Berenger held his cards close to his vest and slowly spread them into a tight fan. As he looked down to see what he draw had given him, the boat swerved a bit to port, sloshing the last quarter-inch of his warm whiskey in the glass, but not spilling any.
Three nines, an ace and a trey. He'd kept the pair, drawn three cards, not bad.
Drowned Man Point, he figured. The new pilot had let The Creole Belle II drift too close to the western shore and had to swing out to avoid the big snag that jutted from the shoal into the channel. It came up fast when going down river in high water.
Almost noon, then.
The steward would ring the luncheon bell soon, and they would pause the game and go enjoy the new chef's offerings. The man, who had worked at a New York hotel restaurant during the War, was an excellent cook. The smell of roasted game bird wafted through the main cabin as the waiters brought food in. Quail, shot by the hunters this very morning at the woodlot six hours upriver.
Berenger liked this steamer right enough. She was a tad more garish than the first Belle. There was a lot of stained glass, with depictions of troopers slaying Indians, and herds of bison; the carpets were scarlet, and the table whiskey was a higher grade than it had been on the original Belle. He'd been on her and winning a goodly sum when one of her boilers exploded as she was putting ashore on a cold November a couple years back, near Baton Rouge. He had gotten clear without getting his feet wet, and watched her burn to the waterline. Risks of the trade, that.
And, the food was better on this vessel; still, his luck had run warmer on the old boat most of the time.
Across from him, O'Herlihan, the Irishman, stroked his mustache with his free hand and tried to hide his glee.
O'Herlihan had drawn one card, and he never touched his mustache unless he had a winning hand. Could have filled a straight or a flush, except that he had opened, so he had to have better than a pair of knaves to start; maybe turned two pair into a full house. Maybe even four of a kind. Didn't matter; Berenger's three nines weren't worth a plugged picayune.
Well, shitfire and damnation. Might as well erect a marquee, he thought, wishing ill health on the Irishman.
Then again, being Irish was unfortunate enough, wasn't it?
About eighty dollars in the pot.
The bet was to O'Herlihan, and he tossed a five-dollar chip onto the green felt surface, trying to suck in more money.
Next to him, Barber called.
Ticonderoga Griffith raised ten.
Berenger shook his head. No point in throwing away any more money on this hand. "Fold," he said. The potato eater didn't know how to bluff, it was his pot.
Barber hadn't gotten the missive. He called.
O'Herlihan grinned like a demented baboon as he turned over a full boat, Kings and tens.
Win some, lose some, and Berenger was up one-fifty on the voyage so far, he couldn't complain. A nice meal, a good cigar and a splash of brandy, he would be fit as a fiddle when the game resumed. It was a ways to New Orleans, and Dame Fortune could choose to favor him even more as they churned along. And that comely young widow, the Missus Tracy? She had been giving him the eye from behind her ivory-ribbed fan ever since St. Louis. There was carnal company to be had there, he knew the signs.
There were worse ways to make a living ...
This scene was an homage to Rustler’s Rhapsody. True fans will recognize the names of the actors and players. 'Tis from a novel in progress with Dan Moran, and that one’s on a slow boat from China …