,’ Madam interrupted and, although interested in what she had been told, as it helped her to form a clearer picture of the local situation and events which might affect her ownership of the Hide and Horn Saloon, she went on with a grin, ‘Lordy lord. And they do say it’s us women who gossip!’
‘Well, ma’am, so far as that goes,’ Turner replied, as seriously as if imparting advice of great importance. ‘My old daddy allus used to tell me, “Son, women gossip, but us men pass out news as is helpful.” ‘
‘My old momma allus used to tell me, “Don’t hire a feller who gets smart-assed”,’ the blonde warned, mimicking the floor manager’s Texas drawl. Reverting to her normal voice, she continued, ‘Come on, Joe. We’d best wander on over and say, “Howdy, you-all”. I reckon that’s what they’re here for.’
‘And to get some free drinks,’ Turner supplemented, starting to accompany his employer towards the vingt- un table in a leisurely fashion.
However, the intention of Madam Bulldog to greet Joshua Gilmore and his cronies met with a delay!
Coming across to the blonde and her newly appointed floor manager, the cowhand who had acted as her porter, thanked her for her generosity. She noticed it did not appear he had abused her hospitality by indulging too lavishly in the free drinks. Certainly there was no suggestion of drunkenness in his voice as he asked if she would, ‘Meet the boys from my spread’. Aware of how important it was to establish suitably friendly relationships with all her customers and avoid letting it seem she regarded some as more worthy of attention than others lower on the social scale, she agreed.
However, as Madam and Turner were being escorted to where four younger and cheerful looking cowhands were sharing a table with the saloon girl, Bottles, she sensed there might be something more to the invitation than appeared upon the surface. Not serious trouble, such as a direct challenge to her authority, nor a desire to prove that they considered themselves superior to a woman, even if she did own a saloon. Certainly they were not showing signs of drunken truculence and hostility. Rather they were studying her in an amiable and even admiring fashion. Then three of them and the artificial blonde started to gaze at the fourth of the group in an expectant fashion. Shoving his chair away and hanging his hat on its back, he rose and confronted the owner.
‘Howdy, you-all, Madam Bulldog ma’am.
I’m Curly from the Leaning J. Me’n the boys here was wondering if you’re of a sporting nature?’
‘Well, yes, I reckon you just might say I am at that, fellers,’ the buxom blonde admitted, satisfied that the joviality of the party was caused by high rather than intoxicating spirits. However, despite the question having been addressed to her in a polite and respectful manner, she noticed that she was being watched by everybody in the vicinity, and her instincts warned she was once again about to be subjected to a test of some kind. What was more, judging from his attitude, she concluded that Turner knew what it was going to be. Satisfied from his reaction that it would not prove too serious or embarrassing, she went on, ‘So what’d your pleasure be, Curly, cards or Indian wrestling?’
‘Why cards, for sure, ma’am,’ the young cowhand replied, running fingers through dark hair which indicated how his sobriquet had arisen and speaking somewhat louder than was necessary just to be heard by the new owner of the saloon. ‘I mind the last time I Indian wrestled, I—’
‘Won the Indian,’ Madam finished before the speaker could, also raising her voice for the benefit of the attentive audience.
‘By cracky, ma’am!’ chuckled the former porter, clearly amused—as were the rest of the listeners, including the victim—to see Curly circumvented. ‘You called her just the way she happened!’
‘And it wasn’t even what you’d call a pretty Indian he won,’ another of the Leaning J ranch’s contingent went on.
‘I don’t reckon I’d want an Indian, pretty or not,’ the blonde asserted. ‘So what’s it to be, amigo, poker?’
‘I’d admire to take a whirl at that, ma’am,’ Curly declared, showing no animosity over having his favorite joke taken away from him. ‘Only I don’t reckon, you being on your first night here’s boss and all, you’ve got over much time to spare for playing poker.’
