I was doing well at poker in Tombstone’s Oriental Saloon when the young fellow sitting to my right started going on about the dealer cheating. It annoyed me that I couldn’t assure him he was mistaken because doing so would reveal my fine array of cards. I hoped he’d quiet down so I could claim the pot, but this was not to be. Damned if he didn’t keep on ranting at the dealer, gaining in volume as he heated up. When he jumped up and drew his pistol, I jumped up too and knocked it away. This sent him reeling for a second before he sprang at me, fists flying. I put an end to this with a serious gut punch, then turned to the game and laid out my hand. When I’d scooped up the money, I bowed out and saw to the kid on the floor.
He was dazed, but took the offered hand and let me pull him to his feet. I located his weapon, but didn’t give it back to him. Into my belt it went. And outside we went.
“You’d have killed that man,” I said once we were out front of the saloon.
“He deserved it,” replied the kid who couldn’t have been even twenty. “He was cheating.”
“You ever stop to consider you’re maybe not so good at poker?”
He lit up with fresh anger that I found appealing. “You ever think to mind your own business?” he returned.
“You’d be in jail about now if I hadn’t stopped you. And I had a winning hand, so I don’t believe the dealer was a sharp. I stopped you because I didn’t want the game overturned which it would have been had you continued acting trigger happy.”
Now he blazed. It was a warm July afternoon and he lit up like the sun itself, going red in the face, breathing heavy, fists clenched. Goddamn, I wanted to fuck him, but I settled for buying him a drink. When he bristled at the invite, I made light of the situation. “Calm down,” I said. “It’s too fine a day to be upset about anything. I’ll buy, seeing how I won.”
He drilled me with a look, and I saw he was suspect of good gestures. “What’s your name?” I asked as I guided us up the block to Hafford’s Saloon.
“Ben Wylie,” he said. “You maybe heard of me?”
I pondered a second, then said no. “How are you known?”
“Killed four men.”
He was slight of build and stood maybe five foot eight so he didn’t come off as a threat, though I knew from experience that men of small stature were often the most deadly. I wasn’t too much bigger, being a lean five-ten. What I had on him was about ten years. And I’d killed twelve.
“You on the run?” I asked.
“My trouble was in Kansas so I came west. I’ll take no guff from any man.”
“I’m getting that, but have no fear. I’m an easygoing sort who appreciates interesting company. Name is Cal Decker.”
We reached Hafford’s just then, but I found as I entered that I’d lost Ben. He stood fixed just outside the door, people pushing past. “I’ve heard of you,” he said when I went back for him. I put a hand to his shoulder and drew him inside.
“No doubt you have,” I replied.
He downed two whiskeys before he spoke again, and I let him stew because I was enjoying him gaining new perspective. I also enjoyed my dick getting stiff. As I sipped my liquor, I considered how he might come two or three times before I wore out.
“You’ve killed a dozen,” he finally said.
“That I have.”
“Then what right had you to stop me from plugging that gambler?”
“No right, as you put it. More common sense. I felt you heating up and, as I said before, I wanted to keep the game going.”
He threw back his third drink and got a fourth. “Best you slow down on that whiskey,” I counseled.
“Best you not tell me what to do.”
I liked his fire, misplaced as it was. He seemed angry at far more than cards, and part of the attraction was considering the source. Too often a wronged man holds tight to the wrong and it starts coming out in other ways. Like shooting people, although not in my case. Every one of my dozen was ruled justified by the courts as every one had drawn on me. My crime has been pissing people off.
“How about I buy you supper?” I said and I saw he had to decide if this was an intrusion. When he said okay, I felt we’d bridged a gap, though maybe not with the most sturdy of bridges.
