The horse tossed Jimbo like a fat bag of cookies. If we didn't calm her down fast, we'd all wake up with hoof prints on our backs.
"Easy, Eeeeeasy." I crept up, rope in my hand. The horse was jumping and bucking. Jimbo struggled to get up out of the dirt. He rolled, trying to maneuver around his big belly. I took a few more steps. The horse neighed, loudly, bolting away from me. She ran circles 'round the horse pen. I tossed my reata at her a few times, not trying to catch her, just trying to get her to burn off some steam. "I told you she wasn't ready for that," I said.
"Coffee," Jimbo said, picking the saddle up out of the dirt, "if we do it your way, we'll never break her."
She finally slowed, whipping her mane back and forth. I kept moving slowly. Her backside was to me, ready to fire those hooves. One kick to the chest, and you're done for. I came up beside her. "Easy, girl." I reached out to stroke her neck. It was getting dark, and my black shirt and jeans were starting to meld into the background. That kinda thing can spook an agitated horse. She snorted, stamped her feet. My heart was beating fast. I took a deep breath, checking my emotions. They know if you're afraid. I pushed the fear down, letting it run out the bottom of my boots. I moved closer, inch by inch, my reata was looped and ready. Her eye met mine.
"HE-YAH!" yelled Jimbo.
She reared up, her hooves flashed like a blender. I jerked back, dodging a kick by inches, falling into the mud.
Jimbo laughed. "Coffee, you gotta see your face right now. Wait… I'll take a picture."
"What the heck?"
"Oh, come on. You should be used to close calls like that, you being a grifter and all."
"We ain't grifters," I said, whipping mud out of my eye.
"Yeah, right," said Jimbo. He turned towards the campfire, outside the pen. There, three other boys sat on a horse blanket. "Crooks, toss me my phone, I wanna take a—."
"Leave that dang horse alone!" said Mason. He was the oldest of us, and was shuffling up a deck of cards. I looked back to the horse; she was circling again, tossing her head. It'd be dark by the time she calmed down.
I made my way to the fence. It was the third night me and Dad had spent at this ranch. It was big for such a small town. Dad called it a "10-horse ranch in a 1-horse town." I looked down the dirt road that led to the bunkhouse. That's where Dad was, playing poker with all the real cowboys. Us kids were relegated to the barn. Each night, after the chores were done, we'd set up a campfire and have our own game of poker.
The town was called Thalia. Dad liked these small towns. He'd say, "Ain't nobody got nothing to do but play poker." And that's how we made bank, by collecting the paychecks off these hard-working stiffs. It was all legal, nothin' wrong with it, just an honest poker game. Nobody made any bets they didn't want to. And we never cheat.
"If y'all don't get over here fast, me and Sparky are going to split y'all's winnings from last night," said Mason.
"Why do y'all get it all?" whined Crooks, Mason's pipsqueak of a brother.
"Zip it, Crooks," he said. Me and Jimbo climbed over the fence. "You guys are about as slow as turtles on tranquilizers," he said, dealing two cards to everyone.
We hovered over the cards, stretching this way and that, sore from the work. Mud caked our boots, and we were covered nose to tail in dust. I showed it the most, on account that I only ever wear black, like Johnny Cash. Looking down I saw there was mud splattered all over my belt buckle. I spit in my hand, wiping the engraved silver until I could read it, "Jr. Roping Champion." I ran a hand over my black hair, but even the mud couldn't tame that. As usual, it stuck out on the right side. Dad says it's because, when I was little, I played with the wrong end of a power washer. But I don't believe that for a second.
The sun was sinking below the horizon. A crow fluttered down, landing on the fence. He'd come every night when we started to play. Probably attracted to the spare change sparkling in the firelight. A chill wind blew through my hair. I rubbed my arms, moving closer to the campfire. The season was turning. It was the end of October, almost Halloween, almost my birthday. I'll be 13. The last of the sun winked out. A few pinpoints of light started to show. The logs popped, shooting embers skyward. They floated up, joining with the stars.
You might think it's cool to have your birthday on Halloween. But really, that just means that no one comes to your party, 'cuz they're all out trick-or-treating. But that didn't matter so much, now that me and Dad were on the road. We had real important stuff to do.
We settled into the game. Everyone looked at their cards. Everyone but me. I never look at my cards, at least not until I see everyone look at theirs first. You can tell a lot from people's faces.
Jimbo was the first to look. He was a year older than me, 14. When you first meet him, since he's big and pudgy, and acts dumb, you think he is dumb. You think, "This guy's a pushover. I'll break him easy." But, he's not dumb, and he's not a pushover. He doesn't play too many hands, and he knows when he's got the nuts. The "nuts" means you have the best hand. But he looks at his cards too fast. In the flashing firelight, I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. That means he thinks his cards are weak. He'll fold.
Then there was Mason, the oldest, 15. He's an aggressive player, likes to make the big bets. A player like that is easy to break, but I don't ever break someone right away. Dad says, "They got more money where that came from. Don't spook 'em. Draw 'em out for the big score." But this was the third night we'd played; maybe tonight I'd make my move and break 'em all. Mason looked down at his cards and made a hard swallow. That meant he had a good hand. When you get cards you really like, you salivate like a dog.
"You skipped me," Crooks said.
"Zip it, Crooks," said Mason, tossing him another card.
Crooks was my age, almost 13. He looked at his cards and straightened his glasses. He does that a lot. It's not a tell or anything. Like in poker movies, they say stuff like, "You know,every time you straighten your glasses it means you're bluffing." That's garbage. That's not how tells work. Crooks straightens his glasses because he got head-butted by a goat, and his nose goes off to one side. But, after seeing his cards, he did shoot a glance to the empty spot where the community cards would be dealt. Someone who keeps looking at the community cards, or even where they're gonna be, doesn't have a good hand. It's like they're looking for that magic card to pop up and save 'em.
Sparky, the last player, 14, pulled out a cigarette. He held his cards up so he could see them. Most players hold their cards down and just peel up the edges. That way no one can catch a glimpse. But Sparky didn't care, and not caring's what made him a dangerous player. He flicked the wheel on his 50¢ lighter. It was all scuffed up and half crushed, like one you'd find in the middle of a parking lot. It took a few times to light. He stared at his cards, but his face wasn't giving me much to work with.
Looking back at everyone, I summed it up. Jimbo's gonna fold, Mason's strong, Crooks is weak, and Sparky… he was a puzzle. But like Dad would say about puzzles, "Start with the corner pieces." I'd have to build that picture slowly.
I peeled up the edges of my own cards. It was a 9 and a Jack, not much of a hand, but it was worth keeping until the flop comes. The flop is the first three cards you deal into the center. I threw in the minimum bet, 25¢.
"I thought you had more huevos," Mason started. "You had real huevos last night."
I eyed him, suspiciously. "I don't like to put all my huevos in one basket."
"I don't blame you," said Jimbo. "You'd need an awfully small basket."
"Oooo," everyone said.
"You're gonna let him talk to you like that?" said Mason.
"I ain't worried," I said, and nodded at Jimbo's stack of money. "Soon enough, all of that will be on my side of the blanket anyway."
Crooks laughed, throwing in his bet.
"Zip it, Crooks!" said Mason.
"Funny how you do that," said Jimbo. "You seem to win so easily."
I lifted an eyebrow. "What are you saying? I play it straight."
"I mean if you was cheating, it's not like anyone would ever know."
"I don't know what you mean," I said, carefully lining up my quarters in neat stacks.
"Think about it. You and your dad, always moving, going from town to town. Any time anyone found you out, y'all could just leave."
"We don't cheat. We're just good. And no one's forcing you to play."
"Yeah," said Mason. "You got nothing to care about. When things get hot, you can just up and leave. You got no friends. You got no family. "
"That's not true!" I said. My hand gripped the blanket. "I got Dad. He's all the family I need."
"I thought so," said Mason, with a hard stare.
I could feel the anger rising up. I took a deep breath. They're doing it again, trying to make me mad, trying to make me go on tilt. I closed my eyes, taking all that heat, and letting it sink into the ground.
"Speaking of names," said Sparky, "Where'd you get a dumb name like Coffee?"
"My Mom gave it to me," I said, staying cool. "It's from some old relative. He was like a gunfighter or something."
"Pew Pew," Mason said with finger guns. "You some kinda outlaw?"
I stared Mason in his eyes. "You going to deal the flop or what?"
He frowned, throwing the first three cards into the middle of the blanket. The flickering campfire light showed a Jack, a Queen, and a King.
"Wow, look at those huevos!" said Crooks.
"You don't even know what huevos means?" Sparky said, the cigarette hanging from his lips.
"I do, too," Crooks said. "It means eggs, like huevos rancheros."
Mason whopped him on the back of the head. "No, stupid, it means cajones." Crooks' glasses came loose as he pitched forward.
"I don't know what cajones is," said Crooks.
"Don't matter," said Sparky. "'Cuz I'm about to eat all y'all's huevos for breakfast." He slammed down a whole dollar.
Everyone stared wide-eyed. A dollar's a big bet when you're only playing with twenty of 'em.
Jimbo screwed up his face. "Eat…? That's gross, man."
Sparky made a chomping motion at Jimbo. "Are you in or what?"
"I fold," said Jimbo. "Too weird for me."
It was my turn now. Jack, Queen, King, that could make a monster hand. If anyone had a 9 and a 10 they'd have a solid straight. And if they had a 10 and an Ace, then they'd have the nuts.
Sparky turned to me. "You just going to look at them, or are you gonna bet?"
But I didn't have the nuts. The best hand I could make was a pair of Jacks. "Fold," I said, tossing my cards into the discard pile.
"I knew you didn't have any huevos," said Mason.
"I stop serving breakfast after 10:00 AM," I shot back.
Mason looked at me like he was trying to do long division. Then he threw in his dollar. Mason and Sparky battled it out. But in the end, Sparky took it with a 10 and an Ace, the nuts. Good thing I folded.
I played the rest of the game tight and conservative, not getting into too many hands. But when I did have something, something worth playing, I went for it. I'd bet big, knocking people out. Or, sometimes I'd slow-play, pretending to have a bad hand and drawing them in. As the night went on, more and more of their money moved to my side.
"Fold," Mason said, and I raked in a pot. "Man, this is bull. You're cheating." I grimaced but held back. I wasn't going to let them get in my head. "You and your pops just roll up in here and play your little game. You're no-good con artists."
I gave him a look.
"Con artists?" said Crooks, pushing his glasses up. "I heard about those guys." He turned to Mason. "I saw it on YouTube. Con artists, they're from somewhere… North Korea I think. They come over here to rob us of freedom. They mutilate cows and everything."
"You idiot," Mason said, smacking him across the back of the head. "I told you to stop watching those conspiracy videos."
"We ain't con artists," I said. "We win because we got skills."
"You don't fool me," said Mason. "How do we know you ain't fixin' the deck, dealing from the bottom, using hand signals?"
"Hand signals?" I said. "Who am I gonna signal? I didn't even shuffle that last hand."
"But, you cut it," said Jimbo
"You can't fix a deck with just one cut."
"And you'd know, wouldn't you? If you're as good as you say, then you could do it."
"I am as good. That means I don't have to."
Mason turned to the others. "Are you believing any of this?" They all shook their heads, arms crossed.
"In my rule book, cheaters forfeit their winnings," Mason said.
I cast a glance down at my stack. I had everything nice and tidy, not in a messy pile like everyone else's. Dad always says, "Be like Old Kenny. Know when to run." This was one of those times. My hands moved real slow towards my loot.
Just then, the door to the bunkhouse flew open. The bunkhouse where the real game was going on. "Coffee, get in the truck." It was Dad! He stepped out, moving with a purpose. His arms were full—a gym bag, a coat, and his white Stetson cowboy hat. He also had a few things I'd never seen before—a fancy watch, a bottle of whiskey, and an extra set of keys jangling in his hand. Then I saw the ranch hands coming to the door. They didn't look happy.
I plunged my hands into my stack, scooping and tucking, managing to get most of my winnings in one quick move.
Mason's eyes blazed. "That's our money!"
Luckily, he was criss-cross-apple-sauce. And I was in a crouch. With my fists full of dough, I put my forearms up and blitzed him like a linebacker. Even though he was a good thirty pounds bigger than me, he went tumbling over.
"Bring that back!" yelled Mason.
"Yeah, give us our huevos!" yelled Crooks.
I bolted for the Chevy.
Everyone rocketed up from the blanket. Cards and dollar bills scattered.
"Not that truck," yelled Dad. He pointed a keyfob at a brand-new white pickup. From the look of it, it was rolling in bells and whistles. He clicked the fob, and with a WHUP-AHH, the truck roared to life.
Cool!
As I reached the door, cowboys scrambled from the bunkhouse. They looked about as mad as an all-cat swim team. But these cats had guns. I fumbled the door open, jumping inside. Dad followed, tossing me the gym bag. Just then I heard the tell-tale click-clack of a shotgun.
"What about our stuff?" I yelled to Dad.
"We'll get more," he said, through gritted teeth. He threw the truck into reverse. There was a loud KABOOM, and the back window shattered into a kajillion pieces. Dad peeled out in reverse, nearly flattening a cowboy. I peered over the top of the seat. But Dad pushed my head down. He shifted into drive, throwing dust and dirt in their faces.