Blue Moon Over the Mogollon
A poker game, a special rifle, and
a family on the verge of change.
New Mexico Territories, 1877
CARD GAME #1 MORE THAN IT SEEMS
Card counting at first seems to be about numbers.
In the end, it is about numbers, but it also concerns rhythm.
It revolves around proportion.
-- Sallie Schildhauer, A Brief History of the Navigators
“Seven shuffles,” said Ma, looking young in her gingham dress.
“Seven’s my lucky number.”
Smiles around the card table.
“Both my kids were born on the seventh day of the month.”
The young mother nodded proudly towards her chatty 14-year-old daughter, Casey, and her sullen older child, Johnny.
It takes seven shuffles to clear a deck of cards. Seven ordinary shuffles mix the cards thoroughly, so that neither the dealer nor any of the players can know what card is coming, and when.
It was a card game of good will and fellowship in a Silver City saloon in the shadow of the wild Mogollons. Dealer’s Choice. The deal passed after each game.
“Five card draw,” Ma announced. “Deuces wild.”
The young mother, Margery, finished the sixth shuffle, then the seventh. She was not particularly, dexterous, and two cards flipped out of place. She reassembled the deck and smoothed its edges.
Ma dealt cards to each player around the table. One, two, three …
“Almanac says a Blue Moon starts tomorrow,” said the lawyer, Aynsley, as the cards were being dealt. Like most lawyers, he enjoyed the sound of his own voice.
“Ooooo,” cooed his wife, sitting nearby.
“Interestingly enough,” continued Aynsley, “the Blue Moon phenomenon is a result of Krakatoa. The volcano. The Polynesian volcano. It spread ash fifty miles into the stratosphere, you see. Billions of particles, each less than a micron in size. It acts as filter, scattering red light. Turning the moon blue. In appearance, that is. The moon itself is unchanged.”
Aynsley turned in four cards.
“Oooooo,” commented Mrs. Aynsley. “Can you imagine?”
“Yes. It is sometimes called the ‘betrayer’s moon,’ because it betrays our usual perceptions. Refraction. The air itself acts as a prism. No two of us see the same color, you know. The moon itself does not change, just the ways we experience it.
Morgan, the militia man, took three cards.
“I never knowed that,” said the farmer, Wills. “I seen blue moons, but I never knowed why.”
The farmer turned in two cards.
“Hey, this peanut bowl is empty,” Casey remarked to Angie, the sweet-faced saloon waitress. Angie walked behind the bar and emerged with a jar. She refilled all the peanut bowls on each table.
“Thanks,” said Casey.
The reference to ‘peanut bowl’ told the Mother to double her bet.
Ma pushed the chips forward, three blue and three white. Her motions were tentative, nothing bold enough to call attention.
Wills threw in his hand. “I’m out.”
“Haw!” said Morgan. He matched Ma’s bet, and raised her.
“Ma, can we go soon?” said Casey, fifteen-year-old daughter. “I’m in agony.”
The use of the word ‘agony’ indicated a dearth of Aces yet to be played.
A lackage.
No more Aces.
Stop chasing the royal straight, urged Casey silently. What are you doing?
Ma took two cards.
“And what’s a fine little family like yours doing in Silver City, in these wild times?” Aynsley asked Ma.
“We’re holding a little gun repair clinic tomorrow,” answered Ma. “You should come.”
“And after that?” asked Mrs. Aynsley.
“We’re on our way to Albuquerque. My husband’s waiting for us.”
“Well, keep an eye out for Apaches and the like between here and Albuquerque,” clucked the lawyer’s wife. “We’ve heard of highwaymen.”
Ma matched Aynsley’s bet. Morgan did the same.
“T’wouldn’t be Apache, ma’am,” said the farmer, Wills. “Comanche, mebbe. Or jes’ plain crooked folks. Lotsa them around.”
With a mouthful of peanuts, Casey began to hum, softly. It was Stephen Foster’s song, “O’ Hard Times, Come No More.”
The Stephen Foster song signaled an emergency.
Fold.
Quit the game.
Now!
Ignoring all the signals they had practiced, and reviewed, over and over, Ma raised the bet again. She pushed two handfuls of chips towards the center of the table.
“Whoa!” exclaimed Morgan.
Casey hummed, softly singing the second verse, about wraiths at the door. Ma paid no attention.
Morgan matched the bet.
Aynsley did the same.
“Call.”
Ma turned over her cards.
Full house.
Ma won.
She made no move to collect her winnings, Aynsley and Wills chivalrously doing so for her.
“We gotta go,” said Casey, standing at her Mother’s shoulder, something she had never done.
“One more hand, dear -- ” protested Ma.
“Do stay, Margery,” urged Aynsley. “Give us the chance to win it back -- ”
“Weren’t that much, sir,” said Casey. “And we got the clinic tomorrow -- ”
“She’s a grown woman,” objected Mrs. Aynsley.
“Did you not hear what I said?”
Casey had turned to face the lawyer’s wife directly.
This was an entirely different young woman speaking now.
Behind her, Johnny stood up.
His right hand hovered beside his belt, on the right side, where a bulge in his jacket suggested a holster and pistol.
“No, Casey’s right.”
Ma excused herself.
“I do get run-down easily.
“Thank you, thank you all. Good night.”
“My my! Tempers do flare in these times!” complained Mrs. Aynsley. “How strange …”
“Must be the Blue Moon, dear.” Mr. Aynsley shuffled.
“Nine card stud, gentlemen.”
The card game resumed.
The little family retired up the stairs.
