Fortune

Ulysses Thrash, a man of Fortune, rode north on his black Andalusian. The sun reflected off every silver stud on his belt and saddle.

The shadows had grown long on his right when Thrash spotted another rider coming south. A much younger man. He sat on a dirty draft horse. He wore no hat, nor even boots. His bare feet were easily spotted as the horse bore no saddle or stirrups. The rider stopped in the middle of the road under the shade of an oak and sat looking south. 

As he approached, Thrash tipped his hat to the young man with a smile. The stranger stared past him. Thrash expected to move past him without exchanging words, but then the stranger upset this arrangement. 

“Can’t recommend it.”

“What’s that?” 

“San Francisco. Only place you could be going. You’re grinning like you ain’t got a care. You obviously got money.” The man couldn’t say “money” without sounding bitter. Thrash heard it. He had known poverty and while he could sympathize with the man he could never be shamed for his wealth. This was how Fortune clothed her loyal subjects. 

“City ‘ill cure you of all that,” the man added. 

“No offense, but you’ve clearly had a run of bad luck and while you have my sympathy, I think that in time you will come to see that that is all it is and not the fault of an entire city. Indeed, there are men like you in every town where cards are played.”

For the first time, the bootless stranger gave Thrash his full attention. Those eyes snapped to him with such intensity that Thrash’s easy grin faltered and his hand touched the silver grip of his revolver. Had there been a real need to draw Thrash would have been as likely to kill himself as anyone else, but it looked good on his belt. 

“You a gamblin’ man?” the stranger asked. 

Thrash recovered from his fright, though he wished the man’s eyes would resume their glazed stare – they did not. 

“I am. I’ve drawn up at tables in saloons and riverboats all throughout the South and Southwest. I heard of a place out here with high stakes and fine amenities and I’ve come to try my luck. Maybe you’ve heard of the place has a name like a snake—The Copperhead?”

“The Diamondback,” said the stranger. The name barely escaped his clenched jaw. 

“You know it?”

“I know it,” he replied.

Thrash dismounted. 

“Care to join me for a smoke?” he asked the man. Thrash would be careful. You could give a desperate man a cigarette or buy him a single drink, anything more than that would be charity and Fortune did not hold with charity. Once you gave a man charity you essentially bought his troubles —they were yours now. Thrash would be careful. 

The man dismounted and join Thrash by the tree. The two smoked in silence while Thrash shuffled his card as he leaned against the oak. 

“I was like you, mister…?

“Thrash. Ulysses Thrash.”

“I was like you Mr. Thrash. I played cards. I won all over Yolo County. Then I was lured here. The promise of winnings large enough to see to all my family’s needs. And then…”

“And then you lost. It’s been known to happen.”

“I was cheated!” spat the man. “That fat bastard John Raddler. I couldn’t catch him at it, but I know he was cheating. I couldn’t have lost fair. My mother and my sisters, we deserved…” he trailed off and took a long pull on the cigarette. 

Thrash wanted to remark that it was unwise to be gambling with a family depending on one’s income, but he knew better. Thrash had talked many a sore loser into making his way home to explain to his wife why they wouldn’t be eating meat that month. He knew how to be careful with his speech. 

“What’s your name, son?”

“Tim Mathis.”

“Well, Mr. Mathis, if you were cheated you can take solace in the knowledge that evil will surely come upon those as cheated you. Like it says in the Bible, ‘cheaters never prosper.’ I assume you are making your way home now.”

“No sir,” Tim Mathis said throwing the butt away. “I decided, soon as I saw this tree I was gonna hang myself here.”

“Ah. Well, if I may offer some advice. In my experience, a hanging can be a painful cruel way to die when not performed exactly right. It is a practice best left to the professionals.”

“If I had a gun, I’d blow my brains out,” as he said this, he eyed Thrash’s shiny peacemaker.

Thrash could not allow the man to kill himself with his gun. It would be much too close to charity and it felt like an unlucky thing to do. 

“Mr. Thrash, what do you say to this. We play one hand, any game you like. If you win you can have my horse, just leave me a length of rope. If I win, I get your gun and you can still keep the horse with all the rope.” 

Thrash thought this over for a moment and the old gambler decided this was acceptable. It certainly wouldn’t count as charity, merely recklessness—what with the gun being of so much more value than the horse.

Thrash decided on a simple game of high card and as it turned out Tim Mathis was luckier than he had supposed. 

Some hours later Thrash tied up both of his horses outside The Diamondback. He was tired from the journey, but the green felted tables called to him and he could not refuse. 

He paid for his chips and sat down among a friendly bunch and turned on the charm. This was his temple, he was the priest. He would accept these men’s sacrifice to Fortune and send them on their way, but he wouldn’t be mean about it. No, Fortune did not favor the proud or the boastful. Thrash was such a master of his tongue, that men who lost great sums to him could not find it in their hearts to hate him for it. He was lucky, that was all. After the first hour of play, however, Thrash did not feel lucky. 

This had never happened before. His chips had never been so low. A couple of bad hands were all part of the dance, but this was unheard of. Whatever was happening, Thrash was unable to account for it. Every time he was one card away from making his hand and the right card wouldn’t come—not once. He would pray for an Ace and receive a Six. 

As his chips dwindled he could not keep his mind from thinking of Tim Mathis. Why had he even talked to that luckless fool? Oh god, he even took his horse. It must reek of his misfortune. Perhaps if he excused himself for a moment, went outside, and shot the horse he might undo the curse. Then, of course, he remembered he no longer had a gun. 

A deep rolling laugh brought him back to himself. The large gentleman before him roared his approval as he embraced yet another impressive pot and dragged the chips to his side of the table. Could he know this fellow’s name?

Thrash would be careful. With an effort, he forced his lips to take on his most winning smile before he spoke. 

“Congratulations. You’re having quite a night.”

The man barely acknowledged Thrash, giving him a vague “hmm,” as he sipped his drink and eyed the pretty ladies about the place. Thrash went on.

“Your name wouldn’t happen to be John Raddler, would it?”

“Heard of me have you?” came the booming response. Thrash’s voice sounded reedy and hollow by comparison. 

“Yes. Yes,” he had meant to stop there. It was time to go. He himself would be relying on charity if things continued. He would have to leave. Thrash was no longer Fortune’s man. No. No. She couldn’t have abandoned him. No, it was this man. Tim Mathis was right—he was being cheated. But how was he doing it? How?

“How? You fat cheating bastard!”

The Diamondback went very quiet. John Raddler stared across the table with a sneer on his face. That was it. Thrash had not been careful. Fortune, Lady Luck, his mistress had left him for another. He had seen her abandon others. Knew how pathetic they sounded when they wined and pleaded, and now he was just like them. He had no proof this man Raddlerhad cheated. He was just jealous to see his lady on another man’s arm. 

Unfortunately, the words could not be unsaid and this was the West. John Raddler would be forced to take him out in the street and beat him into oblivion if, that is, he didn’t simply shoot him dead on the spot. And Thrash would be unable to stop him. 

John Raddler stood, towering over him. Thrash watched as the giant inhaled preparing to unleash a torrent of violent promises. His hand wasn’t reaching for his belt—it would be a beating after all. Perhaps he would be shot after. 

Just as Thrash was considering what it will be like to be shot dead in the street, the crack of a revolver rang out. A bloody hole appeared in John Raddler’s chest. He turned halfway ‘round and there was Tim Mathis

He was holding Thrash’s old gun which smoked in his hand. His bare feet were bloodied. A retching sound escaped Raddler’s throat. Tim Mathis dropped the gun, leaped at Raddler, and tore open his coat and shirt sending buttons and playing cards flying about the place. Onlookers gawked and whispered to each other. John Raddler really had been a filthy cheat. 

Raddler’s body was dragged outside. His chips were equally divided among the other players. And Tim Mathis was subsequently hanged—in a very professional manner, it should be noted. 

Thrash having received a great many of his chips back found his luck much improved. He spent the better part of a week traipsing about the city with his Lady on his arm. After a time, he took his winnings and left the city of San Francisco. He had heard talk of fine establishments back east but would pass through Yolo County on his way.