Game of Chicken, A

Harold Reno awoke to find himself on the floor of a cell in the Mossy Gulch jailhouse. His head throbbed as he tried to lift it from his own dress shoes he used as pillows. His nice cape, partially covering his torso, slipped to the cold, stone floor. As much as his head ached, it felt fine and dandy compared to his left eye.

His stomach churned from the smell of clay, farm animals, and unfortunate bodily odors drifting from the potbellied, passed-out drunk snoring from the floor of the adjacent cell.

"Morning," said a voice from the other side of the bars.

The drunk snorted like a prize-winning hog, then returned to his deep sleep. Harold's head throbbed with the man's every rhythmic snore. His left eye tried to bring the blur of Earth-tone colors into focus. His right eye did much better focusing on the voice.

Sheriff Garret Adams handed him a damp cloth and a mug of water. "Here. One if for yer eye. The other for what I assume is a nasty headache. I don't right care which you use for which."

Harold mumbled his thanks. He took a sip of the water, which quenched his dry throat and made his headache mildly better. He folded the damp cloth and carefully dabbed his tender eye. "Do you mind telling me how I ended up in this cell?"

"Don't mind a'tall. Based on what happened at the saloon last night, I figured you might need a place to sleep. Somewhere with a little more protection than the inn."

Harold cleared his throat to ask, "Why should I need protection?"

The sheriff shrugged and said, "Finding you out cold with a black eye, I figured someone might be thinkin' you were some kind of cheat."

"As much as I appreciate your actions, I assure you, sir, I am no cheat."

"Sudsy, Sandy, and Luke tell me otherwise. I am a fair sheriff. I tend to look the other way when the fellers want to blow off steam playin' cards, even when money's involved. Those fellers say you might've cheated. Knowin' those boys, they might be poor losers. Figured I might wanna hear yer side of the story."

"From what I recall," Harold started as he pulled himself up to sit on the bench attached to the cell's back wall. "I did join the gentlemen for cards. I'm sorry. What is so funny?"

"'Gentlemen' is not the word I'd use to describe Sandy and Luke. Sudsy, maybe. Sorry. Just find that funny. Please continue," Sheriff Adams said. With his chuckle contained, he motioned for Harold to continue his side of the story.

Harold swayed as he attempted to put on his shoes. "As I was saying, after a few rounds, it became obvious my winnings increased, while theirs diminished. One of them, Sandy I believe, asked what I did for a living, and I informed him I was an accountant."

"Accountant? What's that? Does that mean you are good at a-countin' cards?" Sheriff Adams asked.

"That is precisely what Luke asked. I assured all three of them of the falseness of their accusation. Being an accountant means I am merely good with handling money and probabilities. The closest occupation they could imagine was a banker, and I agreed that role was close enough. With their minds placated for the moment, we continued playing, and I strived to be a less aggressive winner. I remained ahead of the others as we continued playing. We imbibed several drinks and shared a few laughs. I am sorry, but my recollection gets fuzzy after that."

"Let me help. Do you recall a card fallin' out of that fancy cape of yers?" the Sheriff asked, pointing at the cape still laying on the floor.

"Yes, sir, that does ring a bell." Harold leaned over, grabbed the cape, shook the dust from it before folding it neatly and set it beside him on the bench. "Although still a blur, that is coming back to me. Yes. It was one card. One card and one time! One accidental time! From what I remember, a card did fall out of my cape. I have no clue how it got there. It is possible the card fell into the lining as I draped my cape over my shoulders. I only wore the cape because of the draftiness of the saloon!"

"So, you don't deny you had a card hidin' in your cape?"

"No, sir, I do not deny that it was there, but I remain adamant I did not put it there! I am not a cheat!"

"From what the boys tell me, it was a Three of Clubs."

"Why on Heaven and Earht would I conceal a Three of Clubs? If I were to conceal cards upon my person, why would I not hide ones of greater rank? Now as we discuss that misplaced card, I believe that was the moment one of my opponents resorted to fisticuffs! I appreciate the accommodations, but believe I have been wronged! Perhaps it is they who should be in here, and not I!"

The sheriff rubbed his chin and said, "Well, sir, you seem like an honest fella. But, the boys," he rubbed his chin and shook his head, "With thoughts of you a-countin' cards..."

"Probabilities!" Harold corrected.

"...and a-hidin' cards..."

"An unfortunate accident!"

"The boys were a might upset with you takin' most of their money. Perhaps you should hand over those winnings to me, and I can settle it up with the boys. You can call it rent for the night, or bail."

"I call it robbery! I won that money fair and square!"

"The boys are awfully sore with you walking away with all your winnin's. If they catch wind of you goin' free, they are bound to come after you to take back what they lost."

"That is unfair! Robbery is a crime!"

"So is gamblin'. And a sin," the sheriff said, shrugging.

Harold threw down the damp cloth. He paced and huffed and puffed. He muttered the unfairness of it all not entirely under his breath.

"Tell you what..."

Harold stopped pacing and faced the sheriff through the bars, arms folded tightly across his chest. "Sir?"

"I'll make you a deal. Since you like games, you and I will play our own game. One round. If I win, you return the money to them fellers."

"And if I win?"

"You are free to go. No bail. No rent. You keep all the money. But, I suggest you finish up any business and leave town before the fellers do come after you. Deal?"

Harold seemed skeptical. He narrowed his eyes, winced at the pain from this left eye, and said, "What game shall we play?"

"How about a game of Chicken?" Sheriff Adams suggested.

Harold looked confused. "You mean we ride horses at each other until one of us steers our horse out of the way or gets thrown from our saddle?"

"No, not joustin'! I'm talking about a game of Chicken."

"Precisely. Where I am from, two people drive horse-drawn carriages towards each other, forcing one of the drivers to swerve out of the way to avoid a collision. I assumed we would forego the carriages to avoid incurring any cost of damages."

"That games sounds pretty dumb. Why would anyone risk a perfectly good carriage or spook their horse? And, how does the chicken figure into any of that?"

Harold shrugged. "Yes, it is quite absurd. How is your variation played?"

Before the sheriff could explain the rules, the drunk in the next cell, still not entirely sober and whom Harold assumed was still passed out, called out, "Don't play chicken with the sheriff, mister accountant!"

"Hush up, Fred," the sheriff said, not taking his eyes off Harold.

"Why not? Why shouldn't I play?" Harold asked, turning to Fred. Fred's loud snoring continued.

"Do you wanna to play, or not? Take a moment to think it over."

Harold thought it over, playing the probabilities in his head. On the one hand, as much as the sheriff emphasized how fair he was, the situation was unfair. On the other hand, the sheriff did listen to his side of the story. When it came to probabilities of the ultimatum he faced, the worst case scenario would be to walk away with what he already had prior to the previous night. Unless the sheriff was not as honest and fair as he made himself out to be. The best case scenario, he kept his winnings. Essentially, he had nothing to lose. Harold agreed to play.

---

On the way to Chester Fields' farm, Sheriff Adams explained the rules to Harold. "All of Chester's chickens are tagged with a number. This helps him keep track of his flock. The way the game works, we each take turns catchin' a chicken to read its number. We will get someone else to count cards from a deck until they reach the number on that chicken. That card will be added to that player's hand. The best of five cards wins. You with me?"

Harold nodded. Essentially, they were to play a hand of poker using cards picked by chickens. "What if there is a tie?"

"We play another hand. Fair enough?"

"Agreed. Any tips on how to catch a chicken?"

"Don't let 'em peck you. Chickens hurts like the Dickens. Care to go first?"

"Fine. How difficult can it be to catch a chicken?" Harold rolled up his sleeves as they approached the chicken pen. A wood-paneled wall about waist high surrounded the pen. Chester opened the gate to let them into the pen. As the chickens scattered away from the two men entering the pen, Harold felt skeptical of the ease of catching chickens.

After closing the gate, Sheriff Adams handed a well-worn deck of cards to the farmer. "Do you mind dealin'?"

"Not a'tall," Chester said. He shuffled the cards from one hand into the other.

"Show us how it's done, city boy," Sheriff said. He leaned against a fence post.

Harold crouched down, opened his arms wide and said, "Come here, chickens."

The sheriff covered his smile with his hand. Chester flat out laughed. "You'll never catch one that way, mister. You gotta go after 'em."

Hunched over with arms stretched out in front of him, Harold walked towards the chickens. The flock parted like the Red Sea. He quickened his pace, and the chickens burst into a flurry of clucks, flapping wings, and feathers. Eventually, he caught one. After a couple of sharp pecks on his arm, Harold managed to read the number to Chester, who counted out the cards. "Nine o' clubs!" Chester announced.

Not bad, Harold thought.

Chester wedged the card into the a gap between a wood panel and the post.

Harold let go of the chicken and retreated to the fence next to his card. The chicken quickly mixed into the rest of the flock.

It was the sheriff's turn. Instead of wadding into the flock, the sheriff looked over all the chickens. He pointed at one pecking at a weed, and gave a sharp whistle through his teeth. The chicken snapped to attention and walked straight to the sheriff. Standing at the sheriff's feet, the bird held out its leg with the tag. The sheriff tilted his head and read out the number to Chester. As if nothing odd had just happened, Chester counted out the cards. "Three o' Diamonds!"

Harold froze, dumbfounded, jaw dropped. The sheriff failed to share how good he was at Chicken.

"You keep that mouth of yours open, you'll catch more flies than frogs," the Sheriff said to Harold. "Yer turn."

Harold closed his mouth. So far, he was ahead, but not by a lot. Still anyone's game. He had attended the university to study accounting, and had never learned to whistle, sharp or a tune. He did learn from his own mistakes, and was able to catch his next chicken a bit quicker, but still managed to get clawed and pecked in the process.

"Two o' Spades!" Chester announced.

Once again, the sheriff hypnotized a chicken who walked straight to him and held out its leg.

"Five o' Diamonds!"

Harold still led with a nine high card. He avoided injury with his next chicken.

"Six o' Hearts!"

What was up with all these low cards? Where were the face cards hiding?

The sheriff's next card troubled Harold. An Ace of Diamonds. The sheriff had three cards with three diamonds. He had a chance of a flush if he drew two more diamonds. Not only that, there was also a chance of the second highest straight, although slightly less probable with Harold holding one of the possible Twos. The Two of Diamonds was still out there, which would increase the possibility of a straight flush. Still, what were the odds?

Around this time, Sudsy, Sandy, and Luke showed up. They stayed on the other side of the fence and chatted with Chester. Sandy hollered, "Where's yer luck, now?"

Harold had luck on his side. Bad luck. Harold's next card was another low card. The Five of Clubs. The sheriff's card...the Two of Diamonds.

"Shoulda wore yer fancy cape, city boy!" Luke jeered. "Yer gonna need a pull a miracle outta somewhere!"

It took Harold longer to catch his last chicken. He let the probability of the sheriff winning, Luke's and Sandy's taunts, and his throbbing headache get to him. Finally, he caught a chicken and read its number to Chester.

"Ace of Spades!" Yes! Finally, a bit of good luck in his favor. Still the odds of the sheriff getting a flush, straight, or straight flush felt incredibly high.

"It's not too late to give up," Sheriff Adams said, "Ain't nobody gonna think any less of you if you walk away now."

Harold pictured in his mind the sheriff pointing to the Four of Diamonds and the card jumping right up onto the fence with the rest of the cards to complete a straight flush.

Harold shook his head. "No. I am not the chicken in this game. Let's play this out."

The shreiff nodded. Like the previous four, the sheriff called his last chicken over, who held out its leg. He read Chester the number. Chester counted out the cards. Harold pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed the sweat from his brow. Sudsy, Sandy, and Luke held their breath, their eyes popped out of their head in anticipation of the last card.

"Eight of Clubs!"

Sheriff Garrett Adams extended his hand to Harold. Harold stared at it for a moment. He thought the sheriff wanted the money, but no, his hand was extended to congratulate him. It took a moment longer for Harold's brain to switch back on to let him know his ace-nine high barely beat the sheriff's ace-eight high. He slowly extended his own hand.

As they shook hands, the sheriff smiled and said, "Good game of Chicken, Mister Reno. Well played."

Still not entirely convinced he won, Harold muttered, "Yes. Quite. Good game, sir."

As the sheriff and Harold exited the chicken pen, Sudsy, Sandy, and Luke congratulated Harold on a mighty fine game of Chicken. They shook his hand, too, and patted him on the back. They said they had never seen such a tense game of Chicken, and apologized if things got out of hand from the night before.

---

Back at the Mossy Gulch jailhouse, Harold Reno gathered his cape from the cell and the contents of his pockets from Sheriff Adams, including his winnings from the fellers. Sudsy, Sandy, and Luke followed them to the jailhouse to see Harold off. Even Fred woke up long enough to express his admiration of besting the sheriff in a game of Chicken. Sheriff Adams helped arrange a coach to take Harold to the nearest train station to return him to his city life. Everyone parted on good terms.

As Harold's coach rumbled down the street and out of sight, Sudsy asked the sheriff, "Do you reckon you shoulda told him he passed out for drinkin' a might much?"

"Yep. I reckon so."

"I was just tryin' to catch him b'fore he hit the corner of the table," Luke said.

"Yeah. You missed the city boy, and hemissed the table and hit my knee, instead," Sandy added.

"I reckon you're right, boys. I shoulda told him what really happened. I don't know about you, but I sure like to watch them city fellers play a good game of Chicken."

---

For this story, I used the Writing Prompt Generator . My prompt was...

Story Genre : Western
Scenario : Game of chicken
Location : Prison Cell
Occupation : Accountant
Personality Trait : Fickle
Object : Cape
Bonus Writing Challenge : Avoid using the letter T

I featured most of the elements of the prompt apart from the Bonus Challenge. I was not up for trying to find a non-T way of saying "accountant". Plus, four of the number cards include Ts, and "straight" includes two Ts. I did not want that big of a challenge. No bonus for me. (Sad trombone)

Also, I am using my blog to present this story. Eventually, it will find its way to the collection of fiction. I recently updated my computer, and some of the software I use for self-publishing is not behaving at the moment. So, here it is...Temporarily. That, and I am considering a few changes with how I will present my fiction on this website. More on that in a later blog.

It has been a while since I have shared new fiction, beyond my current WIP(s) with my peer writing group. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Thank you, everyone!

Dougie Schwartz

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An original Schwartz Story inspired by a randomly generated prompt about a city slicker seeking his freedom by playing a small town sheriff in a game of Chicken. #fiction - https://www.checkeredscissors.com?cat=blog-181