Joseph Thomas
by Daniel B. Cox

Aces on the deal. And this after a pair of ladies gave him the last pot, his third in a row. So far, he'd merely seen the bet. Modest. Now the draw. JT glanced at the worn faces of his two opponents, their beady eyes and beard stubble. The invitation to play was cordial; they seemed reasonable then. Not anymore.

It's just a game, JT told himself.

JT was younger than these men, still a teenager. But he was tall and sharp-featured with a manner that revealed what he was: smart and capable. It was difficult for strangers to place his age. There was a hint of youth in his shoulders and back; they were not as sturdy as those of a man into his twenties or older. And his walk was a bit spry, like that of a youngster. But JT had strong, weathered hands and a man's stare. He'd seen and done things; he could handle himself in a crisis.

An idea crossed his mind but he put it aside.

I ain't never lost on purpose, he told himself, and I don't aim to start now.

Besides, he would have some explaining to do if he folded with aces and these roughnecks saw his cards.

JT scanned to his left. The Marshal was still there leaning against the bar, steam rising from a cup of coffee in front of him. There was no one else in the saloon, though, other than the bartender and the three men—two cowboys and the dealer—sitting with JT at the table.

The Marshal's head was tilted down, face hidden in shadow. There was no badge pinned on the black overcoat but JT knew he was the law in this town. The new law. JT had walked past the jail. He traveled a lot and it was a habit. Give a town's law office and its peacekeepers a gander, maybe have a word in passing. A man could tell. Get a feel for a town's demeanor, it's tolerance for trouble.

JT turned his gaze to the round-faced dealer. He didn't figure to get any backing from this plump fellow if a fight broke out. The dealer seemed wary of the two cowboys.

The man called Ainge asked for 3 cards. The dealer obliged and Ainge slid the cards up and off the table. His eyes narrowed slightly and lips pursed as he fanned his draw.

Damn, JT thought. JT knew Ainge's eyes widened when he got the cards he wanted. Ainge wasn't going to beat him.

JT suppressed a pang of amusement that suddenly wanted to twist his mouth into a grin. Here he was hoping not to win. This was a new one for him. He was competitive; never before—unless in a playful contest with a girl—had he let up or hoped to lose. But JT was old enough to know life was full of new things, twists and turns, storms and sunshine.

It was Martin's turn and he asked for two. JT was happy to see this, going for something bigger than a pair. And Martin got what he needed. He feigned disappointment but it was a lousy act, easier to read than a wanted poster.

JT was relieved; he was finally going to lose a hand. Then he'd try and get out. They wouldn't like it—he'd still be way ahead—but if the Marshal stuck around for five more minutes he figured to escape without too much trouble, maybe just foul name calling, or threats of what they'd do if they crossed paths with him again.

JT kept the aces. Indeed, he wasn't going to lose on purpose by giving one up. He also knew, however, that he should keep his ten or another card, ask for two and hope for a full house. That was the right play; he was sloughing after all. So be it. He wanted out. He was a transient in this town, on his way east to rejoin the show. No sense in stirring up a bees' nest.

The cash would come in handy, though. He could use a new shirt, more food for the trail, new shoes for Abby, his mare. He didn't regret winning, just winning so easily. He was getting good cards now but he'd also folded early and often; he'd studied his opponents, their tells and betting tendencies. One of the cowboys had quit already. The smart one, before he'd lost much. Now it was candy from a baby. Two babies.

After asking for three, JT was shocked to turn over a pair of eights and, yes, another ace. Full house, aces and eights.

JT was guessing Martin had a flush. A little less common than a straight, it warranted the excitement Martin revealed with his ridiculous theatrics after he'd received his draw.

JT was right.

In fact, he had guessed right so consistently it was not so much guessing anymore as knowing. Candy from a baby. Unfortunately, this baby had a gun. Both of them did.

JT heard boots scuffle on floorboards. He didn't look over to confirm what he was afraid of. The Marshal was leaving.

Ainge checked by tapping the table with a finger. No raise.

It was Martin's turn. Before betting, Martin sighed and frowned. Another act. Another bad one. It simply assured JT of what he already knew: Martin had a good hand, but not good enough. The only hands that could beat JT's ace high full house were a straight flush or four of a kind. No one was ever dealt either of those hands.

Then, awkwardly, Martin decided to quit the charade. He looked up with confidence.

"I ain't seen a run of luck like yours in a long time," Martin said, glaring at JT. "But I finally got me a hand, and I mean a hand."

His posturing over with, Martin slid the last of his money to the center of the table.

"I fold," Ainge growled. He threw his cards down.

The dealer sat silent and upright in his chair, his chubby fingers folded and resting on the pot belly that bulged under his vest.

Martin turned his head toward JT.

"Watchya got, boy?" Martin asked before he'd fully withdrawn his hands from pushing forward his coins. Martin wanted JT to misstep, to show his hand prematurely, perhaps in disgust. Then it was implied he'd seen Martin's bet. He'd owe the winner the final bet amount on top of what was already in the pot. So far, the pot consisted of the ante and one round of bets before the draw.

Maybe the cowboys would accuse JT of breaking the rules, demand he pay all their money back.

No, the dealer or the bartender would surely keep order. Rules were rules.

It seemed Martin had observed nothing during the game, hadn't learned, hadn't tailored his strategy to the kind of player JT was. Not once had JT responded quickly, without thinking.

Ainge knew, though, knew that JT wouldn't overreact, wouldn't hardly react at all. JT would take a moment to study the table, his opponents, the cards, calculate. Having at least some brains, Ainge took advantage of this lengthy moment, used it to formulate and play his trick.

No one noticed Ainge's finger dart out and pull one of his folded cards back under his palm.

JT was only paying mind to Martin. He didn't take the bait from the obvious buffoon. As usual, JT planned to think it over, decide, think it over some more. No words necessary, just a play.

Then Martin, still seized by anxious idiocy, said, "Alright!" and turned over his hand, the flush.

JT had no choice but to speak to this.

"I ain't seen the wager yet," JT said softly, not to Martin but the dealer. He would defend himself but emphasize calm.

"Yes you did, boy, you moved to get yer money." Martin laughed and reached for the pot.

For some reason, Martin hesitated before corralling the money. He gave the dealer a look with salt in it. A threat.

The dealer's chair legs creaked as he pushed back from the table. He stood and said, "Excuse me, gentlemen. I need to step outside and relieve myself. I trust you'll have this worked out when I return."

"And if I saw the bet, you ain't seen my cards," JT added. Now he was talking to both the dealer and Martin. The dealer had already turned, though, and was ambling for the doorway.

"So you're in," Martin said, "You were gonna show your cards."

Even Ainge was disgusted with Martin's stupidity now. "If he wants to show his cards, you idiot," Ainge said, "That means they're better than yours."

Martin grunted. Now he was confused, headed in the right direction at least, no longer positive he'd won the hand.

Ainge decided it was time they put the kid in his place.

"But I just caught the boy cheatin'," Ainge said, "There's a prince on the floor."

Ainge and JT both slid back their chairs. They looked at the card under the table.

Of course, JT knew Ainge had put it there. He'd declared it there before looking and he'd declared it a jack even though the card was face down.

You ain't much smarter than your partner, JT thought, squinting at Ainge. JT held silent; he didn't want to spark more anger. Not yet.

Could he talk his way out of this?

But he wasn't a cheat; he'd won.

What about his money?

JT was certain of one thing, at least. He could outthink both of these numbskulls.

Ainge stood and JT followed suit. The game of poker was over. This was a new game, a game of betting with pain and blood; money was an afterthought now.

Out came Ainge's gun.

Martin was still at the table. He'd turned over JT's cards. Full house, aces high. He wasn't angry, though, he was sulking, beaten. He'd misread and misplayed the whole game. Even if the kid cheated, he'd never caught a whiff.

"Full house, right?" Ainge asked Martin, not taking his eyes off JT.

"How'd you know?" Martin whined in reply.

"I'll be damned," Ainge said to JT, ignoring Martin. "If you ain't a cheat, I ain't a man!"

JT didn't answer.

"But you're a cheat without a gun. That ain't very smart, boy. Get in a scrape with no way to defend yourself."

They wanted him to speak by JT held silent.

"Well, this town don't care much for cheats," Ainge continued. "I'm gonna have to teach you a hard lesson, boy."

JT heard hinges squeak and saw both Ainge and Martin frown. Then the familiar sound of the Marshal's boots. No words came from the lawman, though. JT's back was to the door; he couldn't see the Marshal until, peeking over his right shoulder, he saw him continue up to the bar, his tin coffee mug dangling, empty, a finger through the handle loop.

JT's eyes went back to the cowboys. He heard a "clang" when the Marshal's tin mug was slammed down on the bar top. A statement. For the card players, not the bartender.

The Marshal nodded a kindly hello to the barkeep, who quickly brought coffee and poured it. Steam billowed from the surface of the Marshal's filled cup. Freshly boiled and brewed.

Silence.

But there was an elephant in the room now and the elephant spoke.

"Put the gun down," the Marshal ordered, "And give the boy his rightful earnings."

"Sorry stranger," Ainge said. "Caught him cheatin'. Money's ours and we're gonna take a little outta his hide, too."

"I seen you fellas earlier," the Marshal answered. "Without hardly watchin' I could tell the young man was gonna win. You two is open books and fools for thinkin' you'd clean him out."

Ainge took his gun off JT and leveled it at the Marshal. "I could shoot you for the insult, mister, but I'll deal with you later. You best shut up and git!"

"You know who you're talkin' too, Sir?" the Marshal replied.

"I'm talkin' to a dead man if you don't shut up."

"Unoriginal," the Marshal said and smiled. "Too common to scare."

JT was watching both men now, the standoff. He was happy the focus had shifted from him; but Martin, for his part, had drawn his gun and was still training it on JT.

By no means had the situation improved much after all.

The Marshal lifted the cup of coffee in his left hand and turned to face Ainge straight away, shoulders square to his opponent.

Ainge, still unaware he was confronting the law, said, "I'm giving you til three to turn and walk outta here."

The Marshal didn't offer his identity, instead he lobbied for a fair fight. "Holster your gun, partner, and we'll do this like men."

But Ainge only answered, "One . . . two . . . ."

On "three" the Marshal drew a pistol with his right hand and fired.

There was a distinct "bang-bang."

Two shots.

The Marshal's coffee mug exploded. Boiling coffee sprayed his face. He dropped his gun.

Ainge's head snapped back. He sank to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The Marshal didn't make a sound. But he was empty-handed now and he rubbed his eyes.

The tin mug, a jagged hole through one side and a bulge in the other, rolled awkwardly on the floor by the wall.

JT didn't have his own gun to pull. He thought about going for the Marshal's but Martin stopped him. "Don't," he said, his revolver still up and pointed at JT.

Martin stepped toward Ainge. The cowboy's eyes were open but lifeless. There was a mark in the center of Ainge's brow. Martin didn't notice the wound until a single rivulet of blood ran out across Ainge's forehead.

"You killed my friend, Mister," Martin mumbled, choking on anger and grief. "I'm gonna have to kill you for that."

Martin swung his gun toward the defenseless man with hot coffee in his eyes.

It was JT who spoke next. "If I kill this man," he said to the Marshal, "Will you let me go?"

"Yes," the Marshal answered. Though cloudy eyed—effectively blind—he could tell by JT's voice the question was directed at him; JT was talking over Martin as if the flustered cowboy was only a child. The real gun, Ainge, was down. They all knew it. But an armed, emotional man is always dangerous; and surprisingly, Martin was holding his pointed pistol steady.

Martin was afraid but the fear brought focus; it told him to shut up, aim straight and get this business over with fast.

JT pulled a knife from his right boot. A balanced throwing knife. He slid to his right, enough to have an angle to Martin's chest. With a violent flick of his wrist, he flung the blade underhand. It rotated beautifully, piercing and burying itself in Martin's heart.

Martin fired a shot but it went into the ceiling. He dropped dead next to Ainge.

The Marshal gave his eyes a final rub. He could see again. Most of the coffee had missed him. The Marshal bent over and picked up his gun. He straightened, buffed his lapels and nodded to the bartender. "Sorry for the mess, Frank, I'll have it cleaned up."

Frank nodded, wide-eyed.

"I'd like a word with that yellow dealer, though," the Marshal added, "Before I go."

Another nod from Frank.

Then the Marshal looked at JT. "A man don't hardly need a gun if he can do that with a knife."

JT didn't know what to say to that. So he asked, "Can I take my money?"

"Yes, and theirs too. I know you won it fair."

"I did, Sir, thank you. I might stay outta these games in the future though."

"That'd be wise," the Marshal agreed. "What about your knife?" he asked.

"I think I'll leave it," JT answered without looking at Martin and the protruding weapon he'd used to kill the man. "Got plenty just like it in the show."

"Oh," the Marshal grinned. "That's it. I bet you're the knife thrower my brother gabbed about, one from the travelin' show, can split apples from across the room."

"Yeah, I reckon that's me."

"What's your name then?"

"JT. Short for Joseph Thomas."

"Yep, you're the one." The Marshal paused. "I've never seen anyone like you before, JT," he added. "I'm tempted to ask for a lesson in knives."

JT nodded, open to the suggestion.

"But I suppose I'll stick to guns," the Marshal continued, "Which I can already handle pretty quick and decent."

I'll say, JT thought. You were so fast it was a blur. JT also knew Ainge had taken a headshot. Perfect accuracy.

The Marshal looked down at the bodies. He wasn't pleased at the outcome. He told himself he'd do things different if he had it over again; two men were dead and he'd almost taken a bullet, too. But this was his first job as a lawman; he'd only been at if for a couple weeks. He would learn from these experiences, learn to do the job well and right. It would take time. On the one hand, after what he'd been through, he wasn't gonna cow to no outlaw. It wasn't in him; he was too tough, too skilled. But on the other hand, he didn't want to make noise, make a name for himself, be a man fame-seekers would confront, try to gun down in shoot-outs they'd talk about for years. He wanted to be the law simply because in this town, and others like it, it was a job that needed doin' and he could do it. That was all.

"Funny that I've heard of you," the Marshal said as JT moved to the table to take his money.

"Well, what's your name?" JT asked.

"Cole."

JT wondered but didn't ask for the rest of his name. He opened his mouth to speak but didn't let out his thoughts. You're gonna be one helluva peace officer, Cole. Damn, I've never seen anyone like you before, either. Givin' orders with guns pointed at you, nothin' in your hands but a full cup of coffee.

"Well, I owe you one, JT."

"I don't think so," JT replied. "I think we're even."

"Kind of you to see it that way," Cole said.