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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Action & Adventure
- Subject: Life Changing Decisions/Events
- Published: 05/20/2019
Dead Bush Poker
Born 1943, F, from Elk Grove, California, United States.jpeg)
DEAD BUSH POKER
Elaine Faber
I live in Dead Bush, a small town in the center of Texas. I’m a fine figure of a cat, though some would say somewhat on the portly side. The compliment is validated by Tom, the roaming tomcat that comes through town every spring. Up until now, I haven’t given him a tumble... I’ve made my home in the back of the Dry Spell saloon where I sleep on a stack of burlap sacks, ever since the town sheriff found me, the lone survivor of a wagon train massacred by a tribe of wild Indians. Shorty, the barkeep, saves left-overs for me from the day’s leavings. That, added to my hunting prowess, fares me well in the eats department. According to the regulars at the saloon, they think of me as their personal mascot.
Dead Bush sports three saloons, a general store, the bank, one church without a steeple, a blacksmith shop and another motley hotel-like establishment such as nice folks don’t mention in front of the kids. Modern wooden slat sidewalks were added this spring in deference to those specific ladies who live in the aforementioned establishment.
Today, being Founder’s Day, the local farmer’s wives bake pies and hams and sweet potatoes for a giant banquet and sponsor a square dance out behind the Blacksmith’s shop. Bright and early this morning, neighboring farmers trickled into town with planks and sawhorses for the long tables needed for the annual banquet.
Long about 10:00 AM, several soldiers, still wearing raggedy Civil War uniforms, rode into Dead Bush on horses that looked like they was about on their last leg. They accumulated at the Dry Spell Saloon where liquid libation is encouraged, along with other things, mostly unmentionable in mixed company. Before long, the soldiers commenced to drinking and gambling.
It appears that cats are almighty scarce and considerable valuable in this part of the country. In fact, a number of local farmers have offered Shorty big bucks for me, beings as cats don’t eat much and can keep a barnyard free of rodents and such vermin.
Well, seems these aforementioned soldiers what came to town with their long rifles and powder horns sat and drank well past noon.
When I chanced to wander through the saloon, it caused quite a stir amongst the gamblers. There was talk of some ornery cowpoke that had hauled a cat in a burlap sack to a wayward farm in the middle of nowhere, and acquired a $20 gold piece for it. Seems the soldier had heard about big money being paid for cats somewhat further out west. All of a sudden, he took a hankerin’ to buy me. Shorty declined, saying I couldn’t be bought since I was a free spirit and didn’t belong to nobody.
As the drinking progressed, the soldier plied Shorty with enough palaver and drink that they cajoled him into a game of poker with me as the stakes!
I sat near the potbelly stove, preening my whiskers, somewhat amused by the stupidity of those soldiers what thought they could buy and sell another living creature. Didn’t the Civil War, just fought, disprove to the nation of that opinion?
The scent of barbequed chicken wafting through the open door caught my attention, and I left the fools to their folly. I ambled down the sidewalk, past the wooden cigar Indian in front of the general store, and rounded the nearest banquet table laden with food. The oldest six of Mrs. Barnwhistle’s nine children cornered me straight away and near strangled the life out of me with their stroking and clutching, chucking under my chin, and shifting me from child to child. I’ve learned to put up with such nonsense as long as they don’t pull my tail. It seems to put the kid’s mother in a fair mood when you allow such behavior. They get such a kick out of seeing their child all jollified, so they usually offer me a pinch of chicken or a slice of bread and butter. If things get too out of hand after such juvenile mauling, I can always get away and lick off the sticky jam or mud clinging to my furs.
Hearing raucous laughter coming from inside the saloon, I felt it prudent to check on the doings, as it seemed my future as mascot at the Dry Spell Saloon was dependent on the turn of their cards.
Four players sat hunched over the poker table, cards fanned in their hands, splashes of liquor pooling on the table, empty glasses lined up in front of each man. Shorty’s chips were considerably fewer than the other three players. Chances of holding on to the Dry Spell Saloon mascot had begun to look grim.
Shorty’s chips rose and fell as the afternoon wore on. I sat on a nearby table, commiserating with Mr. Casper, a grey-haired old codger who operated a small gold claim in a nearby river. Whenever he came to town, Shorty always ended up with most of Mr. Casper's gold, in exchange for liquor. The old man was a fool, but he didn’t smell quite as bad as most miners, as being tipsy most days, Mr. Casper fell in the river more often than most, washing away some of his natural man-stink.
In the late afternoon, the ladies announced that Founder’s Day supper was served for any who cared to partake. The saloon emptied except for the four poker players, who found it harder and harder to sit straight upright in their chairs. Heads lolled and cards tumbled from their hands. When they poured another drink, more whiskey ended up on the floor than in their glass. Never in the history of Dead Bush had such a game gone on for so long, or the stakes so roundly coveted. I was, indeed, a prize worthy of much effort and consternation.
Eventually, Smitty Rosenblatt passed out. George Waddlebaker went broke. Shorty hung in there, though blurry-eyed and slump-shouldered, he continued to fight for his meezer. Poor Shorty looked ready to throw in the towel. Seeing the inevitable handwriting on the wall, I slipped through the front door and headed out onto the prairie, intending on an extended absence from town for the next four or five days.
An occasional trip away from home is supposed to be revitalizing to one’s health. Besides, I couldn’t see no sense being around when Shorty went broke and the soldier attempted to claim his prize. After all, a cat is a free spirit, don’t belong to nobody, and shouldn’t be the prize in no poker game. Mostly, I had no intention of being strung to the back of a saddle in a burlap sack until the old soldier found a farmer with a rat-filled barn and a $20 gold piece.
I’m the only cat in Dead Bush, and I intend to keep it that way. At least until next spring when I hear that Tom might be passing through town. A bit of romance is also revitalizing to one’s health, or so it’s said in the Dry Spell Saloon where Shorty serves drinks behind the bar and I’m still the customer’s favorite mascot.
*****
This is ONE of the 21 short stories in my book, ALL THINGS CAT, available at Amazon ($2.99) http://tinyurl.com/y9p9htak
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