Dave Fisher rings the cowbell once again – a challenge to all of you to 1) find the cow that’s missing its bell and 2) write a better short story than this tidy little narrative nugget of pure gold.  If you’re not deep into the Old West by the end of the first sentence, you’re either asleep or you’ve gone looking for that missing cow.  At any rate, you’ll get some powerful enjoyment out of Dave’s second entry for our A Dish Called “Wanda” contest.

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Last Bottom Deal

Life came cheap in Virginia City; if there wasn’t at least one body laying in the street come morning it was considered a quiet night. It was just the kind of place I’d expect to find Monty Decker. You see, I had business with Mister Decker. I hunt wanted men and he was a wanted man.

Decker likes to deal cards and hold up stages. His last robbery, he killed a Wells Fargo driver and shotgun man. The next day the U.S. Marshall put a 500 dollar reward on his head and added my favorite part . . . dead or alive. That’s my kind of deal. An outlaw tied over a saddle is a lot less trouble than one sitting up in it.

I stepped into the Delta to the hum of voices, rattling glasses, and a tinny piano. I squinted through the cigar smoke, making my way past the chance tables to the bar. I stepped in between a miner and another man sporting a white shirt and tie, both locals.

I motioned for the barkeep to give me a drink; I looked toward the miner and nodded. “You happen to have any idea where I can find Monty Decker?”

“Why would you want him?”

“Old friend. He told me to look him up if I ever got to Virginia City.”

He looked me up and down, “You the law?”

I laughed, “Hardly, just looking up an old friend.”

“You’ll find him dealing stud at Wanda’s. That’s one mean man, best stay on his good side.”

The man in the tie turned toward me, “You don’t want to go to Wanda’s.  Trust me.”

I looked at him, “Why not?”

“That’s the worst place on the row. The food’ll poison you, and the dealers will skin you slicker than a summer sheep. Not a square game in the house.”

The miner chuckled, “And Wanda’s girls will slip something in your drink and roll you for everything you got. I wouldn’t go into Wanda’s for half the Comstock lode.”

“Well, if I want to find Monty, I guess I’ll have to.” I tossed down my drink and headed for Wanda’s.

I found the place, but I had to step back and wonder. The locals had warned me about Wanda’s, but why was there a crowd of men wall-to-wall in the place if it was that bad? It didn’t take me long to figure it out. They were giving away free whiskey to anyone playing at the tables.

Pretty smart on Wanda’s part. Fill a man with enough liquor and he wouldn’t know if the dealer was sliding a card off the bottom New Orleans slick or pulling one out of his ear right in front of him. I looked around and spotted Decker dealing at a table. I knew him, but he didn’t know me, which is how I like it.

As luck would have it, the man sitting in the chair opposite Decker got up and left and I just sat myself right down. Decker looked at me. “Game’s five card stud, a buck to open, and we play them straight.”

“How else should it be?” I grinned and laid my money down.

He dealt out a few hands and I watched as he pulled sleeve cards, palmed an ace, and dealt off the bottom. At first he only did it to the other players who had been drinking, and I wasn’t. Then, he got bold and fed me four hearts building a flush; I knew what was coming next. I slipped my Colt out of the holster and laid it on my lap.

He skimmed one off the bottom and tossed a spade on the hearts acting like he didn’t know.

“Nice bottom deal, Decker.”

He scowled at me, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means just that.”

“You saying I’m cheating?”

“You have been the whole game, so I’m calling it to your face . . . four flusher.”

In a flash Decker’s hand was in his coat and back out with a double barreled derringer. My Colt roared as the slug blasted its way through the table top and found a home in Decker’s right breast pocket.

The black powder smoke rose toward the ceiling as Decker slid to the floor. I stood up while the other men sat dumbstruck at the table. “That was his last bottom deal, boys. Looks like Wanda’s going to have to get herself a new dealer.”

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As was said of Mae West:  “Thar’s hills in them thar gold!”  (That doesn’t exactly have any relation to Dave’s wonderful story; I just wanted to say it.)

We’ve still got a couple weeks left in the Wanda contest – let’s belly up to the bar, and keep ‘em comin’!