The street outside stunk of cheap booze and manure. Inside added layers of smoke and weeks worth unwashed musk of prospectors, mountain men, and other alcoholics. The saloon was a large canvas tent with a wood stove in the center. The bar was made of two pieces of lumber nailed to two saw horses. It was much like many mining camps McCade has visited in the past. There’s no need to build a new building when you don’t even know if you’re going to still be here a month from now.
McCade took a sip of his watered down whiskey. He could only imagine how awful this rot gut would be without a healthy splash of mountain creek water. Diluting seemed more like a mercy than a money grabbing trick. The glass clinked against his silver ring. It was yet another reminder to the other players at the table that he wasn’t your average mining camp resident. Aside from the mud that covered his boots and the rim of his pants, his clothes were clean and smelled of some back east cologne. The rest of the men at his table wore torn clothes covered in layer upon layer of dirt, mud, blood, and the stink of the wilderness.
“I ain’t seen clothes so fancy on a man before,” one of the miners quipped. His breath smelled of a carcass left in the Texas summer sun for too long.
“I saw a whore back in Kansas City with a blouse like that once,” another man joined in.
“And how is your dear old mother?” McCade asked as he picked his cards back up off the table after replacing the cigarette in his holder. “Do either of you gentlemen have a match?”
The first man struck a match an lit McCade’s cigarette. “Anything for a lady.”
“Touche.”
McCade’s clean clothes and freshly shaven face helped amplify his jovial speech. After a few shared drinks, he had his fellow players trading barbs and smiling. Still, there was no ignoring the .45 caliber Colt Calvary hanging from his waist.
“Are you going to play cards?” the third man asked. His face was long with two green eyes peering out from behind a dark beard and tanned face. Oscar Schmidt was not enjoying the verbal jousting going on at the table. His mood had not been helped by his recent run of bad luck since the dandy had joined the game.
“I’m out,” the first man threw his cards back onto the table.
“I call and raise $50,” McCade answered throwing his money into the pot.
The second man folded, leaving McCade and Schmidt to finish the hand. Schmidt smiled and threw in a handful of cash. “I’ll raise you another $50.”
The chair groaned as McCade leaned back. “Well, you must have one spectacular hand.” Schmidt’s smile widened against his better judgment. “I thought so. The problem is that I think that my hand is quite spectacular as well. So the question becomes ‘how much do I risk?’” He made a show of looking at his cards. “I say to risk it all. If you want to see these cards, it’ll cost you $500.”
Cards and cash alike leapt up from the table when Schmidt slammed his hand down on it. “What in the hell are you playing at!” he yelled. “You can clearly see that I ain’t got $500 in front of me, and I can clearly see that neither do you. You can’t force me out of this game without having the money yourself.”
“What if I have something worth $500?”
Schmidt huffed. “You might have some fancy duds and a ring, but I doubt that anything you have on you is worth that much.”
“If you will indulge me.” From a saddle bag hanging off the back of his chair, McCade pulled out a folded sheet of paper and dropped it down onto the pot.
Schmidt’s smile dropped as he saw a crude rendering of his face staring back at him. His name was in bold letters at the top of the hand bill. Below his likeness was the reward of $500 followed by ‘Dead or Alive’. “You dirty son of…”
“Hold on there,” McCade’s voice was calm and friendly. “We don’t need to get violent. Look.” He placed his hands flat on the table next to each other with his thumbs touching. “Now, if you do the same, we can have a nice conversation.”
Reluctantly, the wanted man complied. The large dirty hands were almost as dark as the tabletop itself as they laid down spread out from each other. His fingers still twitched every now and then. “I don’t know if I can trust a man that makes his living running men down.”
“It is a sad truth that bloodshed is the end result in many of the negotiations in my line of work. I assure you that I take no pleasure in taking a life. If I did, I would have drawn down on you as soon as you walked in. Instead, I’ve sat here pleasantly playing poker and giving this opportunity to you. I want to avoid the nasty business of a gunfight.
“Here’s the deal if you agree to my wager. We turn over our cards. If you have the better hand, you take the pot; and I walk away. I will never try to collect on this bounty or any that may be put on your head in the future. You will have no need to worry about me. No looking over your shoulder afraid of seeing me behind you. I think that is worth $500. Conversely, if my hand turns out to be the winner, I collect the pot; and you shuck that gun belt and any other weapon you may have on your person. You saddle up your pony and follow me back to the nearest marshal’s office.”
Schmidt kept his gaze fixed on McCade waiting for the slightest move. The dandy was dead still and calm. After a few silent moments, the fugitive asked, “Why should I risk it and not just kill you right here and now?”
“Risk versus reward, Oscar,” the bounty hunter answered. “You have to weigh the risk against the outcome. Now, both choices have the upside of you going free. Only one choice has the downside of you staying alive. It’s a gamble either way. How much are you willing to lose, Oscar?” His right foot hooked the table leg.
Both men sat staring at each other, waiting for Oscar to realize the answer. McCade saw it in Schmidt’s face as the man’s large, dirty hands pushed the table towards him. He fell backwards in his chair to the floor. His shin pushed against the table leg, rolling the table to his left.
The smile returned to Schmidt’s face. His luck had changed. Even the fastest gun hand wouldn’t be able to draw his sidearm in time. Not after that fall. He could feel the handle of his pistol in his palm already. As he began to pull it upwards, a glint caught his eye. McCade hadn’t gone for the Colt. The right hand had instead reached over to the left sleeve and pulled out a Derringer. Schmidt understood that his barrel was never going to clear his holster, but his hand couldn’t stop. The Derringer flashed with a pop and a sharp pain cut through his neck. Another pop and everything went black.
A dead silence followed the altercation. McCade struggled to free himself from the chair and back up to his feet. He handed his hat to one of his other poker companions with a request to collect the winnings now scattered across the floor while he examined Schmidt’s body. The eyes were blank as blood trickled down over them. McCade removed his vest and folded it before placing it in his saddle bag. At least he could save it, but he was going to have to buy yet another new shirt.
When his hat was handed back to him, he reomved a few bills and handed them to the other players and requested that they retrieve his and Schmidt’s horses. The rest went into the other pouch of his saddle bag. It went over his left shoulder and Schmidt went over the right. Once outside the body was slung over the saddle of Schmidt’s pinto. At least this isn’t down south, he thought to himself as he mounted his own horse. I might make it to the marshal’s before the stink gets too bad.
phoenixtails.wordpress.com 