received a useless six.
Tunney, still high with his nines, said, “I’m not afraid of you, Jack. You been too hot. I bet three hundred.”
Johnson looked down at his fours, peeked at his hole cards, then said, “Ah, crap,” and tossed his cards in.
Butler waited, then said, “Call.”
“Your play, Jack,” Coe said.
“Raise three hundred.”
“Sonofabitch, I call!” Tunney said immediately. “I’m not lettin’ you run me outta this hand, Jack.”
“Good for you,” Jack said. “I just hope three nines are good.”
“Up to you, Butler,” Coe said.
“I’ll just call.”
“Last card,” Coe said, and dealt each man his seventh and last card.
Butler looked at his third hole card, then set it down. He looked across the table at Tunney, who was still the high man.
“Five hundred, damn it,” Tunney said. “I bet five hundred.”
Butler thought a moment. He wondered if Jack would still try to run Tunney out if he raised now. He knew Jack didn’t have a royal, or a straight flush, but how was he going to bet? If he just called now would Jack raise?
“I raise,” Butler said, “a thousand.”
“What?” Tunney said. He’d been staring malevolently at Jack and now he jerked his head toward Butler. “I don’t like this.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” Jack said, with a smirk.
“What don’t you like, John?” Coe asked.
“These two are workin’ together,” Tunney said, pointing to Butler and Jack in turn. “He’s buildin’ the pot for him.”
“You sound like you don’t think you have the winning hand,” Three-Eyed Jack said. “What are you doin’ in this pot, anyway?”
“Don’t you worry,” Tunney said. “I got the goods. I just don’t like bein’ worked by you two.”
“There’s no need for accusations, John,” Dick Clark said.
“Hell, they know each other.”
“Coe and I know each other,” Clark said. “Are we workin’ together?”
“Why else would he make a raise like that?” Tunney demanded.
“Maybe he thinks he’s got a good hand,” Clark said.
“He’s got crap on the table.”
“Why don’t we play the hand out?” Jack asked.
“It’s your play, Jack,” Coe said.
“I just don’t like it,” Tunney muttered.
“You know,” Coe said, “neither of these gentlemen is going to like being called a cheater.”
“I think I’d rather be called a cheater,” Jack said, “than be a sore loser.”
“I ain’t lost nothing yet!” Tunney said. “What’re you doin’, Jack, raisin’ or callin’.”
“In the face of that raise,” Jack said, “I think I’ll fold.”
“What?” Tunney demanded.
“How could Butler be building a pot for Jack if Jack’s going to fold?” Dick Clark asked Tunney.
“It’s your play, Tunney,” Coe said. “A thousand dollar raise to you.”
“I reraise,” Tunney said. “Two thousand.”
“Raise,” Butler said. “Two thousand.”
Tunney’s face turned red. He looked down at his money. He barely had two thousand left on the table.
“I call, damn it!” Tunney said. “Nobody’s runnin’ me outta this hand.”
“You’re called, Butler,” Coe sad. “What do you have?”
“Deuces full of tens,” Butler said. His hole cards were two deuces and the ten of hearts.
“Ten of hearts,” Jack said, with a grin. “That’s how you knew I didn’t have a royal.”
“And Coe folded the nine,” Butler added, “so you couldn’t have had a straight flush. Flush was the best you could do.”
“And that’s what I folded.”
“Huh? Wha—you folded a flush?” Tunney asked.
“Sure,” Jack said. “I figured with Butler raisin’ like that, he knew I had a flush and didn’t care.”
“What do you have, Tunney?” Coe asked.
John Tunney looked around the table, saw that he was the center of attention, and turned even redder. He turned over his cards to show three nines.
“Lotta faith in three nines,” Jack said.
“Butler wins the pot,” Coe said.
“Nice hand, Butler,” Clark said. “My deal. Tunney? You in or out?”
Tunney, glassy-eyed, looked around and said, “I—I’m out.”
“We’re back to five hands, then,” Clark said. “Comin’ out.”
CHAPTER 8
Without John Tunney the game went along much smoother. Three-Eyed Jack did, indeed, cool off and the hands began to go to Coe, Clark, and Butler a little more often. Jake Johnson was the next man to bust out of the game, leaving them four-handed for the rest of the night.
Butler hadn’t realized the game would be an all-nighter but that was okay with him. Even though he’d ridden in that day, he was feeling fresh. Luke Short had a girl come up every so often with a pot of coffee, and one time even some sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs.
“Six A.M.,” Charlie Coe announced eventually. “Anybody got anything to do today?”
“Sure,” Dick Clark said. “I got a poker game to get to.”
“Another one?” Coe asked.
“No, stupid, this one,” Clark said. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’m just startin’ to warm up.”
“You fellas?” Coe asked.
“I’m here for the duration,” Jack said, “although I would like Luke to bring us some fresh meat.”
“Butler?” Coe asked.
“I’m in.”
“Anybody got any suggestions for Luke?” Dick Clark asked.
Nobody said anything, so Butler said, “I might have one…”
A couple of hours later Luke Short brought Al Newman into the room and introduced him to the other players. Newman gave Butler a look he correctly interpreted as “Thank you.” He nodded.
“Hey, Luke,” Coe said, “how about some breakfast.”
“I’ll have something set up on that table over there,” Short said. “You fellas can decide if you want to eat at or away from the table.”
Newman sat down and put his three thousand dollars on the table.
“All right,” Clark said, “and we’re back to five-handed.”
“I’ll keep lookin’ for a sixth while I’m rustlin’ you gents up some breakfast.” Short spread his arms. “Anything else I can do for anyone?”
“Yeah, have some more coffee brought up right away,” Coe said.
“Comin’ up.”
Short left, and Butler dealt out the next hand.
