Bigger than texas a will.., p.1
Bigger Than Texas (A William R. Cox Classic Western), page 1
When Johnny Bracket reined into Field City, he had twenty-one steers, his bay horse, his gun, and a run of bad luck behind him. He liked the look of the town and, even better, he liked the land deal Morg Field offered him. What he didn’t like was the fear he saw in the faces of the townsfolk and the ruthless greed he began to see in the man who owned them.
One
The twenty-one steers plodded, head down, through the snow-covered street of Field City. Johnny Bracket rode behind them, hat brim drooping. It was a good-sized town, one of the busiest in the Territory, but this night it was silent and the steady wind made a moaning sound through leafless trees.
There was a light at the livery stable. Johnny fell off his saddle onto feet numb from cold. His wiry bay pony nickered softly. A man opened the stable door and looked out, a small man with red hair and the beginning of a red winter beard. A sign said that Amsy Buchanan ran the place.
Johnny identified himself as he led the bay into the humid semi-warmth of the big barn-like structure. He asked, “You got a pen for the beef?”
“Pretty sorry, ain’t they?”
“They’re all that’s left. They’re breeders,” said Johnny.
Buchanan nodded. There was a light of respect in his eyes.
“Reckon there was more of ’em when you left Texas.”
He helped with the unsaddling and Johnny could feel circulation returning to his extremities as he moved slowly at the small tasks of arranging the bedding, wiping down the bay.
“Yep.”
“Bad year, if a man got started late.”
“Hell, high water, tick and the pestilence,” Johnny told him. “Lucky to get those Stockers through.”
“You know where you are?” Buchanan surveyed him with speculative gaze.
“Yep.”
“No land around here’s any good except Morg Field land.”
“I heard.”
“Seems like he come from Texas, years back.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Then you ain’t a friend of his?”
“Never met the man.”
Buchanan debated with himself, went to the door, closed it, returned to stare at Johnny again. “It’d be a right smart stunt if some lawman run twenty-odd steer in here, pretendin’ to be a broke-down rancher.”
Johnny asked wonderingly, “Now, why should a badge wearer be spookin’ around Field City?”
Buchanan sighed, seemed to lose interest. “There’s a pen out back. You’re welcome to use it—nobody else will, not this time of year. Be a dollar for the pony.”
There was four hundred dollars in the money belt, maybe twenty loose in his pants. It wasn’t enough for the business he had planned, but at least he wasn’t broke. He paid the man and went out on the street, conscious that Buchanan was disappointed in him, too cold and weary to wonder why.
The only other light was shining from a saloon called The Four Aces. He plodded down a boarded walk slippery under the snow. His jeans were greasy and dirty and his craggy young face sore with frostbite. His gray eyes were slightly sick with the miles he had come, but his shoulders were squared.
The Four Aces reeked with the odor of drying clothes, wet leather and unwashed men. He stood blinking in the lamplight, then moved past the cherry-red stove to the bar. He shook water from the flop-brim hat which he meant to replace on the morrow, then hung it on a peg and gestured at the stout bartender, a greasy-haired man.
Bottle and glass appeared, but the man held them until Johnny flipped a coin on the mahogany. It was a fancy saloon for a frontier town, with a long mirror and a painting of an overdeveloped naked lady. Johnny poured, turned, looked.
The men of Field City seemed no different from others he had seen between here and Texas. Most were concentrating on a poker game which was set up in a far corner.
A woman sat in the other corner at a large, round table. She was alone. Her glance swept over Johnny with unconcern, returned to contemplation of the game from afar. She was dark as the night without, and her eyes were larger than need be, Johnny thought, but she was a beautiful woman, younger than she appeared at first sight. Saloon girls were like that very often and he always felt a little sorry for them, even when he was using them. He was about to go toward this one when she turned the large brown eyes on him once more. They were like warning beacons, stopping him in his tracks.
A one-man woman, he thought, being kept by someone present in The Four Aces. Well, that was another matter. Later, maybe, after he found out how well she was being kept and by whom, something might be arranged. She was very lovely, part Indian, perhaps. Something about her rang a bell with Johnny Bracket.
He turned back to the bar; the bottle had been removed. He rapped a sore knuckle. The barkeep said, “That’ll be another two bits.”
Johnny grinned. There had been an awful lot of hard luck, about which he would not complain, and a terrible lot of lonely nights and tough going. It was nice to be able to have something at which he could strike back. “I gave you four bits the first time.”
“Like hell you did.”
The grin grew wider. “Now, bub, you wouldn’t he callin’ me a liar, would you?”
“Ain’t you callin’ me a liar?” The barkeep bristled like a small dog grown fat and feisty.
“Well, that’s a hoss of an entirely different color,” said Johnny in his softest Texan voice. “You are a liar.”
As he spoke he stepped back from the bar. His Colt hung medium low and was tied around the worn jeans with a leather thong. His arms and legs were long and strong and when he looked at the barkeep as he did, grinning, he seemed to grow a bit in all directions.
There was an embarrassed silence as small dog reverted to type. The bottle and glass tinkled, reappearing. The bartender said,
“Uh—well ... maybe you’re right about the four bits, at that. Man can make a mistake.”
Johnny seemed a bit disappointed. “You pretty sure you are a liar, then?”
“A mistake.” The bartender retreated, leaving the bottle and the shot glass.
“A liar,” said Johnny.
Again there was a pause. Johnny moved a step. The bartender said quickly, “Okay, okay. Have it your way.”
Johnny poured the shot glass full, all four ounces. He said, “Thanks, bub. I really didn’t want to turn loose.” He carried the whiskey over to the poker game and stood, watching. Behind him the girl’s big eyes narrowed for just a moment on his back, then swiveled to the big man sitting at the poker table whom she had been watching all evening as her mind went around and around in a circle, getting no place.
The big man was Morgan Field, it quickly developed, whom his friends called “Morg” rather more often than necessary. The city was named for him. Johnny marked him in his mind, a florid man, all solid beef, with a thick neck and a quick eye. His eyes were set rather far apart and the brows slanted downward at the outer edges, lion-like. He had long fingers, very white, slender, out of proportion to the rest of him. His lower jaw protruded just a bit, not enough to be ugly.
Next to Field was a fattish man. Johnny’s memory flickered, he knew the fellow. Someone called him “Calhoun” but that was not the name. He tried to bring it all into line, remembering El Paso when he had been just a button looking for a job, playing a little poker to keep alive, milking the saloon games for eating money.
That was after his mother had died. The figure of Joe, his tall, leathery father impinged on the scene. It had been years since he’d seen Joe Bracket or either of his two brothers. Joe still had the small spread but it wasn’t home any more. For a moment he was homesick, then he remembered the last hot quarrel and his abrupt leave-taking and the woman Joe had married, a young woman, good-looking, nothing wrong with her except she wasn’t Ma.
Sam and Toole had already left the place. Sam was the eldest Bracket boy, a marshal in Farwell, a fast gun, a smooth man, always in the money. Toole was an adventurer, smart as a whip, some said not above a quick holdup or bank robbery, but also sometimes an undercover man for Wells Fargo, Johnny knew.
They were all doing fine but Johnny. This had been his chance and a series of bad breaks had ruined it. He had the money in his belt and he had those twenty-one steers and his gun and the bay, but he had no place called home.
He snapped back to El Paso and then he had it. “Callahan” was the name. The man had been much thinner and quicker. He could see the broken veins caused by heavy, now daily doses of booze; he could see the blinking eyelids. Yes, it was Callahan, all right, and very interesting it could be to meet him here.
Next to Callahan-Calhoun sat an elderly fellow with whiskers and the far-away expression of the prospector the world over. He had a straight nose and a leathery aspect and he didn’t say much, but the others called him “Lonely.”
Alongside Lonely was an Englishman with the clipped accent of his breed, a medium sized man also showing the signs of alcoholism. His skin was pink and baby-like and he was a loser in the game and a bad poker player at that, Johnny perceived in the space of a couple of pots.
The other player was the town law, his badge pinned to a woolen shirt beneath a leather vest and his name proved to be Mulloy. There was room for another chair.
The onlookers, odds and ends of townsmen and three riders who stood against a wall together, stared critically as Johnny pulled up a chair and raised an eyebrow at Morgan Field.
Field hesitated. His stare was comprehensive, going over the worn range outfit to the money belt Johnny was unbuckling, then to the gun in its open holster, then to Johnny’s countenance. Nobody spoke, awaiting Field’s decision.
The man had a big, booming voice. “Sure, Bracket. Anybody with money to buy in is welcome.”
Johnny stacked the worn bills. It was Mulloy’s deal, which put him under the gun and he passed after a cursory glance at a busted flush. Mulloy was thin-faced, hard-bitten, about Field’s age, in his mid-thirties.
From the looks of things, Callahan-Calhoun was the big winner, the prospector, the Englishman and Mulloy the losers, Field neither far up nor far down. Mulloy dealt the requests for cards with painstaking, slow care. He had blunt fingers, stubby, not clever.
Field won a small pot and it was Johnny’s deal. He worked the stiffness out of his hands and managed to shuffle without dropping the deck. Mulloy cut and the cards went around. Field opened carelessly for two dollars.
Calhoun-Callahan was staring at Johnny. He shook his head as though to clear his mind and played along for the two-buck bet.
Lonely found players and Monty, the Englishman, hesitated, obviously low in funds, then he also stayed. Mulloy said harshly, in a rasping, annoying voice, “Driver’s seat rises and raises.”
He put in ten dollars. Johnny looked at his cards. He had two aces and a pair of treys. Without hesitation he called the raise. He was in the best position to estimate the other hands, he had two or three ways to make a play.
Field met the bet, saying in his loud, confident fashion, “Now it gets interestin’. Maybe you brought life into it, Bracket.”
“Maybe I’m buyin’ trouble,” said Johnny, watching Calhoun-Callahan. The fat man counted out eight dollars with meticulous care. Lonely dropped.
The Englishman fingered his money, looked at the ceiling, and threw in his cards. The stove gave off good heat but not enough to make him sweat so much, Johnny thought.
“Cards, if any,” Johnny said, laying down his own five smartly edged, a coin atop them.
“Three,” said Field.
Johnny dealt the three, aware that Field had only played in the pot because he was rich and bored, not underestimating the man.
“Two here,” croaked Calhoun-Callahan.
Mulloy stood pat, thereby posing a perplexing decision for Johnny. He looked around the table, edging out his original five cards. He thought deeply. Against anything but a pat hand he would have discarded the treys. Against a possible bluff, or if he knew the players, he might have stood pat and raised. Now, he thought, he was trapped with a weak hand after the draw and had to better it. There was really only one thing he could do.
“One to the dealer,” he stated flatly. He felt Mulloy move beside him and imagined the lawman was holding a straight. He wondered now about the fat gambler across the table. He watched him very closely.
Field said, “Opener checks.”
“Check to raise,” said Calhoun-Callahan.
Mulloy was ready, surmising he would have to bet them. “Ten dollars.”
Johnny had not peeked at his draw. He said, “And fifty.”
Field laughed. “That’s the way to bet ’em, Texas.”
Calhoun was shuffling the five cards, again staring hard at Johnny. Finally he said, “No bet.”
Mulloy was now doing a bit of sweating on his own. Fifty dollars was a big bet, especially into a pat hand. Still, Johnny hadn’t looked ... his straight should be the winning hand. And if it was the winning hand, he should raise another fifty back into Johnny’s teeth. On the other side, if Johnny was one of those wild men who played a four flush as though he had it made ... he may have made it, in which case the straight was no good. Mulloy’s mind was not quick, but it was thorough. His trouble was that he had never been a very good poker player.
He said, “Call, damn it.”
Johnny dealt the cards face up, ace, ace, three, three ... and another three. “Well, what do you know? I filled.”
He took in the money. Field roared with amusement.
“You got the look of a man that’s been fresh outa luck. Maybe you busted the streak, huh, Texas?”
“Johnny Bracket,” he said. “Men that get called ‘Texas’ generally don’t pull their weight, somehow or other.”
“Gimme the cards, Johnny, and let’s have a real game.”
The big man dealt with dexterity, but his hands were honest enough. Monty looked hungrily at Johnny, as if wishing he could borrow some luck. Lonely just sat, saying nothing. Mulloy tapped the table, angry at himself for losing the pot, yet knowing that he had been helpless against a lucky draw, disliking Johnny for having been the instrument of defeat. It was like almost any other poker game up and down the western frontier except for one factor ... Calhoun-Callahan.
When the fat gambler opened for five dollars, Johnny thought he felt the building of it. Lonely played, so did Monty, without his usual hesitation. Mulloy couldn’t wait to get his money in.
A cold deck? Johnny wondered. He thought he would have detected a run-in, but sad experience in the past bade him beware. He looked at his cards. He had a pair of tens. It probably was not a cold deck because six hands are as easy to set up as five. He folded, shaking his head. He sat back in his chair, watching from beneath lowered lids.
Field raised ten dollars. Everybody played. It was, Johnny thought, just one of those pots, as he had first intuitively suspected. Poker is an exciting game because of such go-arounds, when everybody is holding good cards.
Calhoun-Callahan took two cards. Lonely took one. Monty took one, Mulloy did likewise. Field dealt himself two.
El Paso, thought Johnny, years back. Harry Hatt, the gambling fool who was shot by one of the Duke twins, was in the game, both the Dukes and another man. From the sidelines it had been easy to see the play. Nobody had caught on, either, and Johnny had known better than to open his mouth, him an unknown kid without a gun on him among those hot shots.
Now Calhoun-Callahan had dirty shirt cuffs, flaring wide, and the sleeves of his coat were built loose. It was an ill-lighted room and the players were intent upon their cards.
The fat man said, “My turn to bet fifty.”
Lonely tipped money into the pot with a horny, curved forefinger. Monty swallowed hard, then put his last bills into the pot. Mulloy choked, picked up a wad.
“I raise fifty.”
Field said, “By God, I’ll raise another fifty.”
Calhoun-Callahan had added a lot of weight since El Paso. He had lost other things, thought Johnny. He wasn’t so fast. Maybe his nerve was gone. His fingers shook just a little as he went for a hundred dollars to re-raise the pot. Johnny imperceptibly cleared his chair.
Lonely was looking at his cards, inscrutable behind his gray whiskers. He finally shook his head and deposited his cards in the center of the table. Monty gasped, then followed suit.
Field said, “And fifty to you, gambler.”
The fat man said, “And a hundred more, Morg.”
Mulloy said, “I’m in the middle, damn it.” But he saw the raises.
“And I’m bettin’ into the raise,” Field said, laughing, not caring very much. “I call you, gambler.”
Calhoun-Callahan laid them down. “Four fat ones.”
The four aces caught the light, reflecting it. The fat man made a subtle move while the others gaped. Johnny went clear across the table.
He pinned the thick wrist. He twisted hard and a holdout slid clumsily out of the frayed, dirty cuff. From it fell Calhoun-Callahan’s original hand, five unmatched, useless cards.
“Better count the deck, gents,” said Johnny.
There were exclamations, curses, cries of amazement. Chairs crashed, men milled. Johnny held tight to the wrist, looking down at the cornered gambler, feeling a little sick, a little sorry at what he saw in the agonized eyes.
“By God,” roared Morgan Field. “We been nursin’ a viper. Empty his damn pockets, Mulloy. Split his take back accordin’ to who put in what. Then stick him in the hoosegow and let him rot.”
Johnny was watching the eyes, set deep in fat but glowing like coals. “You should know better, Callahan. You lost your quick some place.”
He meant it as a warning. He had to let go and slide back across the table and he sensed the rat coming out in the fat man and he didn’t want the trouble. Even as he moved he knew the message did not get through, that Calhoun-Callahan had passed the line of reason and was hell bent. Perhaps he had been in western jails before, perhaps he knew Morg Field’s jail would be worse than most.
