The Case of the Deadly Desperados (17 page)

Ledger Sheet 38

WHILE I WAITED FOR JACE
to come in, I watched some men playing poker at a square table. It was like a Veil had been lifted from my eyes. I could see who was nervous & who was happy & who was bluffing. Above the table they revealed almost nothing. But their legs & feet betrayed them every time they shifted in their seats.

It was hard to believe they were not aware of it. But then I remembered I had not been aware of my feet till Jace told me.

The doors on my right swung open & my nose detected a familiar stench as two men came in. Even above the smell of lamp oil, floor wax & expensive cigars I recognized that dead-critter pipe tobacco. It was Sam Clemens from the Territorial Enterprise & a high-tone man with a plug hat & walking stick. Sam scanned the room & although he saw me, he did not give me a second look. That told me my disguise was a good one.

The two of them went over to the bar.

“Good evening, Mr. Goodman,” said the barkeeper.

“Good evening, Lorry,” said Goodman. He was young & tall, with a round face & dark mustache. “This here's our new Local, Sam Clemens.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said the barkeeper. “What'll you have?”

“Two beers,” said Mr. Goodman. “Mark twain.”

The barkeeper nodded & chalked up two lines on a blackboard under the initials JG.

“What's that about, Joe?” said Sam Clemens. He was looking at the blackboard.

Joe Goodman said, “If you can talk the bartender into letting you take drinks on tick, then you can settle your account weekly. That means when you come in you just tell him to mark one or mark twain or however many you are ordering.”

“They say that on riverboats, too,” said Sam Clemens.

“Beg pardon?”

“I used to be a Riverboat Pilot on the Mississippi. ‘Mark twain' meant the water was two fathoms deep.”

“Is that a fact?” said Joe Goodman.

“It is indeed,” said Sam Clemens. “I never thought I would be saying those words on a mile-high mountainside with a landscape like a singed cat.”

Joe Goodman chuckled & lifted his beer. “I hope you will say those words on many occasions, especially when I am with you.” They clinked glasses & they both drank deeply.

The banjo player was playing one of those fancy pieces that race along faster than a driverless stage. When he finished, everyone clapped.

I heard Sam Clemens say, “A fellow who can play like that can surely be depended upon in any kind of a musical emergency.”

Joe Goodman chuckled again & then stopped. I saw him look towards the door. Everyone else looked, too, including the banjo player, who had not yet started his next song.

I kept my head down, but I saw Poker Face Jace's polished black leather boots come into view.

As Jace went over to the bar, I looked up from under the brim of my hat. I saw him order a glass of brandy & everybody started talking again. The two reporters were staring at him & Joe Goodman leaned in & whispered something in Sam Clemens's ear. He was speaking too soft for me to hear.

One of the Hurdy Girls went up to Jace. She wrapped her bare arms around his neck & tried to kiss him full on the lips. He smiled & turned his head so that she gave him a kiss on the cheek instead. Then he unwrapped her arms from his neck & patted her rump & took his glass & went over to one of the tables.

Jace said something to the men sitting there. He was still smiling. One of the seated men smiled back & nodded & scooped up his winnings & left. He went to the bar to buy a drink & his upward-pointed toe showed that he was pleased Jace had taken his seat.

It was a good seat: the kind I knew Jace liked. Now he was sitting with his back against the wall, facing me. He was under an oil lamp & the brim of his flat black hat threw his face into shadow.

I thought that was clever. The men he was playing with couldn't see his eyes, but he could see theirs.

My heart was beating fast. Would our plan work?

I watched while one of the men dealt out the cards. The critical moment would be when they first saw their cards. I watched the men's feet intently, but with my head still down. As soon as they fanned out their cards, their feet shifted. The man with his back to me planted his feet firmly on the floor. The one to my left pointed his towards the door. The one to my right tapped his heels & the toe of one boot pointed briefly up.

I rattled my cup, just a little, then put it down with the handle pointing to the man on my right, with his back to the bar. He had droopy eyes & sagging skin. He reminded me of a bloodhound.

Sure enough, Bloodhound had a good hand & he won the pot. Jace was gracious & complimented him. As they played, Jace told stories in his pleasant Southern drawl. His face remained expressionless, but his eyes had a kind of smile about them, even when he was losing. Over the next hour or two I saw that although he seemed to be losing as often as the others, his pile of coins was growing steadily. I noticed some of the men pointed their feet towards him. They did not seem to mind him relieving them of their money. Once he called Stonewall over and had him bring the whole table a bottle of whiskey. But I noticed that he barely touched his own drink.

As the night progressed, I jingled my cup and pointed the handle & I saw the pile of coins growing before Jace. He was doing well. Men came & went & after about four hours there were three different men at the table with Jace.

It must have been real late, for I was stifling yawns. A shift of miners had just come off duty and it was as crowded in there as when we had arrived. There were two different barkeepers on duty now & an accordion player had replaced the banjo. I guessed most saloons in Virginia stayed open 24 hours.

Jace had not moved from his seat against the wall all night. To his left & my right was a man with a sagebrush-sized beard who called himself a “speculator”; he had his back to the bar. Next—with his back to me—was a man with a gold pocket watch who worked for Wells Fargo. On Jace's right sat a Mine Supervisor with a tobacco-stained mustache.

As the game progressed, I realized the Wells Fargo man took out his watch every time he had a bad hand. The Mine Supervisor whistled under his breath when he had a good hand. The Speculator spat whenever he was disgusted with a hand or with anything else. You might think such “tells” would be obvious but none of the others seemed to notice.

I think Jace & I would not have realized these things so clearly without the men's feet betraying their true feelings.

I noticed that sometimes Jace ignored my signals & as a result he lost the hand. It made me think of Pa Emmet when he was first teaching me chess. He would purposely make a bad move & lose & when I asked him why, he said it was so I would not get discouraged. I reckoned Jace was doing the same thing.

People gave me peanuts, wooden matches or even coins as they exited the saloon. I ate the peanuts & put the matches in my pocket but left the coins to keep the cup jingly. One or two people spat on me as they left. But mostly the people ignored me & I ignored them.

But it was hard to ignore Whittlin Walt when he strode into Almack's Oyster & Liquor Saloon. His two men were with him: Extra Dub with the big Adam's Apple & Whiny Boz with the squinty eye and nose broken by me. The accordion player stopped wheezing away at his instrument and for the second time that night the whole place went quiet. I saw Stonewall appear out of the shadows near the bar. He was watching them along with everyone else.

Walt & his pards ordered a bottle of whiskey & then turned to survey the crowd.

I froze.

Walt was looking for a 12-year-old dressed as an Indian. I had eluded him by dressing as a little girl, a Celestial & a member of the tony bunch. But now I was dressed like an Indian again. He had seen through my disguise once. Would he see through it again?

Apparently not. He downed his whiskey and turned back to pour another.

Extra Dub and Boz did not recognize me either, thanks to my grubby blanket and big slouch hat.

Walt knocked back his second glass of whiskey & said, “Order yourselves another, boys. On me.” Then he grasped the whiskey bottle by the neck & he went over to Jace's table.

“Move,” he said to the Mine Supervisor, and he spat some tobacco juice near the man's feet.

The Mine Supervisor looked up at Walt. He opened his mouth & then closed it again. In silence he collected his winnings & went to the bar.

The downward direction of his cigar smoke told me he was not happy.

Walt took his place. Now he was sitting facing the bar, side on to me. I could see his whole body from his ugly face to his big spurred boots under the table. His jaw was working on a chaw of tobacco & as I watched he turned towards me & spat. But he still did not notice me.

Everybody in the room was armed with a Colt's Navy Revolver at the very least. Walt had the larger-caliber Army Revolver & that Bowie Knife stained with the blood of a dozen men & women.

“What are we playing?” said Walt. The man with the accordion had vanished and though people had started talking again, it was still quiet enough that I could hear Walt chewing.

“Poker. Five-card draw,” said Jace, who was shuffling the cards. He was fast & thorough & he did not show off, like some dealers.

Walt spat into the spittoon, poured himself a glass of whiskey & tossed it down in one.

Jace was still shuffling. “You're Whittlin Walt, ain't you?” he said. “I have heard of you.” I couldn't see his eyes clearly but I thought he might be looking over at me.

“I have heard of you, too,” said Walt. “Jason Francis Montgomery, sometimes known as Poker Face Jace.” Walt took out his fearsome Bowie Knife & cut a fresh plug. “If you cheat, I will whittle you to the size of a toothpick.”

“I never cheat,” said Jace in a pleasant tone of voice. “I have been known to bluff on occasion, but I never cheat.”

Walt snorted and sheathed his big knife.

The Wells Fargo bank man chuckled. I was surprised he did not make a citizen's arrest as there was a wanted poster behind the bar beside one of the blackboards. I glanced over at Sam Clemens & Joe Goodman. But the space they had been occupying all night was now empty.

Jace dealt a few hands & I watched Walt carefully. The first thing I noticed about him was that he was left-handed. The second thing I noted was that his feet were as revealing as anyone else's. The third thing I noticed was that whenever he was bluffing or nervous, he would sit real still & stop chewing his tobacco. Once I was pretty sure he swallowed when he meant to spit.

They had played a few hands & Jace was dealing when it happened.

Jace said, “What brings you to Virginia, Walt?”

Over in the corner the accordion was playing “Alice, Where Art Thou?” but not too loud. I could hear what they were saying all right.

Walt turned his head & spurted some tobacco juice into the spittoon & said, “I am searching for a kid name of Pinkerton. Any of you seen him?”

I thought my heart had stopped.

Jace put in a silver dollar. “Ante up,” he said as he shuffled one last time. Everybody put in a coin.

“Allan Pinkerton,” said the sage-bearded Speculator as he watched the cards fall. “I hate that son of a blank.”

“Why's that?” said Jace.

“He sells himself to the Union generals faster than one of Hooker's Hurdy Girls.”

“Well I for one am glad of the Pinkertons,” said the Wells Fargo man as he examined his cards. “Their Stagecoach Detectives have cut our thefts by half.”

“I hear he had a brother,” said Jace, putting down the pack to examine his own cards. “Name of Robert.”

“Yeah,” said the Speculator. “That Robert Pinkerton is an ongoing pain in my butt.”

“You knew him?” said Jace.

“You talk like Robert Pinkerton's dead,” said the Speculator, re-arranging his cards.

“Ain't he?” said Jace.

“Not unless he went and got himself kilt in the last two months,” said the Speculator.

I was so startled by this statement that I jumped to my feet. Could it be that my original pa was alive?

Ledger Sheet 39

I COULD NOT BELIEVE
what I had just heard in Almack's Oyster & Liquor Saloon.

The sagebrush-bearded Speculator claimed to have seen my father only two months ago. Luckily only Jace took any notice of my reaction. He made a small patting gesture, and I knew he meant “sit down.”

I sat down.

The sagebrush-bearded Speculator tossed two gold $20 pieces into the center of the table & everybody stared for a moment.

The Wells Fargo man whistled. “That's rich,” he said.

“My last hand,” said the Speculator.

The other three each put in two gold coins.

The Speculator put a pair of cards face down on the green table & slid them across. “Two cards,” he said.

Jace gave him two.

The Wells Fargo man put down three cards. “Three,” he said.

Jace gave him three.

Walt threw down two cards.

Jace gave him two.

Walt leaned forward & said, “I know for a fact that Robert Pinkerton is alive and well and living in Chicago. But it ain't him I'm interested in. It's that kid. Got something belongs to me.”

Jace put down a card & dealt himself a fresh one.

“Was that the kid who robbed & kilt his foster parents?” said the Speculator, putting down three gold coins.

My hands were trembling, making my cup rattle, so I gripped it tight to make it stop.

“I fold,” said Wells Fargo, & added, “I read about that kid in the paper. They say he's half Injun.”

“You can't trust Injuns of any description,” snorted Walt as he saw the bet of $60. “I keep telling people that, but they don't listen.”

Jace added his three gold pieces to the others. “I hear it was a setup job. I hear the kid is innocent.”

Walt spat tobacco juice onto the floor. He did not even aim for the spittoon. “What do you have?” he asked the Speculator.

“Full house, sevens high,” said the bushy-bearded man, laying out his cards on the table.

“Full house, Kings high,” said Jace. He prepared to scoop up his winnings but Walt put his own cards down.

“Four ladies,” said Walt, by which I believe he meant four Queens. He pulled a lot of coins over to his part of the table.

Now, until this hand, Jace had been $720 up on the evening. More than half a year's pay for a newspaperman. I looked down at my tin cup. The handle was pointing towards Walt. My fearful heart had caused Jace to lose over $100 in one hand.

That was my fault. I had not been paying attention to their feet. I had been too caught up in their talk of my dead pa, who was apparently alive & well & living in Chicago.

And now Jace had lost badly.

I saw Jace looking at me. I could not read his expression.

“What are you looking at?” said Walt. He turned his head & his gaze swept over me. I quickly lowered my head, but for a second our eyes had locked.

“Hey, Dub,” said Walt. “Look at that filthy Blanket Injun begging over there. Since when does Almack's Oyster & Liquor Saloon allow beggars?”

“Since never,” said Extra Dub in his raspy voice. He took his foot off the bar rail. “I think that's the kid we're looking for.”

“I think so, too,” said Boz. “Got them cold eyes.”

I kept my head down & pretended not to understand.

But the accordion player had stopped playing & the whole saloon had gone quiet. I could feel them all staring at me.

“Hey you!” said Walt. “Hey, Digger Injun! Is your name Pinky?”

I kept my head down & my eyes fixed on his feet. I heard Walt's chair scrape against the polished floor & as he stood up I could see that his spurred boots were pointing towards me.

Then I heard Jace's drawl. “Stop right there or I'll fill you with balls,” he said.

I looked up to see that Jace was on his feet & was aiming a Colt's Pocket Pistol right at Walt's heart. It was a .32 caliber, bigger than mine but not as big as Walt's. “Stop right there,” Jace repeated. He had stretched out his right arm to take careful aim. He had his side on to Walt but he was now facing the bar.

Walt froze for a moment & then gave a kind of smile. He knew his back was covered. Extra Dub & Boz Burton were both pointing their pieces at Jace.

“Watch out, Jace!” I cried, but it was too late. Dub's gun went off at the same time as someone else's. I saw Jace go down, hit in the chest. Then everything was confused & seemed to happen at once. I heard the deafening report of Stonewall's Le Mat and guessed he was firing at Extra Dub because the barkeep had grasped Boz's arm so that his revolver was now firing into the ceiling. Plaster dust was raining down & a woman was screaming & chairs scraped as men got up to flee.

But I was not really paying attention to any of those things.

Whittlin Walt was coming towards me with purpose & intent, his Bowie Knife in his left hand.

I am ashamed to say I forgot all about the Smith & Wesson's seven-shooter in my pocket. I turned tail and ran like a yellow dog.