was well taken care of.
They left the Alhambra and headed down the street to the Long Branch. It was dark now and they were guided by both the brightness of the place and the noise. They could hear Chalk Beeson’s five-man orchestra playing, and somebody was trying to sing above the din.
As they entered, Butler realized that the Long Branch was the premier drinking, gambling establishment in town. While there were at least sixteen saloons in Dodge, they all provided one or two services, while the Long Branch provided everything and more.
“Quite a place,” Ryerson said, as they stood inside the batwing doors.
They moved over toward the two-piece cherrywood bar and managed to elbow into place just opposite the two stuffed golden eagles that Beeson kept behind it. They managed to find a place at the bar only because the Long Branch was bigger than the Alhambra, and had more room.
“Two beers!” Butler shouted to the bartender, who nodded and set them up. They were ice cold.
“That ain’t the cowboy band I heard so much about,” Ryerson said, eyeing the orchestra.
“No,” Butler said, “I heard that Beeson is out of town right now with the band.”
They had to either shout to be heard or lean in close to each other.
“I want to check out the gambling,” Butler said.
“Go ahead,” Ryerson said, raising his mug. “I don’t gamble. I’m good right here.”
“See you later.”
“Thanks for the beer.”
Butler waved off the thanks. He was only repaying the beer he’d had at the Alhambra.
He moved through the crowd. There had to be more people here than at the Alhambra, yet it was easier to get around. It wasn’t only that it was bigger, but it seemed to have been laid out with more thought given to gamblers and drinkers.
Butler found his way to the tables, which were running blackjack, roulette, red dog, chuck-a-luck, and poker. Off to one side he saw Trixie dealing at her faro table.
The poker tables were in full swing, most with house dealers. One table did not have a house dealer but was playing dealer’s choice, and Butler was not surprised to find Ben Thompson sitting right there, in the midst of all the action. He was in the middle of a hand—which he ultimately won—and while raking in his chips he looked up, locked eyes with Butler, and nodded. Butler returned the nod. Thompson raised his eyebrows, as if to ask “Are you gonna play?” and Butler made a gesture as if checking a pocket watch, then raised his beer, as if to reply, “In a while, when I finish this.”
Butler took his beer back over to the faro table to watch Trixie deal for a while. She was wearing a gown that was even lower cut than last time, and her creamy breasts seemed ready to spill out, even more so when she would take a deep breath—which she seemed to do at strategic times. Butler knew that Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday dealt faro, and had probably dealt it here, but they certainly did not have Trixie’s God-given advantage.
He watched as men approached the table, kept their heads bowed, then turned and walked off as she took their money. At one point she saw him and graced him with a smile even while she was shuffling the cards. Her hands were amazingly dexterous and he watched them with fascination, wishing he could handle cards that well. He wondered just how talented she was with the deal, whether it be faro or poker.
He felt someone come up beside him. It was Bill Harris, part owner of the Long Branch.
Suddenly the music stopped and it was much easier to talk.
“Glad to see you back.”
“She’s very good, isn’t she?” Butler said.
“She’s the best I ever saw,” Harris said, “and I saw Doc Holliday deal.”
Butler took a sip of his beer, realized he was down to the bottom of his mug.
“Another one?” Harris asked. “I can have a girl bring it over.”
“No,” Butler said. “Thanks, I’m done drinking.”
“Time to gamble, then?”
Butler had forgotten how annoying Bill Harris had been the last time he was there, but on the other hand he had won a lot of money, so the place felt lucky to him.
“I think so.”
“Want to try Trixie?”
“Faro’s not really my game.”
“Poker, then?”
“Poker,” Butler confirmed.
Harris took his empty mug and handed it to a passing girl.
“This way,” he said.
Butler almost told him he could find it himself, but thought better of it. If there was a question about who got an empty seat at one of the tables it couldn’t hurt to have Harris on his side.
“Lead the way, Bill.”
CHAPTER 44
The first empty chair was not at Ben Thompson’s table, which suited Butler for the moment. Thompson would want payback for the last time they played, and Butler preferred to build up a stake before that happened. If Thompson took money from him he wanted it to be money he’d taken off other players on this night.
He was at a table with a house dealer, and the game was five-card stud. There were five other players and the dealer quickly reeled off their first names. Butler would remember some, but it was over the course of the game that they’d all become people to him. He’d also come to recognize who his competition was—and who the sore loser was.
In this case his main competitor was a man named Corbin, who looked like a drummer but was actually a professional gambler. He was in his forties, fancied expensive cheroots and didn’t drink while he played.
The sore loser was a man in his thirties named Lane. In his thirties he kept drinking whiskey, and the more he drank the looser he played. The looser he played, the more he lost. And the more he lost, the more some of the players rode him. This was a welcome change from the last time, when there was a man riding Ben Thompson the whole time. Here, while there was the potential for fireworks, at least they wouldn’t involve flying lead. While Lane was wearing a gun, it looked like a weapon that would more than likely blow up in his hand when he tried to fire it. Clearly he was not a man who used his gun often.
The other three players were just there to pass the time, and were donating money to Corbin’s cause until Butler sat down. After half an hour Butler could see that he had caught the attention of Corbin and the two men acknowledged each other. Slowly, their piles of chips began to grow as the others dwindled. After a while men came and went, and their names were not important to Butler.
Oddly, Lane stayed in the game. He made outlandish bets, and every so often he’d win a big pot, giving him enough to stay in.
It didn’t matter who came and went at the table, they all seemed to know who Lane was. Butler discovered that he was married, owned a small business in town—apparently, a hardware store—and that his wife hated when he played poker because he usually lost. Everyone seemed to know that, and it was the crux of most of the jokes.
And they all called him “Lane,” so Butler didn’t know if it was his first name, or last.
A couple of hours into the game Lane was so drunk his face was fiery red and he didn’t seem to be able to see his cards. He also constantly had trouble lifting the edge of his hole card so he could peek at it—which he did a lot.
But he seemed to have a hand he liked a lot, and soon he and Corbin were left alone to play it.
With four cards dealt Corbin had received a three, a nine, and an ace. Lane got two eights in a row, then a
