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The Joker

A short story by Fran Connor

Mesquite and Acacia gave him some cover on a ridge above the border town baking in the late afternoon Texas sun. His steel blue eyes in a face bronzed and etched like arroyos searched for any sign of Loco Laine through binoculars he kept from his Union Army war service. He saw no sign of him or anyone. His hand touched the reassuring grip of a Colt in its holster ready for what may lurk in the shadows and alleys. In his sweat-stained linen shirt, a wrinkled Joker playing card lay waiting for its rendezvous with death.

Gitana’s right front shoe scraped at the rocky ground, impatient to be on the move and whisked her blond tail to drive away flies buzzing around her rump. She snorted. He gently tapped her side and coaxed the palomino down the steep slope through sage and cactus. Cicadas clicked. A gopher scrutinized their progress from its hole while high above a red-tailed hawk circled in a thermal.

Main Street stood silent and deserted, shimmering in the oppressive heat. Too tired to move out of the sun, a cat dozed on a balcony over a shuttered hardware store. Human eyes peered from the sides of blinds at the stranger as he rode into town.

Boot Hill waited for either Mace Tucker or Loco Laine.

Shaded by the adobe façade of a building bearing a faded wooden sign ‘Sherif’ with the last ‘f’ hanging loose he looped Gitana’s reins to a rail.

“Howdy,” said Tucker ducking his six-foot two-inch frame under a wooden lintel as he strode into the sheriff’s office, the heels of his boots thudded on the floorboards as his spurs jangled.

The sheriff, a tall gaunt man with a droopy mustache sat behind a desk on a green leather chair, smoking a cheroot. Behind him a rack of  well-used Winchesters and Henrys stood against a wall secured by a thin chain through the trigger guards.

“Howdy,” he said without getting up but accorded the stranger some respect by taking his feet off the desk. “What can I do for you Mister?”

“I’m lookin’ for work. Any spread in these parts want hands?”

“Maybe.”

“Is there an outfit called Laine or something like that? Heard up in Albuquerque they may be takin’ on.”

“The Laines have a place out on the bend other side of the river. Six brothers and a Pappy, Jeremiah Laine, and they ain’t what you might call right sociable. One of the brothers is in town and he’s meaner than a hungry ’gator. Best stay out of his way.”

Tucker bunched his shoulders and looked around the office. A black stove stood in one corner with the thick aroma from a coffee pot competing with the cheroot smoke and the sheriff’s sweat. He could use a cup but another more pressing matter occupied his mind.

“Which brother?”

“Loco.”

“Okay.” So that was it. Today would be the day.

“If you’re on a mission Mister, forget it, or pay the undertaker for your coffin in advance.”

Back on Main Street, Tucker strode along the west side boardwalk with the buildings providing shade until he came to the double half doors of a saloon. He looked up and down the deserted street. A tumbleweed rolled past heading out of town urged on by the dryline wind. Tumbleweed ain’t dumb.

The air felt cooler inside, but the downside was a sickly-sweet odour of stale booze. An unattended honkytonk loitered at the foot of a flight of stairs, a wheel of fortune filled a space in front of a window and a couple of card tables occupied the center.

Three men sat at one of the tables playing five card draw. Apart from an ancient bartender they were the only occupants.

“Rye,” said Tucker.

The old man slid a bottle and glass along the stained cedar bar. Tucker filled the glass and knocked it back in one, not even wincing as the rough alcohol burned its way down.

With the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other, Tucker moseyed over to the card table.

“Room for another?”

“If you’ve got money,” said a guy in a black shirt and matching greasy hair.

“Whadya doin’ in this town, stranger?” said a blond kid Tucker reckoned had not yet reached twenty years. A shiny Colt .45 hung on each hip.

“Just passin’ through.”

“We don’t like strangers,” said a man with a weasel face and a four-inch scar above his bushy ginger right eyebrow, evidence of an encounter with a Commanche’s attempt to scalp him.

Tucker took a deep breath. His urge to draw and shoot the man dead he recognised beyond doubt as Loco Laine almost overwhelmed him. But he held himself in check. The last vestiges of honor still lived deep within him. It should be self defense. Laine must draw first. And Tucker had an idea how to make him.

“You can lose some money afore you go,” said black shirt taking a swig of beer.

“Huh,” grunted Laine chewing the stump of a cigar.

“Sit down,” said black shirt.

Tucker sat opposite Loco Laine, pulled a wad of nineteen dollars from his dusty denim pants pocket and laid it on the table.

The blond kid dealt five cards face down to each player.

“Joker’s wild,” said Laine and narrowed his eyes towards Tucker.

Black shirt and the kid nodded.

Tucker’s hackles bristled, his jaw tightened as he slid his ante, two dollars, into the pot and lifted his cards. Jack of diamonds, three and four of spades, six of hearts and nine of clubs.

Black shirt kicked off the betting, a dollar. Laine followed, raised it a dollar and fixed Tucker with a stare. Tucker returned the stare and raised the bet another dollar. The kid hesitated and then slid in three greenbacks.

Tucker exchanged the Jack, and nine of clubs. The kid dealt him a five of hearts and seven of clubs.

Laine took two cards closely scrutinized by Tucker.

Black shirt took two cards. The kid five.

The betting went round again. Laine raised the bet to ten dollars and through eyes as cold as the grave regarded Tucker. Black shirt folded. The kid shook his head and folded.

Tucker peeled off ten dollars and shoved them into the pot.

With the pot now at twenty-six dollars, Tucker spread his cards face up. A straight — three four, five, six and seven.

Black shirt and the kid eyeballed Laine in anticipation.

Tucker poured himself another shot of rye then wiped a sweaty hand on his pants.

Laine laid out his cards. Four, five, six, a Joker and eight. He sneered across the table at Tucker exposing yellow teeth and reached for the pot.

“Not so fast. Take that card outta your sleeve,” said Tucker.

Black shirt and the kid stared at Tucker and back at Laine. They eased their chairs away from the table.

“You accusin’ me of cheatin’ stranger?” Laine stood, smiled without humour, and backed against the wall with a pearl handled Smith and Wesson in its holster inches from his right hand.

Tucker rose from his chair. “Yeah, today and again in Denver where you slipped in a Joker and killed a guy when he accused you.”

“What about it?”

“He was my brother.” Tucker pulled the worn Joker card from his pocket with his left hand and dropped it on the table. “And that’s the Joker!”

In the eerie silence a bead of sweat ran down the back of Tucker’s neck. Was he fast enough? Maybe.

“It were self defense.” Perspiration gathered on Laine’s forehead and soaked the armpits of his gray shirt.

“He was unarmed,” said Tucker, his breath shallow, his heart thumped in his chest and his eyes remained fixed on his quarry, waiting for Laine to draw.

Laine went for his gun and managed to clear the holster before Tucker slammed two bullets into his chest from his single action Colt.

The blond kid bent down to the lifeless body of Laine. He checked the sleeves and pockets. “He ain’t got no card, Mister.”

“Maybe this time. This was for the last time.”

“Loco killed your brother?” said black shirt.

“Yeah. In cold blood! And witnesses swore Laine palmed a Joker. That’s why he fled down here back to his Pappy.

“You’re fast, Mister,” said the kid. “Just how fast?” He stood with his feet slightly apart and his hands by his sides.

“Loco had it comin‘. Leave it Billy,” said black shirt.

“Guess so,” said the kid relaxing his stance.

The sheriff barreled through the door with a shotgun leveled. He glanced down at the body. “What happened?”

“Loco drew first,” said black shirt.

“That’s right,” said the kid.

“Yeah,” said the bartender. “No great loss to the world.”

“You’d better hightail it outta town Mister before his Pappy and brothers come in.”

Tucker lifted the worn Joker from the table, dropped it on the body and strolled out of the saloon.

Standing on the boardwalk he whistled. Along trotted Gitana.

“All done, old girl.”

Without looking back Tucker mounted his horse and followed the tumbleweed.

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