Blood Ties (8 page)

Chapter Nine – Cards and Bluffs

“Jake was the best card player I’ve ever seen, and he lived his life like he played poker. I think that’s what gave him the edge over anyone he came up against. For Jake, everything came down to knowing what his opponent was going to do next. And Jake usually seemed to know.”

~ Captain Jane Wilson

“Full house. Sevens over threes.” The sound of the
Jezebel’s
propellers made a steady, quiet drone in the background. Jake stuck his cigar in his mouth, turned over his cards, and smiled at the finely dressed foreigner across the table from him. The foreigner wore a shimmering, emerald frock over a lacy, ruffled white shirt with a high collar. A silver pin sporting an etched raven insignia anchored his red cravat. Like the man, the bird had a distinctly European feel to it. A red baldric crossed the man’s chest down towards his right hip.

Germany,
Jake thought,
or someplace deeper into the heart of Central Europe, but not quite Russia.
Around the poker tables at the Colorado Brewery, he’d sheared enough foreigners coming through to have at least some sense of what went on across the Atlantic.

The gentleman scowled, sniffed, and politely nodded his head. The monocle over his right eye gleamed as his head moved, and Jake could just make out his own reflection in it as the man looked at him. The four up-cards in front of the foreigner were a pair of jacks, a queen, and a five without a matching suit.

“The hand appears to be yours, sir,” he said in an accent Jake couldn’t place. He did not turn over his hole card. “Your luck seems to be quite …
remarkable
.”

Jake knew the man had a third jack in the hole. He’d watched the foreigner closely for two hours and had him pegged early on. The man never bluffed, and he wouldn’t have stayed in that long or kept putting money on the table if he didn’t have at least trips. The cards face up in front of the foreigner wouldn’t make anything else worth betting on.

“Not sure I’d call it all luck,” Jake replied easily, “but thank you kindly.” Jake reached out and pulled back the pile of bills and coins from the middle of the table. Their dealer flipped over the house hand in front of him—all garbage—and collected the cards from around the table.

“What is that, three in a row you’ve won, mister?” a drunken cowboy on the foreigner’s left muttered. His voice was surly, bordering on accusatory.

“Technically only two,” Jake said easily. “The hand before last saw everybody fold except me. Ain’t my fault if nobody wants to call a bluff.”

“A bluff! Why you son-of-a—!” the cowboy shouted.

“Temper, temper,
amigo
,” Jake soothed. “This is just a friendly card game.” Jake’s eye drifted down to the cowboy’s remaining stack of bills—what had started as about six hundred sat at under two hundred now. “Well, mostly friendly.”

“I believe I’ll retire for the evening,” the foreigner said and stood up stiffly. He gathered the still-healthy pile of currency in front of him and slipped it into his vest pocket. He took off his monocle and dropped it into a breast pocket.

“Bit of friendly advice, mister,” Jake offered, “I wouldn’t wear that eyepiece when playin’ cards if I were you.” The man’s eyebrows rose slightly, and then he narrowed his eyes at Jake. There was a trace of quite un-gentlemanly anger in the look.

“Hmph!” The foreigner straightened his black, paisley vest and adjusted the silver-hilted saber attached to the baldric. His eyes never left Jake. “I’ll bear that in mind in the future.” He nodded briskly to Jake and then the rest of the men at the table. “Good night, gentlemen.”

The man turned on his heel in what Jake estimated to be proper military fashion, although not American military, and practically marched out of the salon through the doors. Jake watched two tall, muscular men with close-cropped hair and expensive suits try to casually follow the foreigner out. Their version of casual looked a lot like Lumpy’s, in that it was loud and obvious and not casual in any way whatsoever. One of them had a black satchel over his shoulder, and Jake heard their strides match up with the foreigner’s shortly after they turned the corner.

As the dealer noisily shuffled the cards, Cole leaned over and whispered so no one else could hear him. “Could you really see his cards in the monocle?”

“Hmm-mmm,” Jake replied, shaking his head. “But
he
don’t know that. If we play again, he won’t wear the monocle and think his luck’s change. I had him pegged early. That boy ain’t no card player. Chess player, maybe, but not poker.”

Cole chuckled. “You’re just too sneaky.” The dealer looked at Cole expectantly. Cole nodded to the dealer and threw in a dollar for the ante.

In the mirror over the bar Jake eyed the tall woman he’d seen when they first got on the
Jezebel
. There was something odd about her, about the way she’d been sitting. She got up from her table in the corner, the veil still hiding her features. She’d come in shortly after the foreigner and taken a table behind Jake. Aside from placing her order for tea and scones, she had not spoken to anyone the entire evening. She’d barely even moved beyond taking sips with a pinky extended. Jake knew because he kept checking in the mirror. She turned her head away from the poker table as she walked by, and Jake’s feeling that he knew her from somewhere increased considerably. For just a second, he thought he heard a faint metallic clicking as she walked by. He tried to think of any women he’d ever met with clockwork legs and came up with nothing.

“Your bet, sir,” the dealer prompted.

“Jake?” Cole added as Jake’s eyes followed the woman out the salon door.

“Hmmm? Oh yeah. Sorry,” Jake mumbled, bringing his attention back to the game. He threw in his ante, and the rest of the table followed. “That foreigner is up to something,” he said quietly to Cole.

“What makes you say that? The guys that followed him out?” As the hole cards were dealt out, everyone kept their hands away except the drunken cowboy who turned up the corner of his.

Eying the cowboy with disgust for such bad table manners, Jake replied, “Well, partly. Did you hear their footsteps as they turned the corner?”

“No, why?” Cole asked, giving a similar grimace to the cowboy.

“They’re military, and they sure as hell ain’t ours.”

“How could you tell they’re military? Maybe they’re just snappy dressers … with short hair.”

The first up-cards made their way around the table, and everyone looked at what they had except Jake who looked at what everyone else had and the reactions that showed up on a couple of faces.

“Them fellas couldn’t help falling into stride … and their haircuts? They’re more automaton on the inside than Colonel Ghiss will ever be on the outside. Pure discipline. And I reckon Mr. Monocle isn’t the type to take vacations, which means they’re not only military, they’re travelling with a purpose.”

Jake finally looked at his cards, an ace-jack. From right beside him a mechanical voice with a thick southern drawl broke his concentration. “Well light my fires, if it isn’t Jake Lasater. I thought I recognized you in the saloon back in Denver.” The voice turned sweet and a little hurt. “Are you avoiding me? And here I thought we were friends.”

“Oh, shit,” Jake said under his breath. He froze for a second, put on his friendliest smile and turned toward the Night Stalker.

Chapter Ten – Bluffs and Guns

“I wanted to put a bullet through one of those fancy eyepieces of his from the moment I first laid eyes on the Night Stalker.”

~ Cole McJunkins

“Well, Colonel Ghiss!” Jake said with a great deal more affability than he felt. “What a surprise. I wouldn’t dream of avoiding you. Didn’t see you at the Brewery is all.” Ghiss was in the same dark clothing and top hat as before. In fact, Jake had never seen the man without his rather ominous garb. Jake eyed him closely, noting a number of dents and scratches in the dark brass goggles and respirator, some of them appearing to be fairly fresh. Jake could barely make out his reflection in the dark lenses of the oculars as he stubbed out what little of his cigar remained.

Ghiss’ voice, despite the mechanical overtones, came through sweet as honey. “It’s
Mister
Ghiss, not Colonel. The war is over, Mister Lasater. Perhaps you’ve heard?” The mercenary stepped around the table and stood behind the chair emptied by the foreigner. Everyone at the table heard the
whine-click
of his clockwork legs, and the cowboy got a disgusted look on his face, eyeing Ghiss like he was a dead steer bloated by the sun.

“Yes, I do recall reading something about that,” Jake replied dryly. “If I got it right, the Confederacy surrendered, isn’t that right, Cole?”

“Yes, sir, it is,” Cole said with a more than satisfied grin. “Something about that cuss General Lee handing over his sword.” With a king showing, Cole threw five dollars into the pot.

Ghiss tilted his head to the side, and it reminded Jake of something … a long lost memory. “Winners … losers … the war was more about economics than any sort of social or humanitarian agenda.” Jake and Cole could see that the goggles were focused on Cole’s mulatto skin, not on Jake, and the subtle insult was not lost on either of them.

Never taking his eyes off of Ghiss, Jake turned his ace facedown and pushed his cards into the middle of the table. There was no way he could focus on a poker hand with the Night Stalker standing across the table from him.

“There are some who would disagree with you,
Colonel
,” Cole said with more than a hint of venom. Bets went around the table, with everyone else matching Cole’s five dollars.

Jake leaned over. “Don’t take the bait,” he whispered quietly.

The dealer spoke up. “Would you care to join the game, sir?” He nodded towards the empty chair between them as another round of cards went out.

The cowboy glared at the dealer and downed a shot of whisky, motioning to the bartender for another. “God damn machiners,” he muttered loud enough for the whole table to hear.

“Why, I’d be delighted,” Ghiss said as smoothly as his mechanical voice would allow. Paying no attention to the rheumy-eyed cowboy, he pulled the chair out and slowly sat down.

Cole, with an ace-king now showing, said, “Five,” and tossed in the bet. The three remaining betters called him.

With a deliberately dramatic flourish of his mechanical hand, Ghiss reached into the inner pocket of his long coat and pulled out a thick stack of bills. As the dealer sent around the next up-cards, Ghiss separated his money into two stacks and put them on the table in front of him.

“Lord knows the war was lucrative enough for me,” Ghiss added, and Jake could actually hear the mercenary smiling underneath the respirator. “I believe it wasn’t as much of a boon to you, was it Mister Lasater?”

With a sneer aimed at Ghiss’ comment, Cole looked down at a queen over his ace-king and threw in again. “Ten.” He tossed in his money and turned to Jake to see his reaction to the mercenary’s jab.

Jake smiled and chuckled at Ghiss as the others called his partner’s bet. “Oh, I reckon I came out of it better off than when I went in … and I still have my soul intact.”

Cole’s single burst of laughter was punctuation enough for Jake’s retort.

“Well met, Mister Lasater.” Ghiss nodded his head and leaned back in his chair as another round of cards went around the table. “I don’t believe we’ve ever had the privilege of playing cards with each other, now have we?”

Cole came up with another king and bet. “Twenty,” he said quietly.

“That’s right,” Jake agreed. “We’ve never actually gone up against each other,” Jake referred quite deliberately to the fact that he and Ghiss had never faced each other down, and he had no doubt Ghiss didn’t miss it.

“Thirty,” the drunk cowboy said a bit too boldly.

Jake didn’t miss the forced bravado and took a moment to quickly eye the cards around the table. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ghiss’ head move, indicating the mercenary was doing the same thing. Two of the four men still playing were chasing straights, and he was certain the cowboy had nothing better than two pair.
If Cole bumps,
Jake thought,
he has trips and the hand.

“Fifty,” Cole said quietly as he dropped the bills on top of the pile.

The two men downstream from Cole folded quickly, and the cowboy glared at Cole like he was the devil himself.

“You’re bluffin’.”

Ghiss turned to the cowboy slowly, and the voice that came out of the mask was almost friendly as he said, “I wouldn’t call that, if I were you, sir.”

“I ain’t askin’ you, ya god damned machiner. Mind your own stinkin’ business.”

Ghiss shrugged. “As you like,” he said sweetly, and Jake could hear the smile again.

“Eighty!” the cowboy said it like it was a curse. He grabbed most of what he had left in front of him and slammed it down in the middle of the table. Jake shook his head, worried about what might come next.

“Let’s make this easy, friend,” Cole said slowly. He pushed in the considerable stack of coins and paper in front of him. “To call you gotta put it all in. But you may want to take something home tonight.”

“Now I know you’re bluffing!” The cowboy growled and pushed in what little he had left. Jake saw where things were headed, and it wasn’t good. He slid his left hand to the edge of the table and leaned back a bit in case he had to yank his Peacekeeper. “You’re called, mister,” the cowboy added.

Cole sighed and turned over his hole card. It was a king. The cowboy turned pale first, knowing he was beat, and just as Jake suspected, his face went from pale white to crimson in that slow transition far too many drunken cowboys get right before the shooting starts. Jake could see the alcohol coaxing liquid backbone into the cowboy.

“God damn machiner!” The cowboy turned on Ghiss, his eyes narrowing down to slits. “You baited me into callin’!”

“I beg your pardon?” Ghiss replied as innocently as he could. “I did nothing of the sort. You did that all by your lonesome,
sir
. In fact, I recall being the one who tried to talk you out of such obvious folly. Two pair will never beat three of a kind … no matter how much cheap whisky is involved.”

Jake could hear Ghiss baiting the cowboy the same way he had tried to bait Cole. Jake saw the cowboy’s hand drifting back from the table towards his hip. Ghiss was a statue, but Jake knew the mercenary saw it as well.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, mister,” Jake said quietly and pulled a cigar out of his shirt pocket. His voice was almost pleading. “You ain’t got no idea what you’re up against.” He’d seen it once before. Gunslingers with clockwork limbs didn’t have much to fear from flesh and blood, and many of them liked to goad regular folk into drawing on them.

Without turning from Ghiss, the cowboy growled, “I ain’t asking you, mister. Mind your own god damn business.”

Jake struck the match on his thumbnail and lit the cigar as Cole and the two other men at the table slid back. The people in the salon were also stepping out of the way as the bartender whispered frantically into a heavy brass horn attached to a copper-jacketed cable that disappeared beneath the bar.

Jake saw the cowboy’s fingers stiffen and then dart towards his gun. Ghiss and Jake moved at the same time, clockwork gears screaming. Ghiss’ right hand pulled one of the strange looking pistols from its holster across his waist as Jake’s Peacekeeper sailed free. Ghiss’ left hand had darted out, pinning the cowboy’s hand against the butt of his revolver, but Jake noticed that his own gun was pointing at the cowboy before Ghiss’ left hand landed. The barrel of Ghiss’ pistol, however, was pressed up against the cowboy’s throat in the blink of an eye.

The salon was as quiet as an empty graveyard except for a large, open-air clock over the bar, the steady ticking accentuating the silence.

“Please, sir,” Ghiss soothed, “I suggest you desist and retire for the evening before something …
unfortunate
takes place. These are civilized people with civilized ways. Gunplay here would be simply uncouth. Wouldn’t you agree, Mister Lasater?” Ghiss’ oculars never left the cowboy’s wide eyes.

“Can’t argue with that,” Jake said coldly and pulled the hammer back on his Colt, the business end pointed at the cowboy’s chest.

“God damn machiners….” The cowboy cursed again through clenched teeth, the whites of his eyes showing. “Y’all are nuthin’ but a bunch of ungodly freaks.” He raised his hands slowly and visibly relaxed his muscles.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN HERE?”
a deep voice boomed from the doorway.

There was the distinct
click-clack
of a lever action rifle being chambered. Neither Ghiss nor Jake turned their heads, but out of the corner of his eye Jake spotted a burly, black steward holding a Winchester. The rifle looked like a toy in his massive hands. He appeared to have been born without a neck. His massive shoulders ran up at a sharp angle along chorded muscle, ending at a shaved head that gleamed in the light. His arms were as thick as Jake’s legs, and an untidy beard gave him a distinct resident-head-buster look that Jake had seen in upscale saloons across the west.

Two smaller and only slightly less imposing men flanked him, one Caucasian and one Indian, their hands resting quite comfortably on the butts of older Navy revolvers.

“Simply a misunderstanding,” Ghiss said with that smile in his voice.

The steward spoke with a lean accent that hailed from somewhere between Chicago and St. Louis. “Misunderstanding, hunh?” the steward said, striding into the room like a bull and leveling the Winchester in the direction of the poker table. “How about everybody who’s holding iron just go right ahead and put it away. I’d rather not have to let this long arm do my talking for me.”

“Certainly, sir,” Ghiss said and smoothly slid his pistol back into the holster at his side. The steward’s eyes darted to Jake’s Colt. Jake slowly lowered the hammer down, and with a double backspin, set it firmly back into the holster.

Keeping the rifle pointed like it was set in stone, the steward turned half an eye to the bartender and asked, “So, was this all just a misunderstanding, Bobby?”

“Well,” the bartender said slowly. “I supposed you could call it that. The one with his hands up started it all. And looks like them two fellers got it pretty much under control.”

“So, what do you want us to do here, Bobby?” the steward asked, giving a stern eye to every man at the table.

“I s’pose if you just escort that one there back to his room and let him sleep off all that whisky, everything should be fine,” Bobby said, looking considerably more calm than he had seconds before. “Least ways until we get to Carson City. After that, them boys may just sort it out for themselves down on the street.”

The steward sighed and set a stern look on the cowboy. “C’mon, mister. Let’s get you back to your room.”

“But—” the cowboy blurted, looking with pleading eyes at the steward.

The steward never made a sound. Narrowing his eyes was all it took to shut the miscreant up.

The cowboy stood slowly, his hands still raised. “God damn machiners….” he spat with a glare aimed at everyone at the table. He turned and staggered past the steward.

“Boys,” the steward called over his shoulder. The two behind him stepped in stride with the cowboy and followed him out of the salon. The steward let the barrel of the Winchester drift towards the floor and lowered the hammer carefully with one hand. He focused again on the men at the table. “Now, I’m inclined to take Bobby’s word for it that the other fella started the ruckus. But for everyone’s sake, I’m gonna have to ask you to keep them hog-legs tethered for the rest of the flight, if you don’t mind.”

“I think the game is just about over,” Jake said quietly. “How ’bout you, Cole? You done?”

“I reckon I’ve had about as much fun as I can take for one evening.” He stepped up to the table, took off his hat, and scooped his winnings into it. “Besides, I gotta get my beauty sleep,” he added and walked towards the door of the salon.

“If you say so,” the steward said with a raised eyebrow.

Jake collected his own money, slipping it into his vest, then stood up and tipped his hat to Ghiss. “Perhaps we’ll go up against one another some other time.”

“I believe the opportunity may yet present itself, Mister Lasater.” Ghiss nodded his head, lamplight glinting off his respirator and oculars. “Perhaps sooner than either of us expects.”

Jake paused for a moment, giving Ghiss a curious look. Ghiss was a statue, staring at Jake without even the comfort of looking like he was breathing. Jake wondered what the mercenary meant. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. He took a puff of his cigar, shifted it to the other side of his mouth, and followed Cole into the main passageway.

When the passageway doors closed behind them, Cole turned his head and said, “You weren’t kidding about him being fast.” He kept walking down the passageway towards the rear section of the gondola.

“Nope. In a straight fight he’d cut me in two. But there was something you probably didn’t pick up.”

“What?”

“His left.” Jake’s eyes narrowed as he pulled hard on his cigar and remembered the sequence.

“What about it?”

“My left beat his. He got his right pistol out, across his chest and at that guy’s throat in the time my Peacekeeper was just pointing over the table. But his left … He didn’t plant that hand on the cowboy’s gun till after mine was up.”

“You could tell all that?”