Chapter 1

The Card Player

 

Early August 1870

Colorado Territory

     The Stranger in the dusty trail coat sat on the bare back of a piebald Mustang. A braided rawhide rope looped around the animal’s lower jaw served as the bridle. 

     From the position of the sun in the cloudless sky, he guessed it was about an hour past noon. Sweat trickled down his back beneath the leather trail coat. The day was hot, and he liked the heat. It reminded him of home.

     He tapped the horse’s ribs with his worn boots, and the horse carefully picked his way down a narrow, rocky ridge. A small, makeshift town that had seen better days waited for him. He would call the town Midway. It was midway between somewhere and nowhere.

     A darkness only he could see hovered above one of the buildings. The darkness was Death, and Death had drawn him to this town for a reason.

     Spirit, the name the Stranger had given the wild Mustang, walked down the dirt street and stopped in front of a dilapidated building that served as the town’s saloon. Eight other horses were tied to the hitching rail.

     The saloon had no windows, and one of the swinging doors was propped against the unpainted plank wall. A sagging porch with no railings stretched across the front of the building, and one of the two steps had collapsed.

     The Stranger slid off the back of the piebald and dropped his leather pack to the ground. He patted the horse on the shoulder and said, “Spirit, keep an eye on that for me.” He had a unique connection with the animal.

     The saloon’s one swinging door groaned when he pushed it open and stepped inside. Flickering light from the oil lamps cast odd, eerie shadows throughout the dingy room. The stench of stale cigars and cheap whiskey flooded his senses.

     His steely-blue eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he took the moment to scan his surroundings. There were eleven men sitting at the three tables, and then the barkeep.

     Death had also entered the saloon and now hovered against the ceiling.

     The men had been playing cards and drinking whiskey. But not now. Nope. A deafening silence gripped the room, and all eyes were on the Stranger. They wanted to get the measure of the big man who had just stepped into their world from the heat outside. 

     There was little they could see. The dusty trail coat stretched down to his knees, and a broken-down cowboy hat hid his face. What they were searching for was a gun, but they need not worry about that. The Stranger did not have one. He did not need one.

     What they could not see was the object that resembled a belt buckle attached to a thick leather band around his waist.

     A heavyset barkeep glared at him from behind the bar. He called out, “Mister, you lost or something? We don’t get many visitors.”

     Someone from a dark corner yelled, “Ed, what the hell you yapping about? We don’t get any visitors.”

     Several men in the room laughed. Their laughter was not friendly.

     The barkeep’s right hand reached down to a short, double barrel scattergun he kept on the shelf beneath the bar. “Mister, I asked you a damn question. You lost?” he growled.

     The Stranger started to speak, but his voice simply cracked. His throat was as dry as his canteen had been for the past day.

     The room erupted in laughter once again. That was not good. The Stranger did not like being laughed at. That was a weakness of his. He also did not like drawing attention, but that was exactly what he had done.       He had everyone’s attention. However, that could not be helped.

     He was where he was supposed to be.

     Uneven boards creaked beneath his two-hundred-pound frame, and a broken spur clinked with every other step as he slowly walked to the crude bar. He was tired. He wanted a whiskey. He needed a meal. Yet he only had the one coin.

     But the whiskey was not why he was here.

     The barkeep smacked at some black flies with the rag in his left hand, and he brushed away some onery gnats pestering his face. Every oil lamp in the room had its own swarm.

     The Stranger propped his elbows onto the bar. He cleared his throat, “How much for a whiskey?”

“One bit,” the barkeep said.

     The stare from behind the bar was as unfriendly as the laughter had been. The barkeep tried to see the Stranger’s eyes, but they were hidden beneath the brim of the hat. His right hand still rested on the scattergun. Something was off. Their visitor wasn’t a lawman, and he doubted he was a bounty hunter, so he was probably just some worthless Yankee drifting from town to town looking for handouts.

Regardless of who he was, Ed, the barkeep, didn’t like him and wanted him gone.

     From the dark corner, a voice called out, “Mister, you might want to find another saloon.”

     Someone else added, “In another town.”

     More laughter filled the room.

     The Stranger straightened his back, and he removed his flat-brimmed, broken-down cowboy hat with his left hand. Intense steely-blue eyes set beneath thick, arched eyebrows locked onto the barkeep. He pushed his sweaty hair back with his right hand and placed the hat back onto his head. He smoothed his dark mustache, and then he rubbed the stubble on his chiseled chin.

The Stranger cleared his throat again and said, “One bit for a whiskey? How about we cut cards? High card wins.”

     “Whiskey is one bit,” the barkeep said. “No money, get out.”

     The Stranger felt a tremor travel from the base of his skull and down his spine. He glanced over his shoulder. Three men sat at a table with an empty chair, and a hand of cards had just been dealt. A sizeable pile of coins lay before them. Maybe he was supposed to take that seat and join the game. 

     But he only had the one coin.

     The barkeep’s hand was no longer on the scattergun. Instead, when the Stranger had turned his head to the table, he had tucked his old percussion revolver behind his back and into the waistband of his worn tweed trousers. The revolver was the one he’d pried from the cold, dead hand of a Yankee captain during the war.

     Ed pushed, “Mister, what’ll it be? You got one bit for a whiskey or not?”

     The Stranger said, “I just thought it’d be interesting to play a game of chance.” His voice was stronger now. “It’s an easy game. We cut cards. High card wins.” He had played this game many times. He had never lost.

     Gnats swarmed around the sweat trickling down Ed’s flat forehead, over his brow, and onto his grimy face. He was aggravated, and not just with the bothersome pests. He waved his hand and brushed them away again.

     He said, “Yeah, you dumb shit. I know how to cut cards. No money, get out.”

     The barkeep knew he’d been right. The drifter was looking for handouts.

     The Stranger plunked down a fifty-cent silver piece. “I got money. Just, I just thought it’d be interesting.       I’ll make you a better deal. If I lose, I pay two bits for one drink.”

     “I done and told you. Whiskey’s one bit,” Ed said. He smacked his dirty rag at more of the black flies. He shook them onto the floor and wiped a bloody streak off the counter. His eyes were dark and cold. “If I have to tell you again, we’re gonna have some problems.”

     This was proving to be more difficult than the Stranger had expected. He hoped it would not go badly, but Death had drawn him here for a reason.

     The Stranger said, “Two bits should damn near buy the bottle. Tell you what, I’ll do you one better. Get your deck of cards. I’ll draw one card, an Ace. Anything else and I lose, and you get the fifty-cent piece. All of it. Four bits.”

     “Ed,” a man at the table behind the Stranger said, “I don’t think that damned Yankee understands what you’re saying. Or maybe he’s just thick.”

     Ed, however, was now listening.

     The Stranger was tired, and a glass of whiskey was what he wanted. He knew his offer was too good for the barkeep to pass on.

     Death spread her cloak, and a cold silence gripped the room. Only the buzzing of the black flies could be heard.

     Ed smiled, but it was not a friendly smile. He was not a nice person. “Jim,” he said to someone in the dark corner, “get me a damn deck of cards. After I get my four bits, I want this worthless piece of shit thrown out.”

     "Sure thing, Ed,” Jim said.

     To the Stranger’s right, a chair slowly scraped on the plank floor. Jim got to his feet and slowly limped to the bar.

     “Here you go, Ed.”

     Jim’s mangled right hand smacked a deck of worn cards onto the crude bar in front of the Stranger. Two fingers were missing, and what was left of his middle finger pointed to the side.

     The Stranger looked at the mangled hand and asked, “You get that in the war?”

     Jim said, “Mister, how I got my hand all tore up ain’t none of your damn business.”

Jim turned and spat a stream of tobacco juice into a spittoon on the floor. Most of the nasty spittle missed its target, but that didn’t matter. The wood around the spittoon was soaked. The floor had never met a mop.

     Ed fanned the deck out on the bar.

     The Stranger reached toward the cards, and Ed grabbed his wrist. In that moment, the Stranger saw into Ed’s mind. The barkeep was part of the reason he’d been drawn to the saloon.

     Ed said, “Just so’s we’re clear, you just touch the card you want. I’ll flip it. Ace only. On second thought, make that the Ace of Spades. You got that?”

     “Ace of Spades. Fair enough,” the Stranger said. His voice was deeper and more resolved.

     “Fair enough?” Jim laughed. “You sure do talk funny. Josh was right. You must be a damned Yankee.”

     “Don’t guess it matters much. War’s over,” the Stranger stated.

     Ed spouted, “Damn war ain’t over. Ain’t never gonna be over. Just cause Lee tucked his yellow tail ‘tween his legs don’t mean everyone has.” He released the Stranger’s hand and said, “Now pick your gawd damn card or get out.”

     The Stranger’s left hand gripped the object that resembled a belt buckle that was attached to the thick leather band around his waist. Another tremor traveled down his spine from the base of his skull. He stared at the deck for a moment, and then he touched a card.

     Ed said, “You sure?” Without waiting for a response, he flipped the card.

     The Ace of Spades lay on the table.

     Jim said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

     Ed mumbled, “But how the…”

    The Stranger picked up his fifty-cent piece, “I guess this is my lucky coin.”

     An icy silence filled the room. Ed shivered as though someone had stepped on his grave.

     The Stranger said to the barkeep, “Glass of whiskey.”

     “Jim, what the…?” Ed slapped the dirty rag at another black fly.                

     Jim spat a wad of his foul juice at the spittoon and said, “Ed, I reckon you owe the man a whiskey.” He retrieved the worn deck and, before limping back to his dark corner, said, “Stranger, you best drink your whiskey and git whilst you can. The war ain’t over for some.”

     Jim had been the one who had advised him earlier to find another saloon. He had been serious.