The Poker Face

By A. K. Clausen

“As you can tell, the Wild West was a very fascinatin’ place,” the teenaged tour guide said with a fake cowgirl accent and a tone that sounded like she would rather be anywhere else. “And over here, you can see an original journal entry that shows just how superstitious these folks really were.”

A young tourist peered through the glass display case at a tattered old diary and gold pocket watch.

October 13, 1899

I’ll never forget the day he came to town. For three months now, I’ve tried and failed. His face is seared in my mind like a brand on a new calf, hauntin’ both my dreams and wakin’ life.

These past months I’ve tried to bury it, but it’s no use. All I can do now is write what happened.

It all began on one of the hottest July days I can remember. A blazin’ breeze came from the east. All the superstitious folks said that bad luck would follow. I had no idea how right they were.

All the smart men sheltered in their homes to escape the scorchin’ heat. The rest of us fools went down to the saloon.

A young man entered just past noon, and one glance at ‘im made it clear he wasn’t from around these parts. He wore a white ruffled shirt and a brocade vest that probably cost more than our entire town. With his carefree smile and tousled blonde hair, it was obvious that he’d never worked a day in his life.

Everything stopped the moment he walked in. All heads turned to the newcomer, and I knew that the same thought flickered through the minds of each and every one: How can I cheat this man?

I almost felt bad. Something about ‘im was different than other travelers—a certain innocence that danced in his bright eyes. He’d no place bein’ in the Wild West.

“Good afternoon,” he said with a voice as smooth as fresh cream.

The stunned silence disappeared like a cloud on a summer’s day. All returned to how it was before. The man at the piano played a lively tune, men laughed over their drinks, and dice clicked across the tables.

To my surprise, the young man crossed to the table where I sat with the mayor and his “friends.”

“May I join you?” he asked with silky elegance.

I was speechless. What would such a perfect statue of youth want to do with men like us? We gambled away our fortunes one round at a time. Of course, no one else could ever win, not with how the mayor played.

“And who might you be?” the mayor asked, his gaze fixed on the gold watch hangin’ from the traveler’s pocket.

“My apologies, good sir.” The man pulled up a chair. “I am Dorian Gray.”

“Well now, um, Mr. Gray,” I said, tryin’ to spare ‘im. “I ain’t certain if this here game’s the type for you.”

“Balderdash!” The mayor glared at me. “If he wants to play, let ‘im play. Deal ‘im in, sheriff.”

I sighed and dealt the cards ‘round the table.

“That is quite a fascinating painting you have there,” Dorian said.

That should’ve been my first warning. The portrait on the wall behind us was horrid—a ghastly figure of what used to be a man, haunted, yet somehow delighted, by past sins. But Dorian’s presence was disarming. I assumed that he was just one of them strange art collectors.

“That ugly thing?” The mayor laughed. “I won it from a man who said it warded off bad luck. Same as this here rabbit’s foot.” He held up the token.

“Well then”—Dorian smiled—“you must win every round.”

The mayor gave a weak laugh and studied his cards and the newcomer intently.

The game continued on. The young man was good, just not good enough. It’s hard to beat a man who never loses. Soon it was down to just two players: the mayor and Dorian.

With a slight movement that I’d seen a thousand times, the mayor played his ace in the hole. Literally.

“Four aces.” He smirked as he greedily looked at the gold watch in the pot.

The young man frowned. “You cheated.”

“Now, don’t be a sore loser,” the mayor said, reachin’ for his winnings.

“No. You cheated.” Dorian laid his cards on the table. Four aces.

“Well, I—” the mayor fumbled. “Sheriff?”

I smirked. “He was dealt ‘em fair, mayor.”

“Why you—” the mayor blustered. “How dare you accuse me of cheatin’! I’ll show you!”

To my horror, the mayor drew his revolver. No one had ever before dared question the mayor’s steel grasp over our small town.

Three shots rang out in the saloon. Three shots hit the young man square in the chest. Three shots didn’t kill ‘im.

Dorian’s frown turned into a cold and crooked smile.

The rest of us stared in silence as he reached into his vest and calmly pulled out his own revolver. The gunshot still didn’t snap us from our petrified state, nor did watchin’ the mayor crumple and fall.

“And now, gentlemen,” Dorian said, takin’ a sip of his whiskey and puttin’ away his weapon, “I will take my portrait and leave.”

He rose from his chair and took that hideous painting from the wall. With terror, I saw that the painting now had three gunshot wounds in its chest.

In stunned silence, we watched as he crossed to the door. He stopped and faced us once more.

“Good day,” he said. The twisted gleam in his blue eyes and fiendish smile matched the face in the portrait as he walked out of the saloon.

The young museum visitor looked up from the journal. A crooked smile tugged on his mouth and his bright blue eyes danced at the memory.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A.K. Clausen has been well-steeped in a love of classic literature. Now she pours that love into her own writing. She lives in a forested realm that looks like she stepped into the pages of her stories. She enjoys time with family, exploring God’s creation, and sitting by a fire with tea and a good book. Above all, she strives to do all to the glory of the Great Author. Hebrews 12:2

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