We'd just walked into the Golden Slipper saloon in Grand Junction, Colorado when the place seemed to explode. 'We' consisted of me, Bart Maverick, and my brother Bret. He was older than me (barely) and taller than me (barely) and heavier than me (not so barely). Yes, our last name really is Maverick – we're distant relatives of Samuel Maverick of Texas.
We're also brilliant gamblers (maybe brilliant is a little strong) and all-around ne'er-do-wells. At least according to most people – but then, we're not most people. We are professional poker players and have been our entire lives. And an even rarer breed than that – we're honest poker players. Which is why we win sometimes, and we lose sometimes. Bret had just come off a big losing streak and I wasn't doing much better, so we were hoping that a change of scenery would benefit us both. That's why we headed almost due west from Colorado Springs until we got to Grand Junction. We hadn't counted on what we confronted gettin' there. Apache Indians, a prairie fire, a lost wagon train, Cheyenne Indians, a stage coach hold up, and three straight days of rain.
By the time we got to the Golden Slipper we were plumb worn-out. The hotel attached to the saloon was booked full up; as of right now we had nowhere to sleep for the night. "Let's go see if I can start winnin' again," Brother Bret suggested, so we decided to spend the night playing poker rather than sleeping. It seemed logical at the time.
As I said before, we'd just walked into the saloon and hadn't even had time to get the dust off our boots when a familiar figure in a most unfamiliar pose went past us. Dandy Jim Buckley, a good friend of mine and a semi-mortal enemy of Bret's, was being unceremoniously thrown out of the place. Actually at that moment he was being carried out of the saloon, since neither of his feet was touching the ground. He was being held aloft by two VERY substantial men of the 'Oh no you don't in my saloon' variety, and when they got to the batwing doors they simply heaved him into the street.
Unfortunately, the ground here in Grand Junction was dry, so when Jim hit it a rather large cloud of dust and dirt were the only things that attached themselves to him. From head to foot, I might add. Even his scrupulously polished boots were dulled by the dusty street that wrapped him in its arms. Of course, as soon as Jim was outside the saloon no longer sounded like a mine field going up in flames.
I half expected Dandy to sputter and spit and run back in, ranting and raving. Instead he did a most un-Dandylike thing – he sat on his bottom in the middle of the street, quiet as a church mouse. I looked at Bret and he just shook his head 'no.' Which, of course, meant that I had to go retrieve Buckley by myself. At least it wouldn't hurt anything – after three solid days of rain we'd been soaked to the skin and thoroughly splattered with mud – and I couldn't get much filthier by digging Jim out of the dirt.
I approached him from behind and tried my best to lift him into a standing position. Without turning his head to see who it was trying to pick him up, he commanded in that voice of his, "Put me down, you scoundrel." I obliged him and although he didn't fall far, he fell hard. That's when he finally turned his head and saw that it was me, and a look of astonishment crossed his face. "Bart, old man! Why didn't you say something?"
"Get up out of the street, Dandy. You sittin' in the dirt is almost an obscenity."
He rose then, slowly, as if every bone in his body hurt. It probably did. He looked at me with glee on his face and asked hopefully, "Here all by yourself?"
There it was again, that animosity between Jim and Bret. It had been in existence for so long that I couldn't remember when or how it started. It's a shame, too, because they really do have a lot in common – they're both bright, witty, handsome men, and they have the same great friend – me. No matter how splendidly things are going, they can't be civil to each other for more than fifteen minutes. After that I'm usually forced into being the referee. Of course, it doesn't help that Brother Bret has his own set of morals, and Dandy Jim wouldn't know a moral unless it was something to eat.
"Sorry, Jim, Bret's inside. But he knows you're here."
"Oh." Buckley's face fell. Then he thought of something and brightened up again. "Say, your brother is a rather big brute of a man, isn't he?"
Now, those are not the words that I'd use to describe Bret. True, he is tall and solid, but 'big brute' is not an accurate label. "Why, Dandy, what did ya have in mind? And why'd you get thrown out of the saloon, anyway?"
Once he stood up and realized how absolutely filthy he was, he began to brush dirt and dust off of himself. Since I was standing right next to him . . . but I didn't mind. Like I said before, Bret and me were both rain-drenched and mud-soaked through and through. I looked at Jim's pride and joy, his normally highly-polished boots, and knew they were in desperate need of some serious attention. The kind they couldn't get by being simply dusted off. Since he was so fastidiously put together before he got thrown into the street, it meant he probably had the rarest of commodities . . . a hotel room.
"I was ejected from the so-called establishment because I pointed out to them that their roulette wheel was incorrectly balanced and they were cheating their clientele. Myself among them. The manager imparted to me that if I persisted in my accusations, I could be 'made to disappear' from Grand Junction. Without too much trouble. I protested but was instructed to leave, and when I refused to do so, I was 'put out' like the proverbial cat. As to what I had in mind . . . retribution of some sort, of course."
Oh, Lord, sounded like we'd just gone from the frying pan into the fire. And I did mean we, because no matter what Buckley said or did, Bret would lend whatever help was needed . . . as long as it was me that needed it. "I wouldn't suggest goin' back inside just now, Jim. Disappearing might be in your immediate future if you did. Do you have a hotel room where all three of us might get cleaned up? Then we could discuss plans for retribution while we eat . . ."
"Bret would never tolerate a reasonable discussion if I was involved."
After the trip we'd had . . . with no place to sleep and empty bellies – "You'd be surprised what Bret would and wouldn't tolerate."
I could see that Dandy was weighin' the pros and cons. Bret must have come out on the plus side of the equation, because Jim nodded. "I do have a room, a suite actually, and it possesses its own bathtub. It would no doubt take a great length of time to accomplish, but we could manage to get . . . ahem . . . clean and respectable. I'm willing to endure your brother if he's willing to accept me . . . without violence, mind you."
I sighed, a great shuddering sound. "Alright. I'll go get Bret and bring him out. You stay out here where you're safe."
"Really, Bart, how did you ever acquire a brother like that?"
Maybe the better question was how did Bret ever acquire a brother like me?
