ROBERT J. RANDISI
THE GAMBLERS BUTLER’S WAGER
CHAPTER 1
Tyrone Butler stared at the three aces in his hand and kept his face completely blank. He’d learned a hard lesson years ago not to let your hand show on your face. He’d spent a lot of years playing losing poker before he got the hang of it. Now he was confident that there was no one in the world who could read him.
“How many, Mr. Butler?” the dealer asked.
Butler plucked the mismatched cards from his hand and dropped them facedown on the table.
“Two.”
The dealer slid two cards across the table, then turned his attention to the next player. Now down to four players, the crowd of people around the table leaned in. The game had attracted more attention as the night went on, and as the stakes got higher. There had been many poker games in the Gold Room over the years but, of late, Wichita—like Ellsworth, Abilene, Dodge City, and others—had fallen on hard times. Once they had been booming destinations for cattlemen and gamblers, but now the action had moved further west. Even several years ago, at the end of the 1870s, newspapers like the
That famous gambler was not Tyrone Butler, but a man called Three-Eyed Jack. He didn’t have three eyes, naturally, and nobody knew how’d he’d come to have that name, but at the moment he was the best-known gaming man in town. Of course, he paled in comparison to the Ben Thompsons or Luke Shorts of the world. That was why Three-Eyed Jack preferred to remain a big fish in a small pond.
But tonight Jack wasn’t faring well. Two other men had long since busted out of the game, and the stranger to Wichita, Ty Butler, was cleaning house.
There were still two other players at the table, both locals. One was Peter Sutter, who owned Sutter’s General Store, and the second, the dealer at the moment, was Sam Troy, a young man who fancied himself a Gambler, with a capital “G.” His father owned one of the banks in town, and financed his son’s gambling habit. Because the young man never worried about losing money, he had never learned any of the nuances of the game. He simply bet big and tried to buy every pot.
That strategy was not working this evening, because Butler and Three-Eyed Jack were real gamblers, and were not put off by big money bets.
Sutter came next and drew one card. Butler figured him for trying to fill a straight or a flush. He’d been chasing all night and only dumb luck had kept him in the game this long.
Three-Eyed Jack drew three cards, so no secret there. He was trying to improve on a pair.
Finally, Sam Troy dealt himself two cards. He had a habit of keeping a high kicker and then betting big. Butler hoped he drew a hand this time, because he was ready to take the young man.
“You opened, Butler,” Troy said. “Whataya do?”
Butler hesitated, hoping to give the impression that he was not sure what he wanted to do.
“I’ll go a hundred.” It was not a big bet but he could see by the smirk on Troy’s face that he had him, so it was enough.
“I think I’m done,” Pete Sutter said. He tossed in his cards and rubbed his face so hard it seemed as if he was trying to smooth away the lines he’d earned over his sixty years on this earth.
“I’ll raise a hundred,” Three-Eyed Jack said.
Butler looked at him. Not a big bet, either. He had the feeling he and Jack were both laying for Troy.
“Well, boys,” Troy said, “it looks to me like the price of poker has gone up. I’m gonna raise five hundred.”
“You raisin’ to five hundred,” Jack asked, “or actually raisin’ five hundred?”
Momentarily confused—and apparently in possession of none of his father’s banking acumen—Troy stared at Jack, then said, “I’m puttin’ in his hundred, your hundred, and another five hundred.”
“Ah,” Butler said, “he’s raising five hundred.”
“Ain’t that what I said?”
Butler and Jack exchanged a glance, and Ty knew he and Three-Eyed were working the kid together.
“All right,” he said, “I’ll see your five hundred and raise you five hundred.”
“After you only bet a hundred?” Troy asked.
“I was testing the waters,” Butler said. “What do you say, Jack?”
“I say his five, your five,” Jack replied, “and five more.”
A gasp went up from the crowd of onlookers.
“Glad I’m out of this hand,” Pete Sutter said.
“You guys are both bluffin’,” Troy said.
“Five hundred’s a big bluff bet, kid,” Jack said. “If I was you, I’d believe one of us.”
“Well,” Troy said, “you ain’t me, are ya?” He gathered up his chips and cash and pushed it into the pot. “I got five thousand there. That’s the bet.”
Butler looked down at his chips and cash. He could easily cover that bet, but when he or Jack won the hand —as he knew one of them would—Sam Troy was going to be one very pissed-off banker’s son.
“That all you got?” Butler asked.
“That’s it, that’s my poke,” Troy said, jutting his chin out pugnaciously.
“Well then…I’ll just call.”
He pushed in a combination of chips and paper money, then looked at Three-Eyed Jack.
“Jack?”
“Well,” Jack said, stroking his long, gray stubbled jaw, “you called him, so I’ll get to see his cards, but it’s really you I’m worried about, not him.”
“You better be worried about me,” Troy said.
“No, son,” Jack said, “we both got you beat.”
“Like hell you do!”
Jack looked at Butler, who just shrugged.
“You wanna bet?” Jack asked.
“I already bet.”
“I mean do you want to make a side bet?”
“Side bet…for what?” Troy asked, confused.
“I say we both have you beat,” Jack said. “Do you wanna bet?”
“I got no more money on me.”
“I’ll take your marker,” Jack said. “Your father’ll stand good for it, won’t he?”
“He damn well will!” Troy said. “How much?”
“Take it easy on yourself,” Jack said. “We’ll keep it to another five thousand.”
“You old bastard, you’re tryin’ ta buy this hand.”
“If you think that, take the bet.”
“I’ll not only take it, I’ll double it. Ten thousand says I got you and him beat.”
“Ten?”
“What’s the matter,” Troy asked. “Too big a bet for you?”
“I’m just not sure your father will cover that much—”
“He’ll cover it! Ask anybody.”
