Chapter Two – Battlefield
“You have to keep in mind that I wasn’t there for everything. Some of his story came to me in pieces … over breakfast or a cup of coffee … around campfires … sometimes second- or even third-hand. But I remember it all. I owed him that from the first day I met him. We all did.”
~ Captain Jane Wilson
A crowd hovered around the table—waiting and watching—wondering if Jake Lasater had finally met his match. Hushed whispers slid back and forth like wind through pines. Beyond the crowd, gamblers, travelers, drunks, and barmaids went about their business. An electric harmony floated over it all as an automaton band sang about somebody’s sweetheart on Saturday night.
For the first time in months, an out-of-towner had given Jake a run for his money.
Three men already lay fallen, worn down and wiped out by the two professionals who now faced each other. Everyone knew only one would walk away victorious. It was a matter of pride at that point. The money didn’t matter.
Not as much as the pride, anyway, Jake thought, glancing around the room. The Colorado Brewery was like a second home to him, all dark walnut and polished brass. The Colorado brought in everything from dregs in dirty overalls to ladies in bright silk.
Jake worked the end of a cigar, smoke dribbling out the corner of his mouth. After six hours, he was tired, his shoulders ached, and his butt hurt. He shifted in his chair to relieve some of the ache and glanced at the impressive pile of bills and coins on the table. He flicked a blob of ash into an already-full ashtray and cocked an eye at Quinn, the burly, half-Asian sitting across from him.
Pale, ghost-white eyes stared back—emotionless—and Jake had never seen anything like them.
Quinn was six feet of corded muscle topped by a jet-black ponytail that rode high upon his crown. His ashen face was as stony-cold as his eyes, giving away nothing. Layers of bronze mail stretched from a thick iron collar around his neck to spiked bracers at his wrists, and similar mail covered his thighs and shins. The bronze gleamed like reptilian scales in sunlight, and he wore heavy, black clothing underneath. He looked more like some sort of dragonkin than a man.
Jake leaned back and fingered the smooth grip of the cavalry officer’s pistol holstered at his right hip—an old habit. For him, poker and gunfights were damn near the same thing … well, except for hot lead flying around. And he was one of the best—at both—and for the same reasons.
He could size up courage and cowardice like normal folks read a penny dreadful. And he usually knew when the man he was up against was full of shit or armed for bear. Usually. It all came down to making the right move at the right time.
Unfortunately, Quinn wasn’t giving up a thing.
Jake lifted the short, black leather topper off his head and ran a gloved hand through dark, wavy curls. Replacing the topper, he scratched beneath the intricate, clockwork ocular covering his left eye. The Rebel cannons had left his eye permanently dilated—among other things—bringing to an end his tour as a Union cavalry officer. Without the ocular bright light blinded him, but he could see in the dark almost as well as a cat with it.
He blew a puff of smoke through the corner of his mouth, and it drifted out over the money. The cloud dissipated quickly on currents dancing through the brewery, stirred by the airy rhythms of electric ceiling fans. Half of Denver was on electric, the places that had money, anyway.
Ignoring the smoke, Quinn’s pale eyes remained cold, his face carved in granite.
Jake leaned back in. “Call,” he finally said in his slow Missouri drawl, dropping a twenty-dollar bill on top of the pile.
More whispers circled the table.
The dealer nodded. “Pot’s right,” he said, laying down the last face-up cards.
Quinn was showing the jack and eight of clubs, ace of diamonds, and king of hearts—garbage to Jake’s eyes. But Quinn had opened the betting heavy and kept it up as the hand evolved. Jake knew Quinn had something worth fighting for, probably two pair—kings and aces—or trips of some kind. He looked down at his own garbage: ace of hearts, five and seven of spades, eight of diamonds. His hole cards were the four and six of spades. The eight of diamonds had given him a straight, and with one more down card coming, he had a fair shot at a flush. It was why he’d called on the last round. Even without the flush, though, a straight beats two pair or even trips every time.
“Fifty,” Quinn said quietly as he threw more bills on top of the pot.
Solid bet, Jake thought. Small enough to keep me interested, but not big enough to drive me out if I’m chasing the straight.
Jake’s face was chiseled of the same stone as Quinn’s, but he was smiling on the inside. This is why I play poker, he thought, a test of wills.
He pulled on his cigar and blew out another cloud. He wanted to savor every moment. He picked up the bottle of Cap’n Plat beer he’d been working and took a swig. Leaning back once again, he placed his gloved left hand on his cards and tapped a finger thoughtfully. It made a dull, solid, thudding sound, not like flesh at all.
“Call,” Jake said, adding a trace of resignation to his voice. Gotta play this just right … he thought. He pushed fifty into the pot.
The dealer laid down their last cards.
Quinn reached out and lifted the corner, his eyes darting to whatever lay beneath.
Jake watched closely, looking for any sort of tell, but his opponent’s face was as immutable as the Chinese statues he’d seen once in a Chicago museum.
This time Quinn waited, letting the drone of the brewery fill the silence.
Jake waited, not even looking at his hole card as he scratched beneath the edge of his ocular again.
“Everything,” Quinn said quietly, pushing in his entire stack.
A gasp washed through the crowd, and for the first time all night, Quinn’s voice carried a hint of emotion—victory. His face was still a blank slate, and he had pushed in what looked to be about two hundred dollars.
Jake raised his eyebrow behind the ocular, certain Quinn’s last card had given him trips, or even a full house, which would crush Jake’s straight. The money on the table represented his whole bankroll. He hadn’t had a decent job in weeks, and his crew was eating him out of hearth and home.
“So that’s how it’s gonna be, is it?” Jake asked around the cigar.
Quinn nodded once, and the trace of a smile crimped the edges of his mouth.
“I guess I better see what I have, shouldn’t I?” Jake glanced at the upturned corner of his last down card. He laid it flat slowly and eyeballed his money—about two-hundred-and-fifty dollars. If he lost, he’d still have fifty to keep his crew fed until another job rolled in … hopefully. Either way, Jake was pot-committed, and both gamblers knew it.
“Call.” Jake sounded defeated, and he let his shoulders slump a little. Another gasp erupted from the crowd as he put in his money and laid his palms flat on either side of his cards.
Quinn’s smile was reptilian as he flipped over his hand, pushing forward the aces of spades and clubs he’d had in the hole from the beginning—three aces. He pushed forward the eight of clubs, and with a flourish he flipped over his last down card—the eight of hearts—a full house.
“Dead man’s hand,” someone in the crowd whispered.
Quinn sneered. “Aces over eights,” He licked his lips as he eyeballed the pot, but he was too much of a professional to rake it in before Jake turned over his hole cards.
Moving like a man headed for the gallows, Jake flipped over his first two hole cards. Everyone saw the straight, and most of the women gasped while a few men cheered. Jake figured the ones cheering were past losers all-too-happy to see him finally getting cleaned out. The cheer made the rest of the brewery go silent. Everyone, even the automaton band, turned their eyes to Jake’s table.
One of the spectators spoke up with a good deal of venom. “Looks like he’s got ya, Lasater.”
Definitely a sore loser, Jake thought. His shoulders drooped and his head hung low. “Well, I guess you’re right,” he finally said. “A dead man’s hand beats a straight every time.” Jake let loose a long, drawn out sigh.
Quinn smiled like a predator moving in for the kill. He reached out his hands and wrapped them around the money.
Jake’s voice was as hard as steel when he locked eyes with Quinn. “But I don’t have a straight.” He squared his shoulders.
Quinn froze, his smile fading back to cold stone.
“What?” the venomous spectator shouted. “You sure as hell do! I’m looking at it!”
Jake leaned in with a grin to beat all. He flipped over his last card—the eight of spades.
“That there is a straight flush,” Jake said. “And last time I checked, a straight flush beats a full house—even a dead man’s hand—every time.”
A cheer rose from the women, and Jake heard a few of the sore losers shout, “Unbelievable!”
Quinn’s fists clenched on the table, his knuckles white. His face remained frozen, but Jake saw fury in the dragon’s eyes.
“You’re a hell of a good card player, Quinn,” Jake said in a friendly tone. “I guess lady luck just wasn’t with you tonight.” He reached out and pulled back what he figured was over fifteen-hundred dollars. It would keep his crew afloat for a while. “Now, if you boys will excuse me, I need to get on home.” Jake pulled a blue bag out of his burgundy vest, kept there for just such occasions, and scooped the money into it. He stood, fluffed the emerald cravat at his throat, and adjusted his gun belt, making certain Quinn saw both pistols holstered there. The bag went back into his vest, leaving a noticeable lump, and he took one last swig from his Cap’n Plat. Tipping his hat, he said, “Y’all have a good night.”
He turned his back on the table and caught his riding partner’s attention. Cole, his mulatto skin deeply shadowed under a weathered, Buffalo Soldier’s hat, was waiting for the gentleman next to him to bet. Cole raised bright blue eyes and spotted Jake, who thumbed towards the door. Cole nodded, motioning that he’d finish the hand and follow.