The Gambler's Fate: Johnny Luck

The Gambling Den

The dimly lit room was filled with a haze of cigar smoke, chatter, and the unmistakable sound of cards being shuffled. Seated in the place was like being at home. Every off-key high note made by Kate, to the laughter of everyone finding amusement, had become familiar to me. Three years had passed, but they felt like a lifetime. The need for my gun had been replaced by the need for cards, but the stakes, they were always high. I sat at the poker table in Calico, a little town teetering on the edge of Mexico on pins and needles. The atmosphere was thick with tension and anticipation. Each of us at the table had something to prove. But for me, it was a different game altogether. Every card I held whispered secrets and promises, tales of fortune or misfortune. It wasn't magic, just an unusual connection, a gift I never asked for.

My current hand was a rotten one. By any logical means, it was a losing game. But that wasn't how I played. Hell, that wasn't even how I lived. I looked down, whispering to the cards, asking for their guidance for a guarantee. In turn, a peculiar sensation started to burn within my right hand. The same hand that had ended so many lives was now guiding mine. It screamed to trust, to believe that the next card would be my salvation. Across the table, Saltwater Slim, his round belly stretching the fabric of his fancy shirt, smirked at me, his eyes full of mischief. He was good; there was no denying that. Perhaps the best gambler many had ever seen. But today, he was facing me, John Ashford...Johnny Luck.

As he tempted me to raise, my neighbor to the left threw in his hand, frustration evident on his face. "Damn cards," he muttered, shaking his head.

A crowd began to form around our table, the whispers growing louder.

"Damn boys, Ol 'Johnny Luck is at it again," someone said; Slim shooting him a look.

Eyes darting from one hand to another, everyone was eager to see the showdown. It wasn't just a game of poker anymore, but a clash of titans.

"Dealer, be kind," I said with a grin, pushing all my chips to the center. "All in, Slim."

The room fell silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of an old clock hanging on the wall. The next card was revealed, and just as my hand had whispered, it was the one I needed.

Saltwater Slim's cool demeanor vanished. "Blasted dealer!" he bellowed, his face reddening.

Looking at Slim, I raked in my winnings, the man's eyes passing between me and the dealer as if to make sure he hadn't been played. The feel of the coins was cold and familiar against my palm. It was a feeling I'd grown fond of over the years. The cool metal reducing the heat of my lucky hand. With a nod to Saltwater Slim and a tip to the dealer, I left the table. The crowd parted, their murmurs turning into tales they'd tell for days. And as I walked out, the burning in my hand ceased, leaving behind a gentle itch of satisfaction. Another day, another gamble, and another win. Such was the life of John Ashford, the gambler who never lost.