Aces and Eights

Aces and Eights
(909 words)

          The saloon was filled with the sounds of loud voices and heavy hands banging on the keys of a badly tuned piano.  The smell of cigarettes and old whiskey filled the air.  Four men sat lazily at a card table in the back corner of the room, in stark contrast to the flurry of activity in every other corner. 
    All eyes at the table turned towards the mustached man who was sitting with his back against the wall.  He was the quietest of them all.  He’d been playing cards with them for hours, and none of them could recall him uttering more than two words together.  And he seemed just fine with it.
    The man to his left tried to make conversation.  “It’s your deal, Mister… um… what’d you say your name was again?”
    “I didn’t,” the stranger said matter-of-factly.  He effortlessly picked up the worn deck of cards and shuffled.  Without looking up from the table, he quickly dealt five cards to himself and to each of the other gamblers at the table.  He put the deck down in front of him and picked up his own cards to scan them with his dark eyes.
    “I like this saloon,” said the man to his left.  “They’ve got the prettiest little barmaids in town.”  He grinned lustily at the girl serving the next table as he discarded.  He gave her a hurt look as she rolled her eyes and carried her tray of drinks to another table further away.
    “That’s great if you like barmaids, Pete,” the next player said.  “I’ve always been partial to dance-hall girls myself.  Saw some nice ones in Denver City.”  He laid two cards face-down on the table.  ”Gimme two.”
    “And you know about Denver City dance-hall girls, Mike?” asked Pete.
    Mike smiled.  “Not as much as I’d like.”
    “Denver City?  That’s the mining town they built on the side of the Rockies.  It must be up at least a mile high.”  The youngest player at the table, a man barely into his twenties, joined the conversation.
    Pete scoffed.  “Get a load of the walkin’ schoolbook here.  You know anything about playin’ cards, kid?”
    “I’ve heard a lot about a card player that used to play in Denver City ‘bout a year back,” the kid said.  “Man’s got a hell of a gun hand.  There’s been all kinds of stories about him.”
    The mustached man raised an eyebrow.  “Oh yeah?  Stories, huh?”     
    “Yeah.  Talk is he killed four men at a card table just like this one,” the kid said.
    “Shouldn’t oughta listen to stories,” the mustached man said.  “Usually they’re pretty far from the truth.”
    The bet went around, and everyone tossed in a wrinkled bill to the center of the table.
    “But this story’s great,” said the kid.  “There was some kind of argument after a poker game.  The guys he was playin’ with thought he was cheatin’ or somethin’.  They all drew on him at point blank range and took their best shots.  They must’ve put twenty bullets in him, but he shot ‘em all with a pair of pearl-handled revolvers and walked away without a scratch.”
    The mustached man chuckled as he took two cards and dropped two others.  “Actually, they only hit him once.  In the leg.  The rest of their shots missed.”
    The kid’s eyes widened.  “You’re kidding.  Only once?”
    The mustached man smiled.  “They had fancy pistols, those men.  But they were all so scared they couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with ‘em.  Call.”
    Mike sighed as he laid his cards face up in front of him.  “I’ve got a pair of nines.”
    Pete smiled as he turned his cards over.  There was a five, a six, a seven, an eight, and a nine of different suits.  “I’ve got a straight.”
    The kid shook his head.  “You’ve got me beat.  Three tens.”
    “That just leaves you, Mister,” Pete said.  “What’ve you go there?”
    All eyes turned to the man with the mustache.  He turned his cards over slowly.  Ace of clubs, ace of spades, eight of spades, eight of clubs.  Pete smiled and reached across the table for his winnings.  But then the stranger flipped his last card.  It was the ace of diamonds.
    “Full house beats a straight, I think,” the stranger said. 
    “Aces and eights,” Pete said.  “I’ll be damned.”
    As the stranger reached across the table for his winnings, the top of his coat opened.  The other players could see a silver badge on his chest which simply read SHERIFF.
    The players were quiet for a moment until the kid broke the silence.  “So you’re a lawman?” 
    “On a good day,” the stranger replied.
    “Is that how you know so much about that gunfight?” the young man asked.  “You never did say.”
    “How do you know so much about Denver City?” the stranger asked.  “You ever been there?”
    “Yeah.”  The young man’s back stiffened.  “Once.  I haven’t always lived here in Prescott.”
    “Well,” the man replied.  “I haven’t always been a sheriff.”
    As he slowly pushed himself away from the table and stood up, his coat fell the rest of the way open, revealing a pearl-gripped pistol stuffed in the waistband of his jeans.  He slowly closed his coat, and with a tip of his hat, he turned away.
    All eyes at the table turned towards the mustached man as he limped away from the table and out of the saloon.