He scowled at Silas. “No chance I’m lettin’ you in tonight, Deputy McKay.”
Silas groaned. “Every damn time I show up you think I’m my brother, Gordon.”
His expression didn’t soften one iota. “Prove you ain’t the deputy.”
“Last time I was here, oh, round about November, I reckon, after the hall closed, you and I played four rounds of poker and we tied two games to two games. Rather than have a tiebreaker, we each drank four shots of whiskey and I am lucky that my horse knew the way home.”
That’s when Gordon grinned. “Glad to have you back, Silas, even though it’s been too long.”
“Been a rough winter.”
“I hear ya.” He angled his head toward the jar sitting next to him. “Buy in is a buck.”
Another Pettyjohn’s distinction: pay to play. “Sure.” Silas handed over the coins.
“Got a faro table and a twenty-one table runnin’ for those who ain’t interested in the high stakes table.”
“What’s the high stakes table?”
“A tournament. Overall winners of the individual poker tables compete. Regular cash game until it’s down to the last two players and they decide on the stakes.”
Silas managed a bland expression despite his interest. “That’s new.”
“Been holdin’ it monthly after my father saw how it was done in Deadwood over Christmas. Last time, the high stakes winner ended up with a pair of Colts. Month before that, winner ended up with a bull. Before that, winner got four hours at Ruby Red’s.” Gordon shrugged. “Keeps things interesting and the players around, drinkin’ and makin’ side bets even after they’re outta the tournament, so it’s worth it for us since we don’t gotta provide the final payout.”
“Smart.”
“Get on in and get you a seat at the table. There’s only three open chairs left.” His eyes narrowed. “Fair warnin’, you gotta have something other than money to offer if you’re one of the last two players.”
Gordon nodded but his focus was on whoever was coming up the stairs.
Silas stopped at the bar for a drink, asking for beer rather than whiskey. He wondered what’d possessed him to tell Gordon a bald-faced lie: he had no idea what his final barter would be. His worldly possessions were few. His firearms weren’t fancy enough to wager. His livestock options were limited unless he offered up cow/calf pairs. Since he was already Henrikson’s hand, he couldn’t hire himself out for a week’s worth of cowboying.
He was half-tempted to forego the high stakes poker game and play a few hands of twenty-one. He’d come here with the intention of winning cash, not some unknown stake that might not be tradeable for the cash he needed.
That’s when a deranged laugh echoed back to him.
“Look who cleaned up and headed to town, hopin’ to clean up here too.”
Zeke West.
Of course that dirtbag would be here on a Friday night. Probably just got paid.
Too bad they weren’t playing for cash, because he’d love to take that mouthy fucker’s money again.
“Are you playin’, McKay? Or are you afraid that without your brother here you won’t get away with cheatin’?”
Silas didn’t respond even when every eye in the place turned his direction.
But the dealer at Zeke’s table warned, “Another allegation of us allowing cheaters to play here, and Gordon will toss your ass out. Understood?”
Zeke nodded.
West sat at the far rear table with his bootlicker railroad buddies. Then Zeke spoke to them and they both got up, each relocating to different tables, which left the two open spots at Zeke’s table.
A blatant challenge for Silas to play next to him.
Maintaining eye contact with Zeke, Silas took the last seat at the table directly in front of him—not the one by West.
Game on, asshole.
The men who’d come in behind Silas promptly filled the empty spots at Zeke’s table.
The manager explained the rules: five card, one draw, ante increased by one every round, play continued until only one player remained at each table.
One table had a winner within ten hands.
The other four tables lasted longer.
There seemed to be more good-natured ribbing among this crowd than Silas was used to. He couldn’t figure out if the men at his table were all just crappy card players, or were here for fun, or if he’d just gotten lucky with his cards.
You’re always lucky at cards, Jonas’s complaint echoed in his head.
When Silas outlasted the barber in the final hand, his tablemates’ congratulations were genuine. They even promised to root for him