The
Gambler
a songfic (yes, that’s
right) by MotherRati
Disclaimer: I woke up one morning with this song and
accompanying story in its entirety running through my head, and it refused to go
away until I wrote it down. Anyone
who knows me knows that I don’t do songfics and don’t even particularly like
them, nor do I usually write deathfics and
this most certainly is one. You’ve
been warned. That said, it was
whatever wandering muse that attacked me in my sleep that made me do this so I
definitely wasn’t intending to infringe on anyone’s copyrights; if Kenny Rogers
or anyone else wants to sue someone they can go after that
muse.
On a warm summer's
evenin' on a train bound for nowhere,
I met up with the gambler; we were both
too tired to sleep.
So we took turns a starin' out the window at the
darkness
'Til boredom overtook us, and he began to speak.
He said,
"Son, I've made a life out of readin' people's faces,
And knowin' what their
cards were by the way they held their eyes.
And if you don't mind my sayin',
I can see you're out of aces.
For a taste of your whiskey I'll give you some
advice."
Will was surprised when
the old man spoke to him, and even more surprised that the first thing he did
was offer to help. He’d discovered
early on in life that helping was the last thing most people wanted to do for
anyone. But the night was late and
Will was tired – tired of traveling, tired of mourning, tired of no one knowing
what his problem was and no one really caring. So he took the offer at face
value.
So
I handed him my bottle and he drank down my last swallow.
Then he bummed a
cigarette and asked me for a light.
“My mama just died,” the
young man said while the older man puffed on the cigarette. “Funeral was three days ago, I’m headed
home now.”
“Where’s home?” the old
man wanted to know.
“San Francisco, I’ve been
living out there since I was seven goin’ on eight, biggest part of my life, I
guess – ain’t been back out this way in twenty years, since my grandpa and I
moved to California. Hardly ever
got any letters, or sent any, and I knew there was bad blood there and I even
knew why, but since they wired to tell me she was dying I thought…and then when
I came out here…” his stomach clenched at the memory. “Well, I didn’t expect the reception I
got, let me tell you. I thought
they’d understand…”
And the night got
deathly quiet, and his face lost all expression.
Said, "If you're gonna play
the game, boy, ya gotta learn to play it
right.
“Person only understands
what they want to,” the old man said finally, sadly. “You can’t make them see sense if they
aren’t inclined to, and if they aren’t the only thing you can do is get out of
there and not think about it ‘till you’re well away…”
You got to know when to
hold 'em, know when to fold 'em,
Know when to walk away and know when to
run.
You never count your money when you're sittin' at the table.
There'll
be time enough for countin' when the dealin's
done.
“I was a gambler once,
long time ago,” he continued softly.
He cocked an eyebrow at the younger man. “You know what it means to be a gambler,
son?”
Will had to smile. “Known one once, when I was a kid – damn
fine man, too, or at least that was what Grandpa always said of him. That wasn’t what lots of other folks
‘round there thought, but he was always nice to me, anyway, a real
gentleman.”
The old man nodded and
smiled slightly himself, puffing on the cigarette. “And what happened to him,
then?”
“He got killed, I
heard.” It was a bitter
memory. “He trusted…he trusted the
wrong folks and they turned on him, and then he got ambushed on the trail and
killed while he was all alone and hurt.
Didn’t no one know what had happened until he was already long
buried.”
And the old man
nodded. “That is usually the way of
it, son. Because no one trusts a
gambler, so the gambler who is foolish enough to trust someone with his life or
his heart had best be betting on losing it. Sounds to me like your friend the
gentleman gambler kept playin’ when he should have folded.” Another puff, a small sigh. “Guess he figured that out too
late.”
Ev'ry gambler knows that
the secret to survivin'
Is knowin' what to throw away and knowing what to
keep.
'Cause ev'ry hand's a winner and ev'ry hand's a loser,
And the best
that you can hope for is to die in your sleep."
And when he'd finished
speakin', he turned back towards the window,
Crushed out his cigarette and
faded off to sleep.
Will had kind of hoped the
old man would wake up again so they could talk some more, but he slept silently
through the night and after a few hours of mulling over his own past and
wondering about the old gambler’s, Will fell asleep as
well.
And somewhere in the
darkness the gambler, he broke even.
But
in his final words I found an ace that I could keep.
And when he
finally did wake up again, just a few hours before dawn…he realized that the old
man had talked his last. He sat for
a little while, just looking at the man and wondering about him, and then went
to find the porter.
The porter was a rare
honest sort who insisted that Will stay with him while the dead man was searched
just so there would be no question about whatever possessions were found on
him. And so he was there when the
letter was found, a heavy sealed envelope carefully labeled, ‘To Be Opened
Immediately On the Bearer’s Death.’
The man’s other identification and his ticket said his name was Elias
Vincent…but the will enclosed in the envelope said that Elias Vincent’s name was
actually…
Will had to sit down
quickly when he saw it, and it was several minutes before he was able to
reassure the panicked porter that he was all right. “I…knew him,” he managed finally. “Didn’t recognize him, after all these
years, thought he was dead anyway…but I knew him.”
The porter crossed
himself, to Will’s surprise. “The
hand of the Lord be in this here sit’ation,” he said nervously. “This here will he had say whoever be
with him when he dies is heir to all he got with him, that it does…and that be
you, Mister Travis, yes indeed. The
Lord do work in mysterious ways.”
Will Travis could only
nod, still staring at the shuffled-off mortal coil of the man he’d once known as
Ezra Standish, gentleman gambler.
“Do you…is there…a shroud, a blanket or something we could use. I’ll pay for
it…”
“Ain’t no need; he done
took care of it.” The man held up a
sheaf of bills that had been tucked inside the will. “Says here this is for de funeral so’s
no one won’t be put out.”
“Thought of everything,
didn’t he?” Will commented faintly but with a small smile; it was consistent
with what he remembered of the man, at that. The porter brought a blanket to cover
the body with and then he left Will alone in the compartment with that and his
thoughts. For a while, Will just
sat and stared out the window, watching the sun rise over the swiftly-passing
scenery outside. Memories already
unearthed by his disastrous return to
His grandfather, the
judge, had been holding his hand, Will remembered, when they walked into the
livery and found the town’s peacekeepers ‘all in a wrangle’ as his grandfather
had called it, and it hadn’t made him happy; they’d already been to both the
clinic and the saloon without finding the person they sought. “What seems to be the problem,
gentlemen?” the judge had asked.
“And where is Mr. Standish, I was looking for
him.”
“We’ll find him, Judge,”
Mr. Larabee – the drunken bastard who had later married his mother – had said
grimly. “That’s what we’re saddlin’
up for right now, to go after the little bastard and drag him back to the
jail.”
The judge had
stiffened. “The man’s a hero,
whyever would you be putting him in jail?”
All the men had stopped
what they were doing and stared at him, and then Mr. Jackson had gotten a look
on his face like Will’s mother often got on hers when she didn’t like someone
very much – and Will remembered there had been a lot of people she didn’t
like. “Because that’s where he
belongs, always has. Little bastard
tried to steal that money and got caught and now he thinks he can just slither
away from the consequences…”
Grandpa’s hand had
tightened on Will’s until it hurt, but Will – back then known as Billy – hadn’t
said anything for fear of being sent from his grandfather’s side. He’d wanted to know what was going on
too. “My grandson and I were trying
to find Mr. Standish so we could offer our thanks for him saving the boy’s
mother’s life yesterday,” the judge had said angrily. “And what theft are you talking about?
He knew how much his share was and
I’m positive he wouldn’t have taken a penny more.”
And they’d all stared
again, but this time the judge hadn’t waited for anyone else to say
something. “And as to leaving, he
resigned from his post day before yesterday not an hour after I arrived in town
and everything was in order…although I did have to insist rather firmly that he
take his share of the money when he left, he seemed to think you gentlemen
wouldn’t agree to his having it. I
told him in no uncertain terms that it was my decision the money was to be
shared equally between the seven of you and what everyone did with it beyond
that was their own business.” His
eyes had narrowed then when he’d seen the looks the men were exchanging, the
shock and dawning remorse on their faces.
Will still hadn’t understood, but his grandfather’s next words had made
things all too clear. “I see. So am I to assume that after Mr.
Standish was shot yesterday you gentlemen confiscated his money and attempted to
incarcerate him for robbery?”
“Nate here put shackles on
him up in the clinic,” Vin Tanner had said slowly. “I didn’t think it was
necessary…”
“But of course you didn’t
do anything about it,” the judge had accused scathingly. “Nice rifle, by the way, Mr. Tanner; a
bit expensive for a man of your salary though, wouldn’t you say? A person might wonder how someone like
you had come to own such a weapon.”
He’d snorted and shaken his head when the tracker flinched. “Hypocrites, all of you – my
daughter-in-law included, seeing as how she refused even to come ask after the
man who saved her life because of his profession and the aspersions that had
been cast on his character. I wash
my hands of all of you, and this town.
Come along, Billy.”
And they had left town
that afternoon, never to return. Will wondered where Ezra Standish had
gone, what kind of life he’d led after leaving Four Corners – how he’d made it
at all, weak and wounded and having lost everything…and everyone. He wondered who the man was buried under
the name of Ezra Standish in some nothing little dust town in the West, and if
it was a man that had taken Standish on and lost or simply lost to another
player somewhere along the way and Standish had merely played the cards that
were dealt him. Finally, curious,
Will pulled out the carpetbag that had been under the dead gambler’s seat and
began to sift through the contents.
There wasn’t much; a journal, some toiletry items, a change of
clothes…
…and, at the very bottom
in a rough leather bag, all that remained of the gentleman gambler Will
remembered so fondly, a not-so-gentle reminder of the game that Standish had
played and lost, of the hand he’d known he should have folded and had bet on
instead. A worn deck of cards wrapped in a scrap of
what might have once been red velvet, a tattered dime novel…and inside the
nearly unreadable cover of that novel, a hundred-dollar bill with a hole in it,
stained black with old blood.
You
got to know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em,
Know when to walk away
and know when to run.
You never count your money when you're sittin' at the
table.
There'll be time enough for countin' when the dealin's
done.
Fin