Denver Draw

Ty Butler looked at the other four players at the table. None of the four were particularly good poker players and this was a good reason why. None of them were paying attention to the hand.

“Comin’ out,” Butler, the dealer, said. He ignored their questions and their conversation.

“Jack, no help…three, too bad…pair of kings on the table…a queen for the dealer.”

Brookens bet his kings, tossing ten dollars into the pot.

Rode called.

Butler called.

Brand frowned at the three on the table with his eight and ten, all unsuited, but he called. He always called, no matter what he had. It worked in his favor once in a while, but mostly he just tossed good money after bad.

Leadville had been easy pickings for Butler, who was planning to leave the next morning. He’d built up a nice poke, plus he’d rested up enough after the whole Dodge City fiasco that the others were talking about. Standing side-by-side in the streets of Dodge with Bat and Jim Masterson, not to mention Neal Brown, had been invigorating, but everything leading up to it had been tiring. Yet he now felt renewed and ready to travel again. Leadville had been a good place to recuperate, both mentally and physically.

“That dust-up in Dodge was nothin’ compared to what happened in Tombstone right after that,” Rode said.

“I heard Masterson ran out on the Earps and left them and Doc Holliday to do the dirty work,” Brand said.

“I heard a lot of things about Bat Masterson,” Brookens said, “but never that he was a coward.”

“First time for everything,” Rode said.

Butler held his tongue and dealt out the fifth and final card. A queen joined his other queen on the table. He had one in the hole. He felt he had the winning hand, but that was nothing new. Brookens had kings on the table, but Butler had a read on the man. That was all he had. It was more likely that Brand had lucked into three threes by staying in. It was going to cost him money. Rode was out of it, and demonstrated so by folding.

Brookens bet his kings, Butler raised, and Brand foolishly reraised. With two raisers Brookens knew his kings were no food and went out.

“I raise again,” Butler said.

The kid had three threes. He could see it on his face. Nine times out of ten that was a winning hand. This was ten but the kid wouldn’t consider that.

“I’m puttin’ the rest of my money in against you, Mr. Butler,” he said, pushing his cash into the center of the table.

It wasn’t much because he had been losing all night, but it was all he had. Butler covered the bet.

“I got three treys, Mr. Butler,” Brand said. “Can you beat that?”

Butler turned over his third queen.

“What’s wrong with you, boy?” Rode, the oldest player at the table, asked. “Ain’t you been watchin’ this man play all night?”

Pete Brand looked as if he was going to cry. Finally, he just pushed his chair back, got up, and went to the bar.

Butler collected his chips.

Rode gathered the cards to deal.

“The kid was probably wrong about Bat Masterson bein’ a coward, too,” Brookens said.

“He was,” Butler said.

Brookens and Rode looked at him.

“Bat left Tombstone to go to Dodge to keep his brothers alive,” Butler said. “That’s why he wasn’t at the O.K. Corral. And any man who says different is going to have to deal with me.”

Rode shuffled the cards and kept quiet. Brookens opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it.

“Way I heard it,” a voice from the bar called out, “Masterson didn’t even go to Dodge. He just plumb lit out from Tombstone and kept goin’ until he reached Trinidad, and he’s a-hidin’ out there.”

Butler didn’t know the voice. He turned to see who the speaker was. The man was in his early thirties, was
holding a mug of beer and smirking for the benefit of his friends standing at the bar with him, of which there were three.

“That’s Troy Smithson, Butler,” Frank Rode said to him. “Don’t let him goad you into a gunfight. He’s fast.”

“I know about Smithson, Frank,” Butler said. “I’ve been here long enough for that.”

“Then you know to ignore him,” Billy Brookens said. “Come on, gentlemen. Let’s play cards.”

But Troy Smithson was not easily ignored. During the time Butler had been in Leadville—close to a month—Smithson had goaded or called out three men and killed them all in a “fair” fight. The town laws—such as it was—turned its head because Smithson worked for one of the largest mine owners in Colorado. He wasn’t a miner, he was more of a bodyguard, or enforcer.

Apparently, now that he had heard Butler’s word about Bat Masterson, he’d decided that Ty Butler would be his next victim.

CHAPTER 2

Smithson kept talking about Bat Masterson, questioning not only his courage but his manhood as well.

Butler lost the next hand because he couldn’t concentrate. If he didn’t shut this idiot up, he’d have to stop playing.

“Deal me out this hand,” Butler said.

“Just this hand?” Rode asked.

“One hand.” Butler nodded.

He stood up, turned, and walked to the bar, where Smithson was holding court with his friends. The man had a decided height and weight advantage on Butler, but the gambler did not intend to fight with him.

“Can I help you?” Smithson asked.

“I can only assume that you’re trying to annoy me with all this talk about Bat Masterson.”

“He a friend of yours?”

“More of an acquaintance,” Butler said. “I’m actually friends with Jim Masterson.”

“Jim?” Smithson laughed. “He got run out of Dodge, didn’t he? With his tail between his legs?”

“Well,” Butler said, “whatever you think of the Mastersons, that’s not why I’m here.”

“Why are you here,” Smithson asked, “in my face, where you don’t belong?”

“I’m playing in a poker game over there,” Butler said, “and you’re interfering with my concentration.”

“That penny ante game?”

The stakes were higher than that, but that wasn’t the point.

“Yes, that game,” Butler said. “I’ll give you two bits to go away.” Butler took the twenty-five cents out of his pocket.

“Two bits?” one of Smithson’s friends asked, laughing.

“That all yer worth, Troy?” another one asked.

“I’m only offering two bits,” Butler said, clarifying the point, “because I don’t have a plugged nickel on me.”

The room took notice of what was going on at the bar and suddenly it got very quiet.

“Jesus, Troy,” Friend #1 said, “he’s sayin’ you ain’t even worth a plugged nickel.”

“That ain’t what he’s sayin’, ya idjit,” Friend #2 said. “He’s sayin’ Troy
is
worth a plugged nickel.”

Both men started to laugh.

“Shut up!” Smithson snapped.

Both men did.

“That what you’re sayin’, friend?” Smithson demanded. “I’m worth a plugged nickel?”

“Did I say a plugged nickel?” Butler asked. “Maybe just a regular nickel, but whichever it is I’m offering you a whole quarter.”

There was some laughter from the room, but when Smithson looked around it stopped.

“Mister, are you tryin’ ta make a fool outta me?” he demanded pugnaciously.

“You don’t need my help for that, friend.”

Smithson frowned, still not sure what was going on.

“I tell you what,” Butler said. “How about I buy you and your friends beer and you just shut your mouth?”

“Hey, that sounds good to me, Troy,” Friend #1 said.

“Shut up, Pete,” Smithson said, and then turned his attention back to Butler. “Mister, you know who I am?”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea what you are,” Butler said. “Who you are doesn’t really matter to me.”

Smithson puffed out his chest and said, “It better matter to you, if you know what’s good fer ya.”

“Troy,” Friend #2 said, “maybe we oughtta—”

“Maybe you oughtta just shut the hell up, Dusty,” Smithson suggested forcefully.

His friend, Pete Brand, and Dusty Rich, knew when Troy Smithson was on the edge, so they decided to take his advice and shut up. They didn’t want to become the targets for his anger. They’d leave that to the gambler, who obviously did not know who he was dealing with.

“What do you say, fella?” Ty Butler asked. “You want to take that free beer?”

“I don’t want no beer from you, friend,” Smithson said. “I want you out in the street.”

“Now?”

“Right now.”

“Getting dark out there,” Butler said, looking out the front window. “You sure?”

“It’s light enough for me ta kill you.”

“Okay, then,” Butler said. “You go ahead, I’ll be right out soon as I make sure my money is safe.”

Smithson looked at the other two.

“You guys stay here,” he said. “This won’t take long.”

With that Troy Smithson stormed outside into the
street to await Butler’s arrival. Everyone in the room expected Butler to collect his money and follow the man out. Instead, all Butler did was turn around, return to his table, and reclaim his seat.

“I thought he’d never leave,” he said. “Deal me in, boys.”

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