*
Mike Fremont and his crew sat at the end of the bar in the smoke-filled River Pig Saloon. They were drinking beer and singing along to tunes from the tinny-sounding piano. Six of the ten oilcloth-covered tables had poker games in play. At the other four tables sat a mix of railroad men, miners, lumberjacks, and working girls, all enjoying this Saturday night on the town. Two bartenders did their best to keep up.
The room was filled with music, laughter, and loud voices. It smelled of cheap tobacco smoke and beer. A dark-haired woman in a bright red dress climbed onto the bar and danced, bringing cheers from the men. One of the rails reached up, grabbed her around the waist, and swung her down into his arms and onto his lap. Laughing, she grabbed his beer and drank it down.
“Wish I would’ve had a chance at her,” shouted Leroy to the crew. “She’s a real looker.”
“You’ll get your chance, Leroy,” shouted Mike, “long as you keep a dollar in your pocket.”
“Mike, by the time I drink up my other four dollars, I’ll be too dang drunk to remember her, anyhow.”
Fremont knocked back his beer and slammed the mug onto the bar. He turned to the two men next to him. “What camp you boys hail from?”
“Ay?”
“I say, what camp you from?” he shouted.
“We’re workin’ the silver mine south of Pratt.”
“Anything worth lookin’ for up there?”
“Mostly rock and mud.”
“Any silver?” Mike persisted.
“Enough to keep us workin’. We get paid a dollar twenty-five a day and don’t have to wait till the spring log drives to get our money. Tony’s my name,” he said extending his hand.
“Mike Fremont. That’s pretty good pay, Tony. They hirin’ now?”
“We have twenty-eight men in the diggins as of today. We usually see one or two come and go each week. You lookin’ for work, Mike?”
“A fellow always needs to keep a lookout. I ain’t much for grubbing’ in the ground, though.”
“Well I ain’t much for freezing’ my arse off, Mike. Ain’t one of you bark eaters what don’t have swollen ears and frost bit noses. Where I work, it might be dark, but it’s always above freezin’.”
Charlie Martin was sitting at the far end of the bar next to the wall. A drunken lumberjack tried to spit his tobacco into the spittoon on the floor at Charlie’s feet but missed. He sent a dark brown stream of tobacco spew across the right cuff of Charlie’s britches, then broke into a loud belly laugh. Instantly Charlie sent his massive, clenched fist into the drunk’s face, knocking him off his feet and onto the barroom floor.
The music stopped. Everyone turned. The lumberjack lay there, clutching his bleeding nose. Charlie turned back to the bar as though nothing happened.
The bartender poured him another beer, saying, “This one’s on me.”
“Dang it all! Now I gotta wash my britches before tomorrow’s dinner.” complained Charlie.
Another jack helped the man with the bleeding nose to his feet. “You gonna let him get away with that, Chester? Looks like he broke your dang nose again.” The injured man turned and stumbled out of the bar. The piano player picked up where he left off, and the drinks flowed again.
Across the street at the Rail Inn, three Loken boys and several railroad workers sat around a poker table. This bar was just as crowded, loud, and smoke-filled as the others. The piano was far out of tune, but no one seemed to care. Stacks of silver coins and paper bills showed two of the Loken camp loggers, Rusty O’Hara and Klaus Radlinger, were on a winning streak. Next to them, Swede Carlson was holding his own. A brown-haired woman stood behind Rusty, massaging his neck. The game they were playing was five-card stud poker.
Rusty turned up his hole cards, exclaiming, “Three sixes, fellas.”
The others grumbled and swore, tossing their cards on the table.
“Damn! You’re awful lucky,” said one of the railroad men, reaching for his beer. “I can’t figure how you get cards like that time after time.”
“Born with the luck of the Irish,” quipped Rusty. “Blame it on me dear mother and father, bless their hearts.”
“Ya, I must’a been born mit da Irish luck, too,” said Klaus with a grin.
“Sure is somethin’ how you always get those good cards, O’Hara,” said one of the railroad men. “You ain’t no professional gambler, is you, now?”
“No, I ain’t. And you best be watchin’ how you talk. This is a square game, friend, at least it is from the loggers’ side of the table.”
“You gotta admit, you two fellas been just a bit more than lucky tonight.”
“I don’t much care for your tone of voice, friend,” replied Rusty, quickly stuffing his winnings into his pockets. “Fellas, like I said, me and my mates here have been playin’ fair and square. Now if you’re gonna accuse us of somethin’, then you best be doin’ it right here, right now. If not, ante up. Maybe you’ll get back what you lost.”
“Well, this here switchman is plum tapped out,” said one of the players. “Deal me out.”
“Ya, better youse deal me out too,” mumbled Swede. “Uttervise I will be yust too dang broke to fill me belly mit beer.” He pushed his chair back and took his last dollar bill to the bar.
The other two railroad workers stayed at the table. Three more rails sat down. Klaus took his turn as dealer. Each man tossed a dime into the middle of the table.
Rusty handed the woman behind him a fifty-cent piece. “Get us two more buckets a beer, darlin’. Keep the change.”
Klaus slapped the deck of cards in front of the man to his right for the cut. Dealing to the left, Klaus gave each man two cards down, then one card face up, naming the cards as they fell.
“Ace, tree, tree, seven, jack, queen, four,” said the dealer. “Bet’s up to you, O’Hara.”
The Irishman peeked at his cards, then laid them face down on the table again. “I’ll bet a dime on my ace of clubs,” he said. “Now I surely hope you won’t be tossin’ around more of your accusations just because sweet Lady Luck had the good graces to deliver me another ace.”
No one spoke. Each player pitched in another dime. The brown-haired woman delivered the beer.
“Beer’s on me, fellas,” said Rusty. “Dip in if you want.” They did.
“Pot’s right,” said Klaus, as he sent each player another card, face up. “Ten, tree, five, queen, jack, eight, king. Da bet’s to you, Rusty.”
“Two bits,” said the Irishman, tossing a quarter into the pot.
“I’ll see your two bits, O’Hara, and raise a dime,” said the rail to his left.
“I’m out,” said the third player.
“Me, too,” said the next.
“Thirty-five cents,” said the rail with the pair of jacks as he tossed in a dime and a quarter.
“Too rich for me,” said the next player.
Klaus pitched in two coins and Rusty a dime to even the pot.
“All bets in. Da pot's right,” said Klaus. “Time to face da music.” He dealt each man the last card, face down. Each man picked up his card, placed it with his other two hole cards and peeked at them. Rusty studied the faces of the other players.
“Still your bet, O’Hara,” said Klaus.
“I bet one dollar, fellas,” he said. Each of the other players looked at him, then at his ace of clubs and ten of hearts lying face up on the table.
“Have ace under there, eh shanty boy?” said the rail next to Klaus.
“Well now,” said the Irishman, “me sweet mother always told me not to speak at the table, so, considerin’ her good advice, I guess you will have to pay the piper to find out.” The next player tossed in his cards. The rail with the two jacks showing was next.
“O’Hara, I don’t think you have two more aces under there. And two more aces is what it will take to beat my three boys, here. I raise a dollar.”
They all looked at Klaus now.
“Dat’s two bucks to me, ya?” h
e said as he tossed two silver dollars into the pot.
“Klaus,” said Rusty, “that’s two days’ pay. You must be hidin’ some good cards there. Here’s the dollar and I’m raisin’ four more.”
The table was silent. The three remaining players studied their cards and the faces of the other players. With too little money on the table to cover the four-dollar bet, the rail with the pair of jacks showing peeked again at his cards. He examined the table once more before reaching into his vest pocket, pulling out a gold coin. He stared at it for a moment before laying it in the center of the table.
“Irishman,” he said, “here’s a double eagle that says my three jacks will beat any cards you can show. You want to see my three jacks, well, toss another sixteen dollars into the pot, pinery boy.” He leaned back in his chair and grinned, folding his arms and resting them on his belly.
“Lord above and Devil below, that is quite a wager,” said Rusty. “Surely you must've had a bout of good fortune, the way those cards fell for you, friend. Maybe me good Irish luck is rubbin’ off onto you, too.”
“Vell, I ain’t riskin’ dat much on dese cards, fellas,” said Klaus. “Youse high rollers can play mit out me.” He tossed his cards onto the table.
“Sixteen bucks to you, shanty boy,” said the rail. The other players watched in silence as the crowd around the table began to grow. Rusty gulped down his beer, handing his glass to the brown-haired woman who scooped another from the tin bucket.
“Well, now, friend,” Rusty finally said, “That is quite the bold wager you are makin’. Way I see it, you are figurin’ I have me a pair of aces. And you believe you can beat my aces with your three jacks. Now a man does not get three jacks all that often. I don’t blame you for bettin’ them up.” He studied his hole cards again. “But, on the other hand, maybe you don’t have three jacks. Maybe all you have is those two on the table there. Maybe you’re supposin' your double eagle will scare me out like it did ol’ Klaus here.”
Rusty reached into his pocket, pulling out several wrinkled bills. “I have a notion—a suspicion, you might say, that you don’t have that third jack. Don’t ask me how I know, friend, I just have that feelin’. So, here is the sixteen you raised and here, friend, is another twenty dollars back to you and your jacks, however many there may be.”
Forcing a grin, the railroad man stared at Rusty, then reached into his vest, pulling out a pocket watch. He opened it, looked at the time, closed it again. Disconnecting the watch from its chain and fob, he placed it on the table. “This here’s a fifty dollar watch. I’m seein’ your twenty dollars and raisin’ thirty more.”
Rusty picked up the gold watch, opened it, snapped it shut, then placed on the pile of coins and bills. “That don’t look to me like no fifty dollar watch. I’ll spot you the twenty bucks for it. No more.”
“All right, then, twenty bucks it is. I call.” The railroad worker laid out his cards one by one, showing an ace, a six and another six. “Two pair, jacks over sixes, shanty boy.”
Rusty studied his opponent’s cards. Then, next to his ace and ten, he laid a jack, then another jack and another ten. “Jacks over tens, me friend.”
As he reached for his winnings, he glanced up at his opponent. The man’s face was turning bright red. Rusty pocketed the watch and stuffed his coins and bills in his shirt pocket, then stood up. Klaus grabbed his coins, dropping them into his pocket as he got up from the table.
“Ain’t you gonna give me a chance to win back my watch?”
“Well, friend, it appears to me like you ain’t got enough money to stake another hand. I’ll do you this favor, though. If you want to buy the watch back for the twenty-dollar bet it covered, I’ll be happy to oblige. I can be found ‘most every night at the Namakagon Timber Company camp, east of here.”
Rusty and Klaus grabbed their beer glasses and moved closer to the door. Swede joined them. Klaus looked back to see the rails huddled together. “Rusty, I tink ve best be ski-daddlin’,” said Klaus. “Der’s a dozen gandy dancers in here dat don’t no more look so friendly.”
Rusty glanced across the big German’s shoulder and agreed with a nod. All three loggers guzzled their beers and left, crossing to the other side of the frozen, rutted, street. Before entering the River Pig Saloon, Klaus looked back to see twenty or more men pour out of the Rail Inn. He pushed his way past his friends and into the River Pig.
“Hey fellas,” he yelled across the room. “Der’s a whole pile a dem rails headed dis way, lookin’ to give a lickin’ to some miners!”
Several men near the tavern’s front windows scraped frost from the glass and peered out at the railroad men lining the boardwalk across the street.
“Let’s go give ’em what for, boys,” shouted one of the miners. Half of the men piled out of the bar. Miners and lumberjacks soon stood shoulder to shoulder, filling the boardwalk in front of the River Pig Saloon. Across the street, the crowd of rails grew to more than forty.
A shout came from one of the miners. “Which one of you bone-headed gandy dancers wants your ugly face bloodied first?”
The rails charged into the street, shouting and swearing, as did the miners and lumberjacks. They met in the middle like two ancient armies fighting over distant kingdoms. Fists flew. Feet lashed out. Lit only by the now-rising moon and the soft glow of oil lamps in nearby taverns, the hardened men fought. More workers streamed from other taverns and joined in.
For twenty minutes the clash continued in the snowy street. Some men, either injured or too tired to fight any longer, went back into the taverns. More men gathered on the boardwalk to watch and cheer the others on. Occasionally one would join the battle, perhaps not caring what started the brawl or for which side he was fighting.
Constable Bill Burns watched from the boardwalk. Next to him stood Mike Fremont, Rusty O’Hara, Charlie Martin, and Leroy Phipps enjoying the late night entertainment.
Blackie Jackson came down the outside stairway of a sporting house down the street. When he saw the midnight mêlée, Blackie gave the woman with him a passionate kiss, then left her on the stairs. He rushed into the jumble of brawling men.
Jackson slammed two men to the frozen ground and smacked another in the jaw with his huge fist before finding himself knocked face down onto the frozen street. A big calked boot came down near his chin as he ducked and rolled across the snow and out of the way. He stood up and grabbed the big fellow by the collar and belt, picked him up, and threw him over the mass of men, sending four others to the ground. Blackie ducked a punch from another man, socked him in the face, then stepped out of the fight and up onto the boardwalk next to Constable Burns.
“Nice night for a scuffle,” said Blackie, brushing snow from his mackinaw.
“It surely is, Blackie,” replied Bill Burns. “Looks like the boys are havin’ a grand ol’ time.” Burns reached inside his coat. From a vest pocket, he pulled out his gold watch. “Well,” he said with a yawn, “looks like this will be simmerin’ down soon. I may just as well call it a night.”
With three dozen men still brawling in the snow-covered street, the constable looked up at the moon, now rising above the rooftops. “It looks like it’s going to be another fine winter’s day in the pinery tomorrow,” he said as he turned and strolled off down the boardwalk. “G’night, fellas.”
Chapter 28
Whoopin’ it up