Creede, Colorado

1891

Hugh Fontaine spread the cards in his hand so the corners of each were visible in the dim light from the lanterns on the wall—four pretty aces and the king of spades. Four other men sat hunched over their cards or lazily leaning against the backs of their chairs watching for any sign that another player had a winning hand.

A couple of hands could beat Hugh’s, but a royal flush wasn’t possible for anyone else since he held all the aces. That left the possibility of someone having a straight flush. Hugh had the next highest possible hand. His heartbeat raced, but he was careful not to let excitement show on his face.

He’d have to bide his time. A hand like this was the mother lode, and the men sitting around the table had deep enough pockets to make the mining worthwhile. He’d spent the last year winning and losing gold with the men gathered here. The men had never bet so boldly before today, and he had never been in a better position to take it all home.

If he were a betting man—and he was—he’d push every coin, dollar, or jewel on his person into the middle of the table, maybe even his shoes, coat, and the promise of his horse, if necessary, to win this pot. It might come to that, but he’d be patient. If he bet too much too quickly, the other players would fold. The money on this table might be enough to allow him to build a new saloon in grand style. His present saloon was three miles up the road in Bachelor, but his profits would allow him to build another saloon right here in Creede and compete with the one he sat in today.

Creede, Colorado, sat in a lush mountain valley but did nothing to add to the beauty. It was a city because of its population, over ten thousand at last count, but had only three streets with permanent buildings. It was a tent-city slum. Men came to work the mines for silver and precious stones, thinking that they might get rich too. They didn’t. They broke their backs for someone else’s prosperity.

He imagined his new saloon would be twice the size of his previous plans, the front possibly built of stone or brick. He’d order a bar carved from mahogany and trimmed with brass, and tables and chairs to match. He would be able to afford a second story. Perhaps he’d even have a distribution business on the side and supply liquor to other establishments for added profit.

Deliberating his strategy to get the others to double or even triple their bets, Hugh pushed his cards together in his palm and waited as each man considered what they’d been dealt, their brows rigid with concentration. At least two men at this table had approached him about buying him out. He could probably make that pot explode if he bet his saloon.

Hugh’s head snapped up when he saw a cowpoke standing behind Mr. Anders, the dealer.

The cowboy looked like ten miles of bad trail, dressed in dusty homespun dungarees, a mud-splattered cotton shirt, and a hat pulled low over his forehead. No one else seemed to notice the man, who pointed straight at Hugh and then waved his hand toward the door like he was asking him to leave.

As if Hugh could walk away from this.

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. When he opened them again, the man was gone. Hugh looked at his whiskey, but the bronze liquid still filled the little glass. He checked the cards in his hand again just to make sure they weren’t a mirage too. Each precious card still sat in the same order as before.

Mr. Anders’ voice boomed as he flung more money into the center of the table. “Y’all want to stay in this game, it’ll cost you another fifty.” He was quite possibly the richest man at the table as the owner of the Bonanza Claim Mining Company, two saloons including this one, and a hotel. He could afford to raise the bid and send less-than-serious gamblers packing.

The two men seated to Hugh’s right spread their cards in their palms and scrutinized their choices. He thought he saw perspiration on the brow of the man directly to the left of the dealer, and the man’s eyes flicked back and forth to the money Mr. Anders had just thrown in the center.

“You. Come now!” the cowpoke bellowed behind Hugh’s right shoulder, startling him. How did he—? When did he—? Hugh didn’t even know what question to consider.

The other gamblers’ hard eyes remained on their cards, on the pile of cash, or scanned their opponents’ expressions. But none—not one player—acknowledged the man who shouldn’t be there, or even react to Hugh’s startled jump in his seat.

Hugh deliberated the possibilities—he was tired, he was dreaming, or he was right loco. None of those made him feel better. He shook his head and told himself again that the man wasn’t really there.

The cowpoke’s wrinkled hand stretched out, his bony finger pointing at Hugh. “That’s right, I mean you. Get up and follow me. I don’t know what you did, but you done got yourself an angel for a spell.”

Hugh gaped at the man’s outburst, but slowly shook his head. The man was there, but not all there. There was a watery thinness about the image of the man.

“I don’t want to be all day about this. I’ve got one job to do, and you’re it. Let’s move. Throw your cards in and get on outta here.”

Gold coins clanged against others in the growing pile. “I’ll see your fifty.” The first man made his decision to stay in this hand. Maybe Hugh was wrong about him being nervous or the man was trying to bluff. Hugh would gladly take his money too.

Now the man seated to Hugh’s right needed to make a decision—see the bet or fold. Hugh hoped that he’d stay in, tossed another fifty on the table, then quit after Hugh raised the stakes. It was likely that after he bet his business, everyone except Mr. Anders would fold.

The cowpoke tapped Hugh’s shoulder. His heart raced to think he actually felt the man touch him. “Reckon you need a speck of convincing.” He circled the table. His spurs jangled as he looked at each man’s hand. “Now, see, this one here has three of a kind, all low cards at that.” Stopping behind the dealer’s chair, he said, “And this one has a full house—queens and jacks. Good hand to bet on, but your hand’s better.”

Continuing around, he reported about the man Hugh thought looked nervous. “This feller here has a straight with an ace of diamonds for the low card. That there might be a problem, seein’s how it ain’t possible for no one else to have an ace.”

Hugh saw his ace of diamonds peeking out at the corner. A rattling feeling snaked around in his stomach. It would be a big problem. A man who was nervous about cheating might be nervous enough to pull a gun and the trigger.

“This man—he’s got a pair of deuces, a pair of aces as well, and a six-shooter on his hip.” The old wrangler took off his hat and blew out a whistle, wiping his forehead before he replaced the hat. “Seems like at least two folks is goin’ to get shot here today.” He nailed Hugh with a pointed glare.

There was no way to prove who was a cheat and who was not.

The cowpoke, having circled around the table, stood at Hugh’s right, stared him in the eye, and awaited Hugh’s answer.

I won myself an angel? Angels didn’t help men like him. Blood cold as winter run-off coursed through him. He looked at the old man again, searching for some other reason the man was there. Hugh couldn’t think of one good reason to believe this whole business, but he did. He was a gambler and learned long ago to trust his instincts. Angel or not, my gut tells me the old wrangler’s shooting straight with me.

The cowboy removed his hat, pointing it at a shadowy figure in the corner that Hugh hadn’t noticed before. “Death is here to collect someone. Is it gonna to be you?”

Between Hugh and where Death stood, gold and silver winked from the middle of the table in the pale light of the kerosene lamps. Treasury notes filled in the gaps. The wealth contained in that heap would make all of Hugh’s dreams come true.

Hugh’s own greed nearly gripped him, but his good sense returned. Dead men don’t have dreams.

Hugh took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. He pushed the cards together in a neat stack in his palm. He could feel the edges bite into his hand. Each man hoped to be the one to fill his pockets. Some of them might even be desperate to do so.

“Is it going to be you?” the dealer’s voice again barked in the small room, echoing the cowboy’s words. He tossed back a glass of whiskey, then leaned forward. His dark eyes didn’t blink, seeming to challenge Hugh to raise the bet.

The question chilled Hugh through as sure as a blizzard in January. Startled, Hugh’s face must have worn the confusion he felt, and Mr. Anders repeated, “Someone’s going to walk out of here a mite richer.” His fingers picked up a stack of coins and let them drop to the table with a sound nearly as sweet as church bells. “Is it you, Mr. Fontaine?”

Again, Hugh looked at his cards. His fingernails pressed against them, white with the strain. Where he swore he had the king of spades, now a queen of hearts peeked out. He moved it to the top of his stack. He’d never seen a card like it. He would have sworn that mere minutes ago it was a regular card, but now she seemed lifelike, with wavy strawberry blonde hair and a pert nose above her rosy lips. He’d have sworn she was looking right into his eyes too. She seemed—real.

The cowpoke added, “If’n you live through this, you’re needed a ways north on the road to Bachelor. Fact is, more riches wait for you there than tempt you here.” He leaned forward and looked at the cards in Hugh’s hand. “And she’s a pretty little filly at that.” Then he replaced his hat and walked through the slats of the wooden door as if he were as hazy as the cigar smoke.

Hugh’s gut twisted, and his brain whispered, “Yup, I knew it. That’s an angel.” Sister Esther had spoken about the reality of angels doing God’s work, but he’d always thought she was a little touched to believe it. Maybe he was a little touched too, considering he believed now.

He looked at his hand again. The king of spades was back, but the face of the queen of hearts lingered in his mind.

Something isn’t right about all of this—the cards, that cowboy, and especially Death over there, whose eyes seemed to glow, staring down Hugh. Nope, not right at all. Of course it isn’t right. It’ll be a month of Sundays before I’m dealt this kind of luck again.

Is it worth dying for?

Hugh knew it wasn’t, but his hands itched to reach across the table and scoop the cool metal into his hat. The angel had said that only one person might die. If it wasn’t him, he could still possibly leave with that pot. Hugh closed the cards up in his hand and tapped them on their edges. His chest constricted more each time he thought about raising the bet, and then only breathed freely when he decided to fold. It took him a long moment to dismantle the dream that had woven a spell around him.

With a sigh and a shake of his head, he answered, “Nah, it’s too rich for me.” He folded, sliding the cards over to be discarded. “Night, gentlemen.” He grabbed his hat from the rack and quit the room.

An afternoon breeze from the canyon cooled the sweat Hugh didn’t realize slicked his face. He swiped it with a clean handkerchief and walked up the street to where his horse and buckboard waited. The businesses he passed as he walked along the dusty streets back up to the livery represented hopes and hard work. One day, Hugh would build his dreams. Just not today.

“Treasure? On the road to Bachelor?” he whispered to himself, curious what it could mean. As he rattled past the mercantile and then the Holy Moses mining offices next door to where the poker game proceeded without him, two gunshots rang out.