Read Online Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charles Frazier
Ads: Link
the green liquor now and then, and it was somewhat shaping my opinions to suit itself.
EVERYBODY ELSE HAD been dipping into the tub as well, and they suffered from equally clouded thinking. Featherstone was drunk to the point that he had gone past stupor back to strange lucidity. And when he reached that point, he began looking for a fight. That much was evident even in the provoking way he glared at the other players and the way he handled his cards and threw them down as if wanting to throw them in his opponents’ faces. Much in evidence at his belt was a long cap-and-ball pistol of scrolled silver metal, with fancy scrimshawed grips worn bone-white in some places from handling and in other places greasy brown from hand dirt. It was pretty, but the pretty ones will kill you just as dead as the ugly. He spent a great deal of time making a show of adjusting its position against his groin.
At one point, he said he had probably put down ten or fifteen men more satisfactory than any of us. One more wouldn’t signify.
At another point, deep in the night, one of the rivermen fell asleep with his head on his forearm but still holding his cards. Featherstone sorted through the deck and put four kings and a three in the man’s hand, and four aces and a jack in his own. Then he kicked the man awake under the table and said, Either get to playing or quit the game.
The man roused a little and itched his scalp and studied his cards. He became suddenly alert. He bet big and everybody else soon folded but for Featherstone. The betting between them grew quite large, and in the end of course Featherstone won.
The man sat thinking a minute, and then he pulled a pistol and said, That’s every penny I’ve got in the world and I might as well be dead without it. I hate to have to do it, but I’m going to kill you if you don’t give it back.
Featherstone said, Calm down. There’s no call for gunplay just because fate holds you in contempt. But I’ll do this for you. On the next hand, I’ll put up everything I’ve won off of you against that old worn-out pistol of yours.
—Hell, the man said. That sounds more than fair to me.
They went about dealing the cards, and Featherstone put down his bet, a pile of hard money glinting in the dim light.
The man sat dazed and unclear as to his next move. Featherstone said, Well, put your bet in the pot.
The man laid his pistol down on the mongrel pile of currency, and just as soon as his hand was back to his cards, Featherstone grabbed the pistol and covered the man and told him to get gone or be shot.
The man said, Yes sir. And I apologize for my behavior. And then he went out the door.
WE PLAYED ON long into the night. The women slept like a pair of puppies on the straw tick in the corner. At the table, money changed hands over and over, but I won steadily, and Featherstone lost. He became more and more agitated as the play went on. He rose once and briefly pistol-whipped one of the rivermen for winning a tightly contested hand.
In a dark hour before dawn, Featherstone put down a big gold guinea as a late straddle over a pile of Spanish and French silver. He said, Whoever picks up this guinea, I’ll blow out his goddamn brains and leave him lay. He pulled out his artistic pistol and set it on the table in front of him and put his finger to the tip of the barrel and gave it a spin so that the bore and grip swapped ends a half dozen times.
—Who will tempt the wheel of fate? he said.
The atmosphere in the room was suddenly all hush and gravity. Everyone, Featherstone included, sat looking at the pistol as if it was a magic thing, even more potent than a cudgel in a fairy tale to which one could say Beat Stick Beat and have it smite enemies to their knees.
—He’s powerful drunk, but that don’t mean he won’t do it, the one-handed man said. He folded his cards and rose from the table. He walked to the liquor tub and took a dip.
The
EVERYBODY ELSE HAD been dipping into the tub as well, and they suffered from equally clouded thinking. Featherstone was drunk to the point that he had gone past stupor back to strange lucidity. And when he reached that point, he began looking for a fight. That much was evident even in the provoking way he glared at the other players and the way he handled his cards and threw them down as if wanting to throw them in his opponents’ faces. Much in evidence at his belt was a long cap-and-ball pistol of scrolled silver metal, with fancy scrimshawed grips worn bone-white in some places from handling and in other places greasy brown from hand dirt. It was pretty, but the pretty ones will kill you just as dead as the ugly. He spent a great deal of time making a show of adjusting its position against his groin.
At one point, he said he had probably put down ten or fifteen men more satisfactory than any of us. One more wouldn’t signify.
At another point, deep in the night, one of the rivermen fell asleep with his head on his forearm but still holding his cards. Featherstone sorted through the deck and put four kings and a three in the man’s hand, and four aces and a jack in his own. Then he kicked the man awake under the table and said, Either get to playing or quit the game.
The man roused a little and itched his scalp and studied his cards. He became suddenly alert. He bet big and everybody else soon folded but for Featherstone. The betting between them grew quite large, and in the end of course Featherstone won.
The man sat thinking a minute, and then he pulled a pistol and said, That’s every penny I’ve got in the world and I might as well be dead without it. I hate to have to do it, but I’m going to kill you if you don’t give it back.
Featherstone said, Calm down. There’s no call for gunplay just because fate holds you in contempt. But I’ll do this for you. On the next hand, I’ll put up everything I’ve won off of you against that old worn-out pistol of yours.
—Hell, the man said. That sounds more than fair to me.
They went about dealing the cards, and Featherstone put down his bet, a pile of hard money glinting in the dim light.
The man sat dazed and unclear as to his next move. Featherstone said, Well, put your bet in the pot.
The man laid his pistol down on the mongrel pile of currency, and just as soon as his hand was back to his cards, Featherstone grabbed the pistol and covered the man and told him to get gone or be shot.
The man said, Yes sir. And I apologize for my behavior. And then he went out the door.
WE PLAYED ON long into the night. The women slept like a pair of puppies on the straw tick in the corner. At the table, money changed hands over and over, but I won steadily, and Featherstone lost. He became more and more agitated as the play went on. He rose once and briefly pistol-whipped one of the rivermen for winning a tightly contested hand.
In a dark hour before dawn, Featherstone put down a big gold guinea as a late straddle over a pile of Spanish and French silver. He said, Whoever picks up this guinea, I’ll blow out his goddamn brains and leave him lay. He pulled out his artistic pistol and set it on the table in front of him and put his finger to the tip of the barrel and gave it a spin so that the bore and grip swapped ends a half dozen times.
—Who will tempt the wheel of fate? he said.
The atmosphere in the room was suddenly all hush and gravity. Everyone, Featherstone included, sat looking at the pistol as if it was a magic thing, even more potent than a cudgel in a fairy tale to which one could say Beat Stick Beat and have it smite enemies to their knees.
—He’s powerful drunk, but that don’t mean he won’t do it, the one-handed man said. He folded his cards and rose from the table. He walked to the liquor tub and took a dip.
The
Similar Books
