by J. T. Edson
‘Er—just one thing before we start,’ Trudeau Front de Boeuf said, instead of accepting the deck of cards being offered to him by the tallest of the three drummers. ‘Are we playing table stakes—I think the word is?’
‘Table stakes?’ Sheets growled and something of his true nature showed for a moment.
‘That is how we always used to play in college,’ the massive young man explained. ‘The fellers said they weren’t going to take a chance on me—anybody signing I.O.U.’s or bank drafts moth- that wouldn’t be honored when they were presented.’
‘This here’s only a friendly game,’ Sheets asserted, although guessing the precaution was taken because the other players knew Front de Boeuf’s mother—who appeared to exert considerable control over him, if his behavior and comments were any guide—would refuse to settle any gambling debts.
‘And making it table stakes’ll keep it friendly,’ Un-Mench put in, duplicating the summations. Taking out all the money he had in his possession, he slapped it on to the table and continued, ‘So let’s do just that.’
‘I’m for it,’ Dishpan seconded, also producing and putting down his money.
‘I’ll go with the rest of you,’ Sheets supported, contriving to sound satisfied with the arrangement. In spite of this, knowing the less than healthy state of his and the other two’s finances, he was aware of the disadvantage which might arise through playing for table stakes. Even added together, their money did not equal the amount in the bankroll which the massive young man brought out. However, he decided this was a minor matter and they would be content with that sum instead of obtaining promissory notes which would not be honored. ‘Let’s get started.’
Despite his claim to be a most experienced poker player, the way in which Front de Boeuf handled the deck he accepted was far from impressive. After dropping and gathering up several cards in the course of the clumsy over-hand shuffle he performed, he placed the deck in front of Un-Mench to be cut. Then, as he was retrieving it, he glanced at the front entrance with such a worried expression it caused the other three to follow his example. They could see nothing to account for his behavior and, by the time they returned their eyes to the table, he had commenced dealing with no greater display of skill.
After hesitantly joining the opening round of betting, when it came to his turn, Front de Boeuf drew two cards. Studying the three aces he had received on the deal and did not improve upon, Sheets gave a slight shake of his head which stopped his companions from staying in and possibly frightening the young man into dropping out of the pot. He knew his hand would beat whichever of the ‘three of a kinds’ he suspected was held by Front de Boeuf, unless the two cards drawn increased them to a full house or four of a kind. Watching how the young man reacted and basing his assumption on what he had already seen, he felt sure this had not happened. For one thing, he believed there would have been some show of elation from the recipient if the draw had produced either a pair or the fourth card to create a much more powerful hand. Failing to detect any, his summations gained what he considered verification when his bet was raised only by a small sum rather than the sizeable amount he did not doubt would have resulted from a better hand.
‘I’ll call,’ Sheets said, not wanting to drive the young man from the game by making too large a win on the first pot.
‘A high straight, I think it’s called,’ Front de Boeuf replied with a self-satisfied smirk, turning his cards over to show the king of hearts, queen of spades, jack of diamonds and ten and nine of clubs.
‘That’s a high straight all right,’ the tallest drummer growled, but brightened up as he thought of how much easier it would be to win from a man who drew two cards to fill a straight. Such was hardly the act of one who claimed to be a ‘poker wolf’, even if the term was only awarded at some college. However, having achieved the sought after improvement—despite the odds against success being so high no player of experience would chance it—he was likely to continue to make such a generally ill-advised draw. ‘You win.’
Gathering up the money, Front de Boeuf sorted it out and placed it fastidiously on the thick pile he had transferred from his inside breast pocket to the table in front of him. While he was doing so, Dishpan riffled the deck for the next pot. As the game continued, none of the players realized they were being watched intermittently by a pair of shrewd and discerning eyes.
As he had promised himself, Harry Trilby kept the game under observation when he had nothing else demanding his attention. Before long, he concluded his summations regarding the drummers were correct. None of them showed any signs of employing the skills at cheating which were part of the stock in trade of some professional gamblers with whom he was acquainted, and he decided they were playing a comparatively honest game. However, their attempts at combining their betting to ‘sandbag’ Front de Boeuf into going higher than he would have wished, or to make him fold a potentially winning hand, repeatedly failed to meet with any success. Either by shrewd judgment, or pure luck—which seemed more likely when taken into consideration with the rest of his play—he avoided being trapped. What was more, it was soon obvious that he was winning steadily instead of being taken for his bankroll as the bartender still believed had been the original intention of his opponents.
‘By cracky!’ Front de Boeuf boomed, exuding a winner’s joviality, as he drew in another pot. ‘What a pleasant way to spend an afternoon.’
‘Yeah,’ Sheets replied, but neither he nor the other two drummers looked anywhere near so enthusiastic.
Trilby had been correct with regards to the trio’s motives for getting the massive young man into the game and also correct in his estimation of their abilities. While unscrupulous enough to want to take advantage of him, none of them possessed sufficient of the manipulative skills necessary to do so. Instead, having travelled as a group for a couple of years while selling their respective wares, it was their intention to employ tactics which had proved successful in other places.
Unfortunately for the drummers, as they had realized from the beginning might prove the case, the insistence of their intended victim on having table stakes placed them at a serious disadvantage. Although there was nothing in his tactics to suggest he had played anything other than infrequently, he had far more money than they possessed. Therefore, when he held what they guessed from his behavior must be a powerful hand, he was able to avoid being driven out by the sandbag tactics which proved so efficacious elsewhere. In fact, his luck had remained so consistently good that their finances were decreasing to an alarming extent. Exchanging glances with his companions, Sheets concluded they were in agreement with him that the situation must be rectified by a means which had produced a change in their fortunes on several other occasions.
‘Damn it!’ Dishpan ejaculated, contriving to knock over the schooner of beer which Front de Boeuf had insisted on buying after winning a large pot instead of being sandbagged out of it. Watching the liquid flow over the cards, he went on with a similar exasperation, ‘We can’t keep on using these!’
‘I’ll take em to the bartender and get another deck,’ Sheets offered and acted upon the suggestion before anybody else could speak.
Explaining to Trilby that there had been an accident, the tallest drummer was given a fresh deck with a request that greater care should be taken with it. Agreeing to the stipulation, he turned away from the counter. He was pleased that business had improved while the game was
taking place so that the bartender was compelled to turn to another customer almost immediately. What was more, as he had anticipated, his companions were keeping Front de Boeuf’s attention occupied. Dropping the cards—which were a brand very common throughout the country—into the left side pocket of his jacket, he removed what appeared to be an identical deck from the right. A wolfish grin came to his face as he made the switch, then returned to the table prepared to lead their lamb to the slaughter.
‘Mr. Merridew?’
‘That’s me, ma’am,’ replied the
man to whom Jessica Front de Boeuf had spoken.
‘I understand you’re the buyer of horses for the Yank- U.S. Cavalry?’
‘For the Army as a whole, ma’am. I buy them for draught purposes as well as riding.’
Although the first part of his surname was reflected in his looks, people who knew Titus Merridew well considered he was a perfect example of just how deceptive looks could be. Built on large lines—although obviously having allowed himself to run to fat—he had a sun-reddened face which implied the jovially convivial nature of one wanting only to be helpful to others. In fact, it and his general demeanor suggested he was a man to be trusted under any and every circumstance. He invariably dressed neatly, but not so expensively as to arouse suspicions about the possibility of sources of income other than his official salary. Instead, he sought and, indeed, contrived to convey the impression of spending his own hard-earned money on his appearance so as to uphold the dignity of his responsible position.
‘I hope you don’t object to me seeking you out here to talk business,’ Jessica said, glancing around the lobby of the Railroad Hotel.
‘Certainly not, ma’am,’ Merridew replied and, as it ended to serve as an implication of his honesty and devotion to duty, he went on with his usual explanation for taking accommodation at the best hotel in town. ‘My expenses don’t cover staying here, but I feel it is incumbent upon my position to do so and I never object to talking business wherever I find myself. Shall we go and sit in one of the alcoves while we talk?’
‘That’s most considerate of you, sir,’ Jessica declared.
‘Now, ma’am,’ Merridew said, after they had seated themselves. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I have recently bought a number of horses for a scheme I had become interested in at home in Beaufort Parrish, Louisiana,’ Jessica explained. ‘Unfortunately, I have just received notification from my principals that the deal is off.’
‘That’s hard luck,’ sympathized the bulky horse-buyer. Having a discerning eye for the opposite sex, he decided his companion was a very fine looking woman, even though no longer in the first flush of youth, and it might prove beneficial if he could be of assistance to her. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I was hoping you might consider taking them off my hands,’ Jessica answered. ‘After all, you are here to buy horses for the Cavalry—the Army as a whole—aren’t you?’
‘That’s why I’m here,’ Merridew confirmed. ‘And I’ll be willing to look your horses over. Where are they?’
‘In the corrals behind Bleasdale’s Livery Barn,’ Jessica replied.
‘Bleasdale’s!’ the horse buyer ejaculated before he could stop himself, but long experience acquired at his trade allowed him to control his surprise after the word. ‘Do you mean they belong to you?’
‘I do and I have a bill of sale to prove it,’ the woman confirmed, reaching into the mouth of her reticule and producing the document. ‘Mr Bleasdale sold them to me and assured me they would be ideal for my purpose.’
The latter piece of information did not come as any surprise to Merridew as he took the bill of sale. Over the years, he had had sufficient contact with Bleasdale to have no illusions where the other’s business scruples were concerned. What was more, as was his invariable habit, he had visited the livery barn without its owner’s knowledge shortly after arriving in town and had formed a very accurate estimation of the quality of animals he would be offered when he paid his official call on Monday. That somebody else would have already purchased them had never entered his head. If it had, he would have dismissed it as beyond the realms of possibility.
‘You can count on Mr Bleasdale for that,’ the horse buyer said enigmatically. ‘So you want to sell the horses, huh?’
‘I certainly do,’ Jessica agreed. They’re no longer of any use to me and I want to leave for the East tomorrow morning. Can you help me?’
‘Well, ma’am, I’d admire to,’ Merridew declared, her last sentence having been spoken in a manner which implied there would be considerable gratitude involved if she received an affirmative answer. ‘It all depends upon how much you want for them. You see, I’ve already seen them and, to tell you the truth, they aren’t worth very much.’
‘You mean Mr Bleasdale tricked me?’ Jessica asked indignantly.
‘I wouldn’t want to go so far as to say that,’ Merridew answered tactfully. ‘But he has been known to charge too high a price. Not as out and out trickery mind, but as a matter of business.’
‘How much would you be willing to offer me for them?’ Jessica inquired, looking at him in a fashion which aroused the horse buyer’s willingness to be helpful provided it would not involved him in too great an expenditure of cash.
‘Well, as I said, they aren’t very good animals. In fact, they’re a pretty poor lot. I don’t think I could go beyond five hundred collars for the whole bunch.’
‘Five hundred?’
‘It’s not much, I’ll grant you. But I’m accountable to the Quartermaster General in Washington and the prices he allows me to pay aren’t munificent.’
‘But only five hundred,’ Jessica groaned, looking pathetic and distraught. ‘Why that will barely cover the money I’ve spent coming here, much less going home. I did so hope for a better sum.’
‘Well, I suppose I could go as high as seven hundred and fifty,’ Merridew hinted.
‘You couldn’t make it a thousand by any chance?’ Jessica suggested. ‘I would be so grateful if you could.’
‘Damn it, ma’am,’ Merridew replied, reading an invitation which could offer a satisfying—albeit not monetary—addition to the profit he could still expect at the stipulated price if he agreed. ‘A thousand it is and I’ll take the loss from my commission.’
‘Good heavens, sir,’ Jessica gasped. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that.’
‘I’d consider it a privilege, ma’am,’ the horse buyer declared. ‘Just as I would be honored if you’d be my guest for dinner tonight.’
‘Why that would be my pleasure, sir,’ Jessica affirmed. ‘There is one little thing, though.’
‘What would that be, ma’am?’ Merridew asked, hoping the answer would not be the inclusion of a chaperone at the meal.
‘I have some bills to settle and insufficient money to do so,’ Jessica explained. ‘And, as the bank won’t be open until Monday and I have to leave in the morning, I hope you can pay me in cash.’
‘Certainly I can,’ the horse buyer confirmed, having examined the bill of sale—from which Bleasdale had excluded the sum of money involved—during the conversation and satisfied himself it was genuine. ‘I can get it from the hotel safe and pay you now.’
‘I’m getting tired of playing poker,’ Un-Mench was saying as Sheets arrived at the table. ‘Let’s make a change, shall we?’
‘Sure,’ Dishpan supported. ‘Hey, how about us trying a game I saw being played in Kansas City last fall?’
‘What would that be?’ Trudeau Front de Boeuf inquired, instead of protesting against the suggestion to change from a game at which he had done very well.
‘It’s called “banker and broker”, ‘cording to the jaspers who showed me how to play,’ Dishpan replied, but he was not allowed to continue.
‘I don’t go a whole heap on putting money on a game I’ve never even heard of,’ Un-Mench protested, as he had done on other occasions when it was necessary to help lull any suspicions an intended victim might nourish.
‘Hell, it’s so simple even you could get to know how to play real easy,’ Dishpan countered. ‘You don’t even have to worry about the suits, only the number of the cards. We cut for who holds the bank. After the rest of us take a cut apiece, we show what we’ve got on the bottom and say how much we want to bet. Then the banker cuts. If he gets lower’n you, he loses. If he cuts higher, he wins. You keep the bank until somebody beats your card, then he gets it until he gets beat his-self. And that’s all there is to it. Mind you, it’s a game for real sports.’
&
nbsp; ‘It sounds like it could be fun,’ the massive young man claimed. ‘In fact, I’ve played it before, but under a different name. There’s one thing, though. The way we played in college, if you tie with the banker on your cut, there is a stand-off, no money changes hands and you both cut again for a decision.’
‘That’s how I’ve seen it played,’ Sheets lied. Usually the banker was the winner in the event of the value of the card he exposed equaling that of a player. However, with the deck he had substituted while returning from the bar, any advantage which might have accrued from a ‘standoff’—with no payment being made in either direction and another cut taking place to settle the issue—was completely nullified. ‘What say we give it a whirl?’
‘I dunno,’ mumbled the salesman for ladies’ underwear, as was required, when Front de Boeuf did not comment further upon the rules propounded by Dishpan.
‘Huh!’ the kitchenware salesman snorted derisively, concluding that the victim accepted any changes in the rules from the last time he had played banker and broker as resulting from local variations rather than being—as was the case—to allow the modifications made to the deck to operate against him. ‘You never was much of a sport, Un-Mench. How’s about it, Beef-Head, are you game enough to play.’
‘I most certainly am,’ Front de Boeuf declared, confirming the supposition of the trio that he would wish to prove himself to be a ‘sport’, willing to join in any kind of game if it achieved this end.
‘And me,’ Sheets seconded.
‘Aw hell!’ Un-Mench grunted, giving a shrug. ‘I’ll go along with the rest of you.’
‘Here’s the new deck from the bar, then,’ Sheets announced, sitting down and starting to rifle the cards. ‘Let’s get to it.’
