Deadman's Hand

NOBODY EVER DAYDREAMS AS a kid about becoming a professional gambler. It’s something one just drifts into, by luck and by chance, and I have to admit, I lead a fascinating life. I grew up in Kentucky, the second son of a farmer who didn’t have much to his name, except that small farm. I hated cows, pigs, hay, and everything else associated with a farm. I guess I was lucky to be the second son, because I would have hated to be stuck on that farm my whole life. I didn’t begrudge my older brother his birthright, and I knew I’d have to make my own way in the world.

I guess it started with horses. Horse races were exhilarating and exciting to watch, and there were scheduled races and impromptu races happening every other week it seemed. I won a dollar on a race where I’d only wagered on the horse because I liked the way it walked. It was the first money I’d ever won wagering, and I guess I fell in love with the whole prospect of games of chance right then.

My father had named me Chancellor for some odd reason, and I guess it was prophetic, because everyone called me Chance. After those first few times betting on horses, I became a young man who would generally bet on anything. Cockfights, the races, cards, dice, hell, I’d even bet on which bird would take flight first. As soon as I could, I left the farm and got a job on a riverboat on the Ohio, which led me to the Mississippi River. I learned how to gamble for real in places up and down that river, and I won more than I lost. I fell in love with the idea of being a free-floating gambler, and as cow towns and mining towns sprang up, I started floating West from St. Louis and I never looked back.

I’d learned with experience to be on the lookout for scam artists, stickup men, and sore losers. Men who sat down at the poker table with shiny watches on, or illfitting long sleeves made me even more wary of how I bet, because more than likely, they were cheating. I watched a man get bludgeoned almost to death by the men he was gambling with, because his four aces were duplicates of the aces found in the hands of his rivals at the table. Cheaters never prosper.

As things got better and better for me, I had to devise ways to carry huge sums of money on me without visibly giving away the fact I had that kind of money on my person. I bought a beautiful, sturdy horse named Ginger, and I had her saddle custom made with a hidden compartment. That helped a lot. My boots were made with an extra inch on the heel and pockets on the inside for more hidden space. I bought a money belt as well, which I used as a last resort for carrying money because it was quite obvious to any onlooker who cared to look.

I had a life of highs and lows, more highs than lows to be quite honest. I stayed in the best hotels and rooming houses, dressed quite well, and I was beholden to no one. In short, my life was exciting, financially rewarding, and I’d been able to see more of this country than I ever thought possible when I was growing up on a farm in Kentucky. I’d been lucky enough to reach my manhood in the ashes of the war, and not in the kindling. I should have been happy and content, but lately, things seemed to be slightly offkilter, making me question my plans and decisions.

As exciting as my life was, it was rather lonely most of the time. I was surrounded by fellow gamblers, sporting girls, dusty cowhands, surly drunks, gunfighters, buffalo hunters, and other people who wouldn’t have been invited to eat off my mother’s good plates. I found myself yearning for simpler things, such as a wife and a house, and I didn’t know where or when, but I wanted to settle down.

There were gamblers all over the West who had removed their boots from the road and settled down. They’d opened their own gambling dens or they had a stake in an establishment, and they’re able to lead rather normal lives. It had been a fleeting thought, but after a recent trip to Deadwood, it has been at the forefront of my mind. Sometimes we hold onto a losing hand when we should have just folded and walked away.

I’d journeyed to Deadwood on a mission to maybe invest in a gambling hall and get an overall feeling for the area. The experience had been pretty bad, leaving a nasty taste in my soul, and I did my best to bury the entire adventure from my mind. I’d ridden into Dodge City three days ago, and I found the town rather exciting, with plenty of opportunities for a man like me. The cattle trade, the opportunities the railroad offered, and there was a need for gambling and carousing. There was land available nearby, and if I chose to, I could settle close by. This could be the place for me.

Ginger was stabled at a nearby livery, the compartment in her saddle containing about $2000. My boots contained another $1000, and whatever I gambled, whether I won or lost, would come from the money belt. The first night I entered the saloon, I couldn’t lose. I played faro and poker, winning about $900. I was loving Dodge City and when I returned to the rooming house where I was staying, I sat for awhile trying to calculate how much money I had in my possession. I emptied the money belt, counted its contents, and realized I was traveling with around $6000. I decided I would look around for a place to buy a stake in.

I walked into the same saloon as the night before, carrying about $1500 in my pockets and money belt. I felt pretty good, and as the first hand of poker was dealt, I admired the ambiance of the establishment. There were painted ladies hovering about, a full bar, and plenty of customers enjoying themselves. This was the type of place I’d like to own, but smaller, and I could do without the sporting girls. I sat at the poker table, daydreaming about owning my own saloon, and maybe I could have live entertainment once a week. It didn’t have to be a booming joint, just a safe, steady income. If I couldn’t get a place like that here, there were other places. I’d heard good things about San Francisco, and I thought it might be worth investigating.

The game was five card stud, and my hole card was the queen of clubs. I called the bet, and received my first up card, the ace of clubs. Two high clubs with three to go, and I had the highest card showing. I bet $20 and the other four men at the table called my bet. It was shaping up to be a pretty nice pot. My second up card was the eight of clubs, giving me three cards towards a club flush. It wasn’t a made hand though, so I simply called the $40 bet made by a bearded teamster with a pair of fours showing. I could afford to be patient with my betting, just in case my hand turned out to be worthless.

The dealer dealt me my third up card. It was the eight of spades, giving me a pair of eights, but ruining my club flush. Looking around at the hands of the other players, I realized my pair of eights was the best hand showing. There were two other players with pairs showing, the aforementioned pair of fours, and a pair of sixes. There was only one card left, and the players with no pairs showing either had a matching card in the hole, or they had their fingers crossed that their last card would give them the winning hand. Since I didn’t want anyone to get lucky on the last card, I bet $50, hoping to get a couple of players to fold. The gentleman with the pair of sixes raised it another $50, causing two players to fold. There were three players left in the hand, and I simply called the extra $50. There was at least $700 in the pot, and it could be mine if I got another eight. The dealer flipped over my last card, revealing the ace of spades. Two black aces and two black eights. I felt bile rising within me, and the smells of blood and gunpowder filled my nostrils. I’d been dealt “the Deadman’s Hand.” My brain went instantly to a poker game in Deadwood at Nuttal’s and Mann’s Saloon.

I’d been watching the game while I stood at the bar calculating how much money the place took in on a nightly basis. I was also intrigued because I’d been informed that the long-haired gentleman at the table was none other than Wild Bill Hickok, a reputed gunfighter of some renown. I turned away from the game to order another whiskey, wondering if the owner would be willing to talk with me about maybe investing in the joint. It seemed like a prosperous place. A gunshot boomed out and I instinctively ducked. I saw a man with a gun held in his outstretched hand, smoke still curling from the barrel. The unmistakable odor of blood was in the air, and the famous man himself, Wild Bill Hickok, lay slumped over the poker table, blood splattered on the cards he’d been holding, two black aces and two black eights. The Deadman’s Hand.

I quit the Deadwood area the next day, my thoughts of settling and prospering there gone in an instant. I’d seen some things in my life that may have brought chills, but there hadn’t been anything as blood curdling as that man standing there proudly with his gun still smoking over the dead body of Hickok. In the chaos which followed afterwards, I made my exit. Since then, the scene had haunted me because of its coldblooded nature, and I never sat with my back to the door again, which had been Hickok’s fatal mistake. Now those same cards were lying in front of me, and I didn’t know what to do.

My soul urged me to just get up and leave, to walk away from the hand. Black cats, the number thirteen, and other harbingers of bad luck were things I avoided as much as possible. I looked around the room to make sure no one was walking towards me or ogling me overmuch. Then I looked at the huge pile of cash in the middle of the table, and I made the decision to wait and see what would happen. If one of the remaining players made too large of a bet, I would fold my hand. Maybe they’d caught the card which would give them three of a kind, and I couldn’t beat that.

Another thought intruded, reminding me that each man’s destiny is different, and one man’s trash might be another man’s treasure. I thought of former sporting girls who’d married cowboys or farmers and completely changed the course of their lives. There was a lot of money in the pot, and just because the hand hadn’t brought good luck to Hickok, did not mean it would be the same for me. I exhaled, threw caution to the wind, and made a $100 bet.

The remaining players folded, and I pulled the pile of cash towards me. The so-called ‘Deadman’s Hand’ had been a lucky one for me, and I scoffed at my earlier thoughts. I stuffed money in my pockets, put some in the money belt and my boots, surreptitiously, of course. I dumped the next three hands, planning my exit. I felt that it was time to leave while I was ahead, but losers are often surly and sore when a winner leaves the table with their money. I didn’t want any trouble.

My stomach roiled in an unpleasant way, and I knew how I would make my escape. I would simply excuse myself and promise to return after I visited the outhouse. Then, instead of coming back, I would make my way back to my rooming house and lay low for a couple of days. It sounded like a good plan. I pushed away from the table.

“Gentlemen,” I said. “I need to step away for a moment. Nature is calling.”

They were so engrossed in the hands they were playing, they simply nodded at my statement. I walked away from them, thinking about San Francisco, where it sounded as if things were booming. It might be worth investigating. Maybe my mood was a bit dark, or maybe my last winning hand had done something to my frame of mind, because suddenly I longed for quiet spaces, rolling hills, and peace. I wondered if Kentucky was still the same? I hadn’t felt nostalgic for home in a long, long time.

It was dark outside, and the thunder I heard made me walk a bit faster. No, there was no chance of rain. The storm was coming from within. I spied the outhouse and sighed in relief. Everything would be alright. I opened the door, using the light from the moon to guide me in my quest. I made myself comfortable and started thinking of places where I could find happiness. Maybe even a wife and children. Maybe it was time for Chance to take a chance. I giggled at myself, sitting in the darkness daydreaming about sunnier places.

The door burst open and the silhouette of a man was outlined. I heard the click of a gun being cocked and my blood ran cold.

“Hands up, or it could get bloody,” my assailant whispered.

He had the drop on me and there wasn’t anything I could do to either stop him or fight back. I slowly put my hands in the air, wishing I’d had a pistol on me. At least I’d have had a chance to defend myself. The thought crossed my mind to grab for his pistol, when he swiftly clouted me on the side of the head with it, eliminating all thoughts of fighting back or anything else. I was semi-conscious in the darkness, and I felt his hands on me. I must have made a noise in protest as he removed the money belt, and he whacked me again, knocking me out.

I don’t know how long I was unconscious, but the odors were the first things I noticed. There was the smell one would expect in an outhouse, but there was another smell which mystified my slowly waking brain. I opened my eyes slowly, hoping my assailant was not still there. The door was open, and the moonlight streamed in. I touched my face, feeling the stickiness of my own blood, and something else, something soft. I plucked the unfamiliar thing from the area by my mouth and I brought it closer to my eyes. It seemed to be a piece of a potato and for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out how a piece of potato ended up on my face.

I sat up, tasting blood in my mouth. He’d clouted me pretty good. Shakily, I rose to my feet, putting my clothing back in place. The money belt was gone, as was the money I’d had in my pockets. The robber hadn’t looked in my boots and he had not killed me. I still had some cash and there was still breath in my lungs. I was battered and bruised, but not beaten. I didn’t know if I would stay in Dodge City, though. Maybe it was time to head home to Kentucky for a long overdue visit home. Maybe that would be a welcome change from the life I’d been leading.

One thing that I did know for sure, was that I would never play or bet a poker hand with two black aces and two black eights. If I’d folded, maybe I would have never come outside and might have avoided being robbed. Maybe it would have happened anyway, but a gambler knows better than to wager on bad omens. The ‘Deadman’s Hand’ hadn’t been lucky for Wild Bill, and it had not been lucky for me either…

Marlon S. Hayes

Marlon S. Hayes is a writer, blogger, author, and poet from Chicago, Illinois. He has written six books, been featured in five anthologies, and written for two magazines. His current project is a prequel to his novel, Eleven Fifty Nine, which is to be released by Oghma Creative Media in 2020. He can be followed at Marlon's Writings on Facebook, marlonhayes.wixsite.com/author, and on Amazon. For 2018, his goal was to submit his writings to one hundred publishers. He achieved his goal with seven days to spare.

In addition to his journey and evolution as a writer, Marlon is a grillmaster and chef with daydreams of opening a restaurant. He also has a severe case of ‘Wanderlust' and is at his happiest when he's on a trip to someplace new. He's on a quest to visit all fifty states, and his tally is currently at forty-seven, needing Montana, North Dakota, and Alaska. The allure of foreign climates have been beckoning, causing him to download translation apps to his phone, study currency exchange rates, and plan visits to six foreign countries in the next year. He follows the mantra that ‘Life is a banquet’ and he plans on constantly eating.