Gambler Don't Come Cheap

Chapter 1 – Dandy Jim and the Contract

How did he get into these things? That was the question on his mind as he sat at the table, waiting for the one card he asked for from the dealer. By now he should know better than to agree to do a favor for Dandy Jim Buckley, even one that was going to pay as well as this one.

The biggest drawback, of course, was that he had to travel to Cheyenne, Wyoming to keep the promise and fulfill the contract. And that he had to live through the game he was currently playing in order to get there.

The dealer finally gave him the card he'd asked for. Two of clubs. That finished the little straight he was working on. He watched the cowboy he was playing against and knew he had the hand won. There was just a slight raise to the man's eyebrows – a sure sign that he hadn't gotten the cards he wanted. "Fifty." That was a cheap bluff on his opponent's part.

"I'll see your fifty and raise a hundred," Bart came back with. He expected no further challenge for the pot and he got none.

"Fold." The cowboy threw his cards down, disgusted both with them and himself. "Thought you were havin' a run a bad luck," he told Bart, looking across the table.

"I was," replied the gambler, as he raked in the small pot. "Maybe that's changed."

"Huh, if you was dealin' the cards I'd a thought you was cheatin'."

Bart looked across to the cowboy and smiled. "As my old pappy used to say, '"Son, the best time to get lucky is when the other man's dealin'." He picked his money up off the table and put it in his wallet, then stood up and pushed his chair back. "Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure, but I have a stagecoach to catch."

He picked his suitcase up off the floor next to him and walked outside, then across the 'street' to the stage, which was just beginning to load. He threw the case up to the driver and climbed in. It wouldn't be a long trip; he was already in Boulder. Nobody interesting looking joined him; a younger, eastern born-and-bred man, obviously some kind of salesman, and a rancher, just a few years older than Bart. Good, he could probably catch up on his sleep. He hadn't been doing a lot of that lately, he spent most of his time drinking coffee and playing cards. Rather, he spent most of his time drinking coffee and losing at cards.

The streak had started almost three weeks ago, right after Sally Jo Wakefield finally believed him when he told her he wasn't the marrying kind of man. At first poker was off and on; winning more than he lost, but slowly the pendulum started to swing the other way and he was losing more than he won. Then he was just losing.

That's why the telegram from Buckley had been received so warmly. Dandy had agreed to either play or provide a substitute of equal skill to play a high-stakes game in Cheyenne in three weeks. The contract was a lump sum payment of five thousand dollars upfront and twenty-five percent of the total winnings. Some of the richest men in the territory were already committed to the game; Bart tried to get into the game himself and not even his friend Anderson Garret could wangle him a spot. He had no idea who Buckley was contracted to – just that there would be a hotel room waiting for him when he got to Cheyenne. Considering the way the cards had been falling for him lately, he would be happy to play on somebody else's front money.

Who in their right mind would hire Buckley to play poker for them? The Englishman was a good enough player when he put his mind to it, but his head was usually too full of get-rich-quick schemes to concentrate long enough on the cards. And what was so important that it would keep Buckley from honoring the contract?

Buckley's loss had been his gain. His poker game had been better, he would be the first to admit, but every gambler had those runs, and this one had been no different than some he'd had in the past. It just seemed to be lasting a little longer. His wallet was practically empty; he finally had to break the thousand dollar bill he kept pinned to the lining of his coat just to keep eating. But he'd been at that particular poker table in Boulder for a good eight hours and he was up over four hundred dollars. Maybe the losing was over.

He looked out the window of the coach and realized it was getting dark. They should be at the transfer station soon, just in time for supper. One more long night of riding; he could probably sleep when it was dark and his belly was full. Otherwise it was going to be a very long and tiresome night.

XXXXXXXX

Jim Buckley and Francine Westcott were just about to go to dinner when he got the telegram from Maverick acknowledging that he would assume Buckley's contract for the Cheyenne poker game. Good, he wouldn't have to look for anyone else. Bart was his first choice to take his spot – he had a reputation to protect, after all. He didn't bother to tell Bart who he was going to be playing for or what the consequences what be if he lost. Bart was a top-notch poker player – about the only one that could beat him was his brother Bret, and he was in Abilene, currently incarcerated in the local jail on some trumped up charge.

"Well, my dear, we're in the clear. No need to rush off to Cheyenne and leave this delightful weather." Buckley offered his arm to Francine and she took it.

"Darling, did you tell your proxy ALl of the conditions to the game? Forewarn him, so to speak?"

Buckley laughed as if that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "Francine, why would I do that? He might not have accepted the offer!"

"Isn't he some sort of friend of yours?" Francine asked.

"Maverick? Well, I suppose so. Certainly Bart more than his brother. It depends on just what I'm working on as to whether you can call him a friend. He doesn't always agree with some of my . . . . ahem . . . . . investment strategies. But we have worked on a few projects together. Quite bright, actually . . . .for a Texan. Yes, hmmmmm . . . . . . where was I?"

"Right here, darling, with me. You're right here."

"Yes. Yes I am. And Bart is not." He thought about Bart for just a second. "He's on his way to Cheyenne instead of me. Francine, did I ever tell you about the time . . . . . . . " Buckley's voice faded as he and Francine walked down the corridor to the dining room.