The H&R Cattle Company (14 page)

At five minutes to twelve, Rollins walked to the table and took the only vacant chair. The other five players were already seated. The banker had placed six stacks of poker chips around the table, each stack worth a thousand dollars. As Bret made himself comfortable, with his long legs under the table and his saddlebag across one knee, all eyes turned to the banker.

Weeks introduced the players simply by pointing to each man and calling his name, then explained the value of each of the poker chips according to its color. When each man had counted his stack, the banker spoke again: “Draw poker with nothing wild, men, and it's legal to raise after you've checked your hand. I'll deal the first hand, then the deal will revolve around the table to my left.” He dealt five cards facedown to each man.

After two hours of play, Rollins was still about even but was firmly convinced that he himself was the only good poker player in the game. Time after time he had watched each of his opponents ride a hand to its conclusion when it should have been folded at the outset.

Rollins had always been amazed that most men would play poker for many years, or even for a lifetime, without ever concerning themselves with the arithmetic aspects of the game, always trusting to the “luck of the draw.” Luck had nothing whatsoever to do with playing poker. It was a game of skill and percentages, nothing more, nothing less, and the pockets of the player who used patience, common sense, and bet with the percentages would always eventually jingle with the easy coin of the player who bucked the odds.

False beliefs and opinions abounded concerning the game of poker, most of them perpetuated by people who had little knowledge of the game. Rollins had long wanted to play poker with the man who coined the phrase: “Never draw to an inside straight.” There was a time when a player should indeed draw to an inside straight, and that time was anytime the money odds in the pot exceeded the eleven-to-one odds against filling the hand, coupled with the fact that no other player in the pot had stood pat. Indeed, any player who consistently bet with the odds would eventually be a winner.

By midafternoon, Rollins had gauged his opponents and mentally placed each player in a separate category: Albert Shook was a blowhard. He had plenty of money and wanted to make sure everybody knew it. His style was to play every hand, usually making rash bets and unwarranted raises. Several times he had made it unnecessarily expensive for Rollins to place second in a pot in which Shook himself had placed third or fourth. Bret continued to smile good-naturedly, knowing that he would burn Shook badly when the man walked into one of his traps.

Huffstuttler was the most timid of the lot, playing as if the stakes set by this bunch were beyond his means. The fact that he was in over his head had made him too cautious. He saw traps that were nonexistent and folded too often. Bret knew that even a modest raise by Huffstuttler would indicate a powerful hand.

Will Dempsey was easy to figure. The rancher was an incessant talker who grew strangely quiet when he held good cards. Something Rollins would remember, and use.

Al Foster was the wealthiest member of the group, and the stingiest—at the table and away from it. Foster wasted no chips, keeping out of the red. He stayed only when his chances of winning the pot were excellent, and contrary to what Bret had been told by Overstreet, the man bet heavily only when he had a lock, and probably never tried to bluff. Rollins decided that Foster himself could be bluffed when he was losing.

Lonny Weeks was easygoing and likable. And though the banker appeared to take the game lightly, Rollins dared not try to bluff him, for he did not care to risk as much money as it might take to run Weeks out of a pot that Weeks thought was rightfully his. Rollins would play honest poker against the banker.

The players rested for twenty minutes at six o'clock, then continued till Al Foster called the game at midnight, amid groans by both players and spectators. “The Texas Saloon always closes at midnight,” he said, “and tonight will be no exception.” He motioned to the banker. “Mister Weeks will count every man's chips right now, and he'll keep them overnight. When the game resumes tomorrow at noon, each player will start with the same amount of chips he's holding now.”

Rollins sat patiently while the others turned in their chips. Each time the banker finished counting a player's holdings, he would write the dollar figure in a notebook, then return the chips to the rack from whence they came. He smiled broadly as he wrote down Bret's figure. “Twenty-seven hundred and four dollars,” he said. “I knew you were a good poker player before we ever turned a card. Wouldn't surprise me a bit if you end up with the whole kit and caboodle in your sock.”

Rising to his feet, Rollins returned the banker's smile. “It would sure surprise me,” he said. He walked to the bar quickly and spoke to the bartender: “Do I have enough time for one drink?”

Overstreet had already doffed his apron and was busy stacking glasses in a neat line along the backside of the bar. “Only if you inhale it quickly,” he said, reaching for a whiskey bottle. He poured three ounces into a water glass and placed it in front of Rollins. “Spectators pretty well kept me posted on the game,” he said. “I hear you've been holding your own and then some. One fellow said you were teaching the old dogs some new tricks.”

Rollins upended his glass and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then laid a coin on the bar. “Don't believe everything you hear,” he said, heading for his hotel room.

*   *   *

Bret was back in the saloon the next day at noon, and the poker game started on time. None of the players had changed his style from the previous day, although Albert Shook had become even more reckless with his bets. The man had put new money in the game several times, and even now had more than five thousand dollars in front of him.

Rollins had deliberately avoided pots in which Shook was his only opponent, for he did not want a showdown just yet. He was patient, content to win only a few dollars at a time until the right hand came. When the right circumstances arose, he was prepared to tap Albert Shook all the way to the poorhouse.

At midafternoon, Rollins got a good oportunity to bait Shook. The pot contained less than a hundred dollars, and he strongly believed that none of his opponents held a calling hand. When he bet four hundred dollars at a hundred-dollar pot, every man folded his hand. As Rollins raked in the pot, he “accidentally” let his low-ranking cards fall face-up in front of Shook, exposing the fact that Bret had run a bluff with a hand that held no pair at all. In fact, the highest card in the hand had been a jack. Rollins gave the players just enough time to read the cards, then grabbed them quickly, as though he was afraid his strategy might be revealed. As he returned his cards to the deck, Rollins saw Shook looking at the other players, gritting his teeth and nodding as if he had just uncovered a big secret.

Bret dealt the next hand. He folded his own cards at the outset, then watched as each of the other players did likewise. “I'm gonna quit for a while, men,” he said, handing the deck to the banker. “Gotta go to the outhouse, then I'm gonna get something to eat.”

Al Foster nodded and pushed back his chair. “Why don't we just halt the game for an hour?” he said. “I could stand a bite to eat, and I guess everybody needs to take a piss.”

“We'll take a thirty-minute break in shifts,” the banker said, “three men on each shift. That way, there'll always be three men here at the table, keeping an eye on the chips and the cards. Rollins, Dempsey and Huffstuttler, you three can go first.”

The three men Weeks had named were on their feet quickly, headed in different directions. When he returned from the outhouse, Rollins had a quick meal of beans and biscuits, then took a seat at the bar. “Give me a hefty shot of the good stuff, Tim,” he said to the bartender. “I feel like I need something to hold my supper down.”

Overstreet complied, then leaned on his elbows against the bar. “How's the game going?” he asked. “People tell me that you're doing all right for yourself over there.”

“I always make it a point not to discuss a game while it's still in progress,” Bret said, taking a sip from his glass. “Every hand that's dealt creates different circumstances, and the turn of a single card can change the whole face of a game.” He upended his glass, then waved away the bartender's attempt to refill it. “The only thing I can tell you, Tim, is that so far, I've managed to keep from going broke.” Rollins looked at his watch, then headed for the poker table.

Dempsey and Huffstuttler had already returned and were involved in light conversation with Lonny Weeks. Bret sat down and the banker shoved the chip rack and several decks of cards in front of him. “I've been waiting for you,” Weeks said. “Like I said before, there should be at least three men at the table at all times.”

Bret took his watch from his vest pocket and turned its face toward Weeks so that the banker could plainly read the time. “Been gone thirty minutes,” Bret said.

Weeks ignored the watch. “Guess so,” he said, then took his own leave.

*   *   *

As was the case with most high-stakes poker games, one hand brought the Big Game to its conclusion. Rollins, seated to the left of Huffstuttler, who was dealing, peeked at his cards one at a time as they came off the deck. Then he held the cards close to his vest, making sure he had read the hand correctly. He made a conscious effort to control his demeanor, for the dealer had dealt him a lock. This was only the second time in his life that he had drawn such a hand with his original five cards. He glanced at the royal flush once more, then spoke through his usual smile: “I'll open the pot for a hundred,” he said.

Shook, seated at Rollins' left, was in the pot immediately. “You don't seem very proud of whatever you've got,” he said. “I'm gonna kick it three hundred.” He pushed his raise into the pot.

Dempsey, who was next in line, was quiet, signifying that he held good cards. “I'll just call,” he said.

Al Foster folded his hand, as did Lonny Weeks.

Huffstuttler studied his cards for a full minute. “I'll be damned if I'm gonna be run out of this pot,” he said, a determined expression on his face. “Fact is, I'm gonna up it a thousand.” He counted his chips into the pot, then sat twisting his beard with a thumb and forefinger. “Your opening bet's been called and raised twice,” he said to Rollins. “Now you've gotta call the raise or fold.”

Rollins knew, of course, that he himself was going to win the pot. His only concern right now was how to make the most money out of it. He had no doubt that Huffstuttler held the second-best hand at the table, but Shook had the most money. Rollins fought and overcame the urge to reraise the pot, for he certainly did not want to lose Shook. “I'll call both raises,” he said in the most timid tone of voice he could muster.

Shook was louder now. He completely ignored Rollins and spoke to Huffstuttler. “Now we're beginning to play some poker,” he said, counting out his chips. “I'm gonna call your raise, Wallace, but you didn't bet near enough. I'm gonna sweeten the pot two thousand dollars more.”

Dempsey began to curse and folded his cards immediately.

Huffstuttler counted two thousand dollars' worth of chips into the pot, saying nothing.

Rollins also called, once again resisting the urge to raise.

Al Foster, who had folded with the first raise, had been paying close attention to the goings-on. He now elbowed the banker, speaking almost at a whisper, “Already somewhere around eleven thousand in that pot, and they ain't even drawed to their hands yet.”

Weeks nodded and said nothing.

Huffstuttler finally picked up the deck, prepared to replace whatever discards any player might have. “Cards to gamblers,” he said. “How many you gonna draw, Rollins?”

Bret placed his hands over his cards. “I'll play these,” he said.

“By God, I'm gonna stand pat, too!” Shook said loudly, beating his fist against the table and beginning to chuckle. “I guess we'll find out pretty quick whose shit don't stink, huh?”

Huffstuttler placed the deck on the table. “I won't be drawing any cards, either,” he said.

“All three of 'em are standin' pat,” Rollins heard one of the spectators say to another. “By God, ya don't see that very often. This oughtta be interestin'.”

It was interesting indeed. Rollins sat fiddling with his chips and reexamining his cards, hoping to appear nervous.

“You brought it, fellow,” Shook said to Rollins. “Time to put up or shut up.”

Rollins peeked at his cards again. “Check,” he said softly.

“Naw, naw, naw,” Shook said, grabbing a handful of chips. “Ain't gonna be no checking around here. I didn't come in this game checking.” He pushed a stack of chips into the pot. “Bet four thousand,” he said.

Rollins let out an audible sigh to give the impression that his own hand was weak. All for the benefit of Wallace T. Huffstuttler, for Bret did not want to lose the old man's four thousand dollars.

Shook had obviously counted Huffstuttler's chips, for the old man had only twenty dollars left after calling his bet.

Now Rollins was doing some counting of his own. He pushed four thousand dollars into the pot, his eyes on Shook's stack all the while. “I'm calling your bet, Mister Shook. How much more money do you have in front of you?”

Shook began to fidget. His eyes shifted from one of the idle players to the next, then returned to Rollins. “You … you intend to tap me?”

“Every dollar,” Bret answered. “I'm raising the pot whatever you've got in front of you. Count your chips and put them in the pot, or fold and forfeit.”

“Forfeit, hell,” Shook said loudly. “I've got a good hand here.” All was quiet while he counted his chips. “Fifty-two hundred and nine dollars,” he said, pushing the chips to the center of the table.