Chapter 18: High Cards

The Tinhorn had been in the little Texas town for less than a month, in which time he had come close to cornering the market in money. He’d cleaned out most of the cowpunchers and the few loafers and had made a considerable dent in the funds of the retail business ranks. That wasn’t too surprising. Being a professional card player he was, like others of his kind, likely to come out on top over a protracted spell of play. But this place had been extraordinarily good to him and his winnings were well beyond what he had guessed as a possible maximum.

He had been thinking that it was about time to move on. After all, there couldn’t be inexhaustible supplies of cash here. If he had been obliged to rely on the town alone, he would by now be playing for matchsticks. His decision to leave had been delayed only because the place was a popular riverboat stop. Owing to that, he had been able to augment his gains by entertaining such travellers as cared to exchange the diversions of waterborne gambling for their land-based counterparts. The boats stopped for only three or four hours, but that was enough for some players to lose heavily.

Around seven each evening, the Tinhorn would enter the Waterside Tavern and take his place at the table he had effectively commandeered. He was about thirty, of average height, slim, black-haired, clean-shaven, pale-faced and always fashionably – some said foppishly – dressed. His routine was unvarying. He would always sit in the same chair, facing the batwing doors, check his wallet, deposit his silver cigar case on the table top, light a panatella and start juggling with the cards.

It was an education to watch him. He could cut and shuffle with rare dexterity, making the cards do everything but sing and dance. After giving a brief example of his legerdemain, he would settle down to play patience until the gamblers appeared, then it would always be five-card draw poker. His dealing was something to behold. Where less skilled players would lean halfway across the table to hand out the cards, he always dealt from a spot right under his nose, flicking the pasteboards to land with unerring accuracy in front of the intended recipient. Aside from playing his part in the rounds of bidding and passing, he spoke little and then, oddly enough, almost always while he was dealing.

Naturally, the Tinhorn failed now and then, as the law of averages suggested he must, but in the course of an evening, he always won plenty. He seemed to have a sixth sense where the cards were concerned. When he lost, his reverses were usually modest. Sometimes he also won only small amounts, but on other occasions it was quite uncanny how he seemed to know when a major killing was to be made. Then he would up the stakes quickly, carrying others along in a gaming fever, then crushing them. Several times he beat what seemed like obviously winning hands and once he astounded a gaggle of onlookers by producing a jack-high straight flush against an opponent’s nine-high one – an amazing outcome.

One evening, a couple of the younger cowboys asked him, without suggesting any impropriety, how he managed to win so often and how he almost always knew when the big coup was to be made. “Well, boys,” he replied, “I guess it’s like any other field in this life. You’d expect a full-time player to beat an amateur over a distance. It’s because I know what to look for. Maybe I’m giving away too many secrets here, but I concentrate on a number of little things. Sometimes it’s the widening of a man’s eyes when he picks up a good hand. Occasionally, it’s just the twitch of a finger. Then there’s often a little something in a man’s voice when he’s stating his play. A man with a lot of experience just gets to be on the alert for reflexes that a casual player doesn’t notice. That’s all there is to it, but everything adds up over a matter of hours.”

There were people who were convinced that something more was involved, and several of them got to wondering whether anything could be done about it. Town Marshal Dave Barton, who had lost substantially to the Tinhorn over the first two weeks, hit upon an idea. Why not form a group of the biggest losers, to see how the situation should be handled? Barton soon recruited his committee. Including himself, there were five members, the others being the town’s physician, Doctor Timothy Donovan, the leading storeowner, Saul Holdsworth, the undertaker, Andrew Roper and the saddler, Otto Schnabel. The group met and within five minutes, agreed that the first step would be to invite Jonas Hathaway to help.

Hathaway was the most prominent member of the local ranching community. He ran a large spread, with headquarters twelve miles west of the town. In his younger days, he had been known as a very handy man at a card table. However, he was now seventy-three years of age and reckoned himself so arthritic that he could start up his own chalk factory by just rubbing his hands together. He seldom came into town any more, but was happy to receive the members of the action group at his ranch and agreed to help if he could. He was a rich man and didn’t mind the possibility of a limited loss, for old time’s sake. It was agreed that he would ride in the same evening and see what he could make of the situation.

Play started around seven-thirty and within two hours, the Tinhorn and Jonas Hathaway were the only players left, the others having excused themselves because of either shortage of funds or the departing boat. By midnight, Hathaway also gave up, claiming that his advanced years entitled him to a little sleep from time to time. Before going to his hotel room for the night, he conferred with the full action group. Marshal Barton asked him how he had made out.

Jonas shook his head. “I’m down four hundred dollars, boys,” he said. “I don’t know how he does it. He isn’t using marked cards, that’s for sure, but I’ll bet my bottom dollar he’s cheating somehow. I thought at one point I’d have to put the deed to my spread in the pot.” This brought a roar of laughter from the others, for everyone knew that Jonas no more had a deed to his ranch than he had title to the Louisiana Purchase. In fact he had acquired his land by shooting dead the previous occupier in a range war and thereafter defying all comers.

After Hathaway’s departure, the group started to puzzle out the next move. Marshal Barton shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I’m at the end of my tether,” he said. “Has anybody any ideas?”

Holdsworth paused in the act of lighting a cigar. “There’s a big gambler downriver a piece,” he said. “Doc ... now what was it ... Doc... ?”

“Oh, it would be,” put in Roper, the tall, lugubrious mortician, his sarcasm palpable. “They’re always called Doc something or other. I suppose he’s consumptive as well – they usually are?”

“No, he isn’t,” snapped Holdsworth, piqued by this ridicule, “and I recall his name now. It’s Doc Robinson. Anyway, I just remembered that he’s no use to us at present.”

“Why not?” asked Roper.

“Because he’s in hospital. A case of poisoning, I heard.”

“Poisoning?”

“Yes. Lead poisoning. He caught it from something that came out of a six-gun when he was holding cards that somebody thought he shouldn’t have had.” Marshal Barton rubbed his jaw. “Well, that rules him out,” he said. “Any other suggestions?”

Saddler Schnabel then made his single contribution, which turned out to be the vital one. “I think maybe we should send for Precious Pete,” he said.

“Precious Pete?” said Doctor Donovan, a relative newcomer to the town. “I seem to be at a disadvantage here.”

“Oh, right. I guess you wouldn’t know,” answered Marshal Barton. “It’s an old story. He used to be called ‘Precious Metal Pete’ and then the ‘Metal’ got dropped somewhere along the way. He’s a funny old buzzard, but a sort of institution here. He made a heap of gold in the California rush of forty-nine, then lost it all playing cards. After that he somehow got a piece of the Comstock business and made himself rich again with silver. Lost that pile in the same way as before. I guess he must have been skinned by pretty near every cardsharp in the West. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s met them all, from Canada to Mexico. He just fools around now, pretending to do a little prospecting. Lives in an old shack a few miles north of here.”

“You think he might be able to help?” asked the doctor.

“It’s worth a try. I’ll send my deputy to bring him into town tomorrow.”

At noon the following day, the group met again. The deputy marshal had brought in Precious Pete, a scruffy-looking old character who did not seem in the least downcast by having won and lost fortunes over the years.

Marshal Barton asked the old-timer if he could recommend a good card cheat who could be recruited, stressing that the action group was willing to look hard – far afield if necessary and if time permitted – for a reliable man.

“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” said Precious Pete. “You only have to go over into the next county. There’s a young fellow there by the name of Clarence Moon. He’ll fit your needs perfectly. Why, Clarence will cheat your eyeballs out with pleasure. Only you’ll pardon my askin’ gentlemen, but I’m just wonderin’ why you want somebody to swindle you, seein’ as how it’s so easy to lose money at cards anyway?”

Marshal Barton put a meaty arm around the old man’s shoulders. “No, Pete,” he said, “we don’t want to hire the man to cheat us. We want him to get the better of a gambler who we think has been taking advantage of us here in town.”

“Oh, I see,” said Pete. “Well, maybe I know the man. Who is he?”

That was a good question. The Tinhorn had never once mentioned his name and, in keeping with local etiquette, no one had asked him to do so. This necessitated a short adjournment, so that Marshal Barton could take Precious Pete to the saloon, where the ace gambler usually had an afternoon drink at around this time. It took only one glance for Pete to confirm that he didn’t recognise the man, whereupon he and the marshal returned and the meeting reconvened, Barton asking how the much-needed Clarence Moon was to be contacted.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Precious Pete, eager to take the opportunity of being useful for once. “I’ll bring him over myself. I know him well an’ I’ve nothin’ special on right now. In fact, I haven’t had anythin’ special on since I lost the pile I made in Nevada a good few years back. ‘Course, you’ll excuse me for raisin’ the point, but Clarence is sure to want to know what’s in it for him?”

This was a knotty one. If Clarence Moon were to beat the Tinhorn, why should he not just pocket his winnings and depart, leaving the townspeople no better off than before his arrival? The question gave rise to a babble of cross-talk, sometimes with everyone speaking at once. Marshal Barton finally restored order and various proposals were discussed.

It was decided that a collection be arranged and that the marshal would ask all interested parties to contribute. It was felt that with a little persuasion and the prospect of the return of some or all of the money they had lost, the parties concerned should be able to amass a total of five hundred dollars. This would be handed to Clarence Moon as a stake for one evening’s play. Marshal Barton, who had formidable coercive powers, undertook to discourage unwanted would-be players, thus leaving the field to Clarence and the Tinhorn.

The proposition to be put to Moon was that he should not initially put in any of his own money. If he were to lose the stake supplied to him, he would cease representing the townspeople and decide for himself whether or not to continue playing on his own account. In the event of his winning substantially by use of the five hundred dollars, he would return that sum to the committee and any further gains would be shared equally between him on one side and the earlier losers on the other. Should he win only marginally, a gentlemen’s agreement would be negotiated.

No-one could think through every detail, but to the action group it seemed a good idea. Any additional losses to the townspeople would be limited to the stake they provided for Moon, whereas there was a reasonable chance of their recovering some or all of what they had so far lost, and possibly more. As for Clarence Moon, if he failed, he would not be out of pocket. If he succeeded, he would make himself richer by using, at least initially, other people’s money.