Dead Man’s Hand
written by: Kerr Pelto
Thunder, more deafening than a rampage of wild mustangs, galloped across the darkening sky. Sodden black clouds, pregnant with rain, threatened a deluge. The humidity in the air wrapped around the town like a wet blanket and made each breath an exercise in near futility. Small dust storms danced about, and dry tumbleweeds rolled along in the relentless wind, outrunning the tempest and trembling on the outskirts of town. Lightning pierced the underbelly of the thunderheads and unleashed a curtain of rain.
Meanwhile, inside the tin-roofed saloon, Wild Bill Hickok, dry as a desert bone, lounged at a poker table in the far-right corner. Back to the wall, legs splayed, he shuffled the worn deck of cards when his reverie was disturbed by the creaking of the double swinging doors, announcing a newcomer.
The dripping, backlit silhouette of a man stood erect, head cocked to one side, spurs jingle-jangling. He tossed a half-chewed cigarette on the beer-soaked floorboards and ground it to a powder with the toe of his leather boot.
“Deal me in, if you don’t mind losing,” said the impulsive gambler in a voice that could use a soothing tonic. He grabbed an empty chair, swung it around so the back kissed the table, threw one short leg over the seat, then sat down. He ordered the bartender to make him a cool one, over ice, and make it snappy.
The bartender, a middle-aged, portly woman, sprang to life and set a tall glass, heavy on the ice, next to the customer, then topped off Wild Bill’s.
Hickok blew his hot breath over his pitted sheriff’s badge, polished it with his red bandana, then dealt out five cards each. “Aces high. Prepare yourself, old friend. Losing ain’t something I cotton to.”
“How’s Susanna?” said Davis Tutt, knowing he was pushing a sore button. “She still obeying your every command?”
Wild Bill narrowed his eyes, not blinking, and stared his opponent down, dead calm. He swished his sweet cigar from one side of his mouth to the other and licked his lips. “Don’t you worry your mangy head about her. She ain’t your gal no more. She chose me, remember? Mind your cards.”
The rusty metal roof pinged with the incessant tap dancing of the pelting rain, and thunder reverberated in the alley. Outside, the street resembled the birthing of a small creek.
The bartender stood aloof behind the counter, repeatedly wiping down the same spot, alert to the telltale signs of a possible scuffle. Things could happen quickly during a heated game of poker. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d curtailed a fight, and it wouldn’t be her last. She knew her thirsty customers all too well.
Wild Bill gulped his drink dry, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then eyed his cards. Two aces.
Davis Tutt, not recognizing any tic on his rival’s face, couldn’t tell if the sheriff’s hand was good or not. He lifted the edges of his own hand and rearranged the cards.
The rivals threw their unwanted cards onto the table. Wild Bill dealt out new ones. The well-sucked cigar shifted to the other side of his mouth.
The dirty dishrag in the bartender’s hand paused in mid-circle.
Tutt bet the coins in his pocket. Hickok bet his favorite pocket watch.
Wild Bill laid down his Dead Man’s Hand. Not a good sign. Tutt revealed a Royal Flush.
Tutt, cocky as ever, slid his coins off the table and back into the front pocket of his jeans. He grabbed the watch and slowly, very slowly brought it up to his pursed lips, reveling in the clenched jaw that belied Bill’s unflinching poker face.
Brandishing a toothless grin, Davis slid backward off the wooden chair. At the swinging doors, he turned, tipped his hat, and goaded Bill. “Give Susanna a pat on the rump for me. Tell her, if she wants, I can keep her purring.”
Susanna came out of hiding behind the bar and cozied up next to the bartender, who soothed her with reassuring words that all would be well.
Bill pushed his chair away from the table, glanced sideways at the females, waited five seconds to tamp down the fury building in his body, then exited the saloon and followed the swaggering winner.
A while back, when the enemies were friends, they’d taken turns caressing the female, stroking her silky hair. Both had set tantalizing dishes in front of her, taking pleasure in their shared morsels. But she’d unapologetically landed her affections in Bill’s lap, thus making sworn enemies of the two fellas. The jealousy over Susanna’s affections had ping-ponged between the two rivals for quite some time, growing into a raging fire of desire and now lingered as a constant smoldering of unspent emotions.
Susanna stood motionless at the cushioned window seat, her jet-black hair iridescent in the gas lighting of the saloon. She whimpered and nudged aside the lacy curtains, nursing her confused loyalty over the two duelers outside. The heavy-set bartender eased down next to Susanna and stroked her lithe back. They settled in to witness the inevitable showdown.
Bill twirled his long, grey mustache, raised his sweat-brimmed hat farther up onto his forehead with his left index finger, and settled his right hand on his Colt revolver. His fingers twitched. He hadn’t expected Davis to brazenly show up at high noon, interrupt his undemanding morning, and derail his winning streak. He took one last pull on his cigar, then chucked it into a deepening puddle in the street. “Tutt, you ain’t gonna get away that easy. You mighta won that quick hand of cards, but you ain’t won the sweet Susanna.”
Davis turned his head around, his torso following, his left hand at the ready next to his revolver hanging loosely at his hip.
The two enemies squared off, facing each other in the downpour, boots submerged in puddles outside the weathered saloon, and blinked away the raindrops pelting their eyes. Both recognized the intent lurking behind the other’s dirt-smeared face. Someone was going to get hurt, or worse, die.
Davis drew first and fired, but not before a sneeze caught him off guard. He covered the sneeze with the elbow of his trigger arm, sending his bullet into the window of the saloon.
Susanna jumped off the window seat and hid behind the bar. The matronly woman got up and headed for the swinging doors, a stern look on her face.
Meanwhile, Bill, focused and aiming straight, hit Davis square in the heart.
Hand on his chest, Davis let go a curdling scream, flipped around, and landed dramatically, face down in the unwelcoming arms of the muddy, unforgiving street.
The portly woman stood outside under the eaves, hands on her hips, and yelled, “Billy! Davey! What in tarnation are you rascals doin’? If’n I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, don’t you be takin’ your playactin’ outside in a thunderstorm. If your so-called bullets don’t get ya’ killed, a streak o’ lightnin’ might, God help us. Get yourselves in here afore your grilled cheeses burn and you catch your death o’ cold. Y’all are wetter than two drowned cats. Billy, you’d best pick up that half-chewed lollipop you threw into that puddle. Davey, clean up the remains of yours on the linoleum where you crushed it like an unwanted cockroach.”
In unison, the boys said, “Yes, Mama! Sorry, Mama!”
The twins moseyed on back into the house, arms draped around each other’s soaked shoulders.
Once inside and settled at the kitchen table, their mama refilled their two tall glasses with cold lemonade and set a plate of homemade sugar cookies next to their warm, cheesy sandwiches.
Susanna purred, rubbed her furry body around Billy’s legs, then jumped onto his lap.
The sun broke through the weakening storm, sent its hot rays down upon the cottage, and dried up the roof along with the rivalry between the two boys.
The longstanding friendship was regained, at least for a spell, until the vittles were inhaled and the sweet tooth satisfied. The brothers would resume the much-loved feud when the crescent moon rose above the horizon, when Susanna curled up on the cozy window seat, and when the fireflies lit up the night sky.
- Dead Man’s Hand - June 11, 2023
