Bandit's Embrace (The Durango Family) (2 page)

One of the painted women leaning on the old piano yelled, “Hey, Bandit, why don’t you come play us a tune?”

He waved her away. “Sorry, honey, got serious business here takin’ these gentlemen’s money. Maybe later . . .”

Tonight he felt a whole lot older than his twenty-five years, and it dawned on him that he’d spent his whole life in this smoky, sleazy atmosphere. He was sick of saloons, endless poker tables, and painted women who sold themselves a dozen times a night. Come to think of it, those were the only women he’d ever really known.

Bandit studied the sudden gleam in the cattle buyer’s eyes, saw the slight smirk on the drummer’s mouth. They might both hold better cards than he did, but nobody could play poker like the Bandit. He’d bluffed his way through life; that made him a natural at poker.

“Well, hombres, I hope you brought plenty of money, ‘cause tonight ol’ Bandit’s feelin’ lucky!” He reached into his vest for his good-luck medallion, laid it on the scarred table next to his beer mug.

“Still cost you a dollar, gentlemen.” The cattle buyer’s dollar clinked into the center of the table, follwed by the mill owner’s.

“It’s your bet, Bandit.” The cattle buyer sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “You puttin’ that little gold coin in the pot?”

“Hell no!” Bandit grinned with easy charm. “That’s my lucky piece!” He nodded toward the little drummer who ran his tongue over his lower lip in eager anticipation while studying his cards. “You, sir, are not going to remember Bandera kindly!” And he threw a silver dollar out onto the table.

The shingle mill owner looked a little worried. “You must have one helluva hand, Bandit! One time I was in a card game up in San Angeto—”

“Ain’t that where that army payroll from Fort Concho got stolen last week?” the rancher interrupted, then sipped his whiskey.

The drummer nodded, wiping the sweat off his forehead. “Yes sirree bob! I just come from up there and there’s talk of nothin’ else. More than that, the commanding officer’s sweet old mother just happened to be on the street. The robbers knocked her down, grabbed her necklace as they ran.”

“She okay?” The rancher sipped his whiskey.

“Dead as a squashed toadl” The drummer warmed to his story with evident relish. “Her skull cracked against a hitching block. They do say the army has vowed to comb every inch of Texas ’til they find them fellas!”

Bandit felt outraged. That was the kind of mother he’d always wanted—loving, respectable. When his old lady had been drunk, she’d beat her little boy. . . .

“What’s it gonna be, gents?” Bandit smirked.

The rancher scowled. “I fold.”

The cattle buyer’s eyes gleamed, signaling that he thought he had a good hand. “I’ll play and raise you a dollar.” Two cartwheels clinked onto the table.

The mill owner hesitated, tossed his cards in.

“Bandit, two dollars to stay in,” the drummer said.

Bandit yawned as if he held the world’s best hand, threw in the last two dollars he had in this world.

The cattle buyer hesitated. “For a dollar, I’ll see you.”

Bandit spread his cards before him and laughed. “Three deuces.”

The cattle buyer scowled darkly. “That beats my openers.” He threw his hand in.

“Me, too.” The drummer wiped his face, threw in his cards.

With a sigh of relief, Bandit raked the pot in, stacked the silver dollars up in front of him. At least he would eat tomorrow. He never looked any further than that.

While the cards were shuffled, cut, dealt again, Bandit looked around the smoky, noisy saloon. The girl by the piano smiled again. Women. Whores. All one and the same. He suddenly felt alone in the world although he was surrounded by a raucous crowd.

They played another hand. Now Lady Luck was riding with Bandit. He raised one arrogant eyebrow as he laid his cards out. “There you are, gents, straight flush! Read ’em and weep!”

He raked the pot in, grinned as he stuck a slender cigarillo between even, white teeth, then struck a match on the sole of his boot. Tomorrow, he’d buy a better horse, drift on as aimless as a tumbleweed, the way he’d been doing ever since his mother’s suicide.

The evening was growing a little long in the tooth when the deck came around to Bandit to shuffle, just as four men walked into the saloon. Bandit, accustomed to reading people, looked up and felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Three of the men elbowed their way through the throngs of cowboys and parlor girls, past Bandit and to the bar behind him. He glanced at them, sizing them up—a big one in an old Union blue jacket; a short, stocky one with a beard, wearing Confederate gray; an aging, boozy gunfighter with shaky hands.

But the fourth one, the leader, looked around with cold blue eyes and swaggered over to the poker table. “This a closed game or can anyone sit in?”

The light-haired man’s voice was almost a challenge, and Bandit studied him, caught the insolence in his tone, the way he wore his gun tied down and strapped low on his left hip. Could this man be ? . . .

Bandit paused in shuffling the deck, nodded agreeably. “Sure thing, stranger, your money’s good as any, I reckon.” The drummer, seated to his left, cut the cards, then Bandit dealt as the newcomer dragged up a chair between the rancher and the cattle buyer. That put him almost directly across from Bandit.

They played a couple of hands and then it was the newcomer’s turn to deal. “Dealer’s choice?”

“I reckon,” Bandit nodded agreeably. The big, blond hombre looked mean enough to take on a rattlesnake and give it first bite.

“The dealer allows as how he prefers five-card stud.”

Bandit felt a shiver pass through his wide shoulders. Five-card stud is a hard game to cheat at but a real challenge, and is preferred by professional cardsharps. He’d have to watch this hombre.

There would be a fight before they put the night to bed. He decided it would be a Mexican standoff with this one since they were about the same height and size. But the newcomer was one tough customer, Bandit decided, even though he looked a year or so younger than himself. He noted that the stranger had a fine coating of trail dust on his clothes.

Bandit tipped his hat back, smirked agreeably. “You look like you been rode hard and put up wet, fella.”

The pale blue eyes frowned back at him. “It’s a long way from where we been. Thinking about maybe going over to hoorah San Antone or go south of the border before we head back to the Territory.”

Bandit had a gut feeling the stranger had been marking high cards with his finger nail as they played, but he wasn’t sure enough to make an issue of it or call for a new deck.

He watched the newcomer’s hands as the man shuffled, handed the cards to the cattle buyer to cut, and took the deck back to deal. Bandit knew immediately he was dealing with a cheat when he saw the way the stranger held the deck as he began to deal. The man held the cards in his right hand, dealing with his left. But he held them in that particular way a cheat uses, three fingers down the long side of the deck, his forefinger on the outside corner.

Sooner or later, he’s gonna deal seconds, Bandit thought, and then what will I do? Bandit studied every detail about the pistolero seated across from him as he checked his hole card—the queen of spades. The next card, thrown face up for him, was a queen of hearts.

Love and death. Were the cards some kind of omen? He hoped suddenly that he wouldn’t be prodded into drawing against this hombre. Bandit was fast but if the other man was the Oklahoma Kid, as he suspected, he didn’t stand a chance.

The Kid glanced around the table at everyone’s upturned card. He had the ten of spades himself. “High card bets.” He nodded to Bandit, who threw in a dollar.

The drummer checked his hole card again, whistled under his breath.

The Kid gave the little man the same look Bandit had seen in a rattlesnake’s eyes just before it struck. “You make me nervous, mister, stop that whistlin’ before I shove them cardboards down your gullet”

“Meant no harm.” The little man gulped and his hands shook noticeably. “I . . . I fold.” He threw his cards onto the discard heap.

Bandit frowned, decided not to mix in. Since he had been a starved orphan at the age of twelve, nobody but Mona had looked out for him and he’d looked out for nobody. Still, the bullying of the little salesman bothered him. “Take it easy,” he drawled softly. “There’s a time for fightin’ and women, but right now, let’s just play poker.”

The stranger threw back his head and laughed, sipped his whiskey. “You have to be the most sassy bastard I crossed trails with since Hector was a pup!”

Bandit flinched at the word.
Bastard
, the kids had screamed,
bastard!

The rancher, the mill owner, and the cattle buyer all checked their hole cards again before betting. That meant they, like the drummer didn’t have much, Bandit thought. When a man has a good hole card, he remembers what it is, doesn’t have to keep checking. Strange, the Kid never looked at his hole card, almost as if he’d known what it was he’d dealt.

He grinned at Bandit as though challenging him, threw a dollar into the pot, dealt a third round of cards faceup. “Deuce, trey, eight to the Bandit, then, jack, a king of spades to me.”

Bandit listened and watched the Kid’s hands. The Kid called out the cards, he knew, to cover that sound. Cards being dealt from the top of the deck have a particular sound. Seconds being dealt have just a slightly different sound that only a real expert can hear.

The Kid’s dealing seconds, Bandit thought, looking down at the cards spread on the table before him. Two eights now, that queen of hearts and the queen of spades in the hole unseen. That gave him two pair; an average hand. Bandit glanced over at the three toughs lounging against the bar. If he accused the Kid of cheating, he was going to have to shoot it out with all four, and the Kid had a bad reputation.

He looked at the Kid’s cards: a ten, king, jack, all spades and whatever he had in the hole.

The others hesitated, threw in their cards. Now it was just Bandit and the Kid playing. The two bet. Bandit’s mouth went dry. The others leaned back in their chairs and watched. Their expressions told him they didn’t have any idea the Kid was cheating.

Bandit might balance on the fence with the law sometimes, but he would never stoop to cheating at cards. Some of his past was a little shady—a cow or two that wore someone else’s brand had followed him off—but he scorned a card cheat. He was dead certain the Oklahoma Kid had not only been marking high cards with his thumbnail, but had been dealing seconds, maybe even slipping extra cards into the deck.

“Fifth card comin’ up,” the Kid said loudly over the piano music, the whirl of the roulette wheel in the background.

He dealt Bandit another eight, himself an ace of spades, and then grinned triumphantly. But it was Bandit’s soul that sang suddenly. Bandit had a trio of eights, and his two queens—full house.

Now the only thing that beats a full house is a royal flush or a straight flush. Bandit knew by looking at the Kid’s upturned cards that he was trying for a royal flush of spades. But to do that, he needed the queen to complete it. And the queen of spades was Bandit’s hole card.

Bandit picked up his lucky piece, turned it over in his fingers, put it back in his vest, waited. Now just what was the Oklahoma Kid doing this far from the Territory? Maybe no one else had seen the “Wanted” posters. At least, no one else seemed to recognize that identifying mark or realize who this desperado was.

The Kid’s cold eyes smiled arrogantly, knowingly, as if he sensed that Bandit had recognized him, might even be proud of the fact. He caught Bandit’s gaze through the hazy smoke, and leered slowly as if in challenge. His pale, hard eyes reflected pinpoints of light from the giant wagonwheel chandelier overhead.

Bandit shrugged. He was no bounty hunter and the sheriff was out of town. All Bandit wanted was a little relaxation, a friendly game of poker. He had the best hand and he knew it.

“Three eights bet.” The Kid grinned without mirth. “You know, Tex, I been watchin’ you all evening; I like your style. How would you like to join up with us?”

Bandit shook his head, threw in five silver dollars. “Name’s Bandit. No sale. I’m a loner, always have been.”

A little warmth came into the ice-blue eyes across from him. “Me, too, Bandit. I was raised by an old renegade up in the Territory, but he’s dead. Before that. . . .” His voice trailed off and-he looked puzzled, shook his head. “I think we’d make good saddle pards. You got no folks?”

“No.” But Bandit thought, I’m what Westerns call a woods colt. My mother was a saloon whore. I don’t even know which one of her customers sired me.

“I heard of you, Bandit,” the other said. “I hear you’re faster’n chain lightning with a link snapped. Faster’n anybody but the Oklahoma Kid.”

Bandit gave him a level look. “Maybe faster’n him, too. Never had to draw against him. You gonna play or talk?”

The Kid grinned. “With this hand? I’ll bet!”

Bandit smiled back, said nothing. The Kid was bluffing. He couldn’t make a winning hand without the queen of spades and Bandit had it.

One of the trio at the bar behind Bandit guffawed. “If you really want to play for high stakes, boss, bet that pinto stud! Anybody’d play for him!”

The Kid shook his head. “Hell, no! That’s the finest stallion in the whole West, maybe in the world! I only owned him a couple of months myself. I call you and raise you all I got on me.” He reached in his vest, threw a handful of new twenty-dollar gold pieces onto the table along with a broken strand of pink and purple beads. “These pearls is supposed to be worth a couple of hundred dollars.”

The rancher, watching, whistled low. The other men’s eyes widened. People began to gather around the table. The stranger had to have the queen in the hole to bet so much.

“Never saw beads like that before,” the drummer said.

“Them beads? . . .” The mill owner didn’t finish his question.

Bandit looked at the beads a long moment. He knew this state like his own scarred kuckles. There were only a few places in the world where freshwater pearls came in shades of pink and purple. And one of them was the Concho River running though San Angelo. In his mind, he saw a sweet old lady, her skull crashing against a hitching block as a robber pushed her, tore away her necklace.