Cherokee Poker, 1876

To any novice
Watching the card game
Our conversation
Seemed harmless
Banter.

It was not.

It was threat
Lethal in escalation.

Isolating on words
He used repeatedly
I perceived intent.

So I did not disengage.

I countered his thrust
With my parry.

I made contact.
He flinched
But slightly.

His next effort
Was a bit less invisible
And the eyes of others
At the table
Fixed upon us.

He called me a bald-faced liar
And a cheat.
Fairly direct, I thought.

Long ago I learned
When it’s time to play your hand
Do it deftly.
With purpose.
Boldly.

So I did what I knew.

I told him if he did not apologize immediately
I would show him to be
The dainty
Foul-smelling
Pig-kissing
Slop-eared
Snake-bellied
Son of a bitch
Cherokee
Mule skinner
I knew him to be.

He could not walk away from that.

This time he flinched more noticeably.
His honor now much in question
He would have to match my mouth
Or leave with his tail tucked
Between the crack of his hog-like ass.

Or he could kill me.

He sputtered
Blew fumes
Turned crimson
And blustered
Declaring my scalp
Would flutter from his lodge pole
In the morning.

Or words to that effect.

That provided grounds
Upon which any jury of my peers
Would agree.

So I shot him.

And I was right about the jury…
Except for one detail.
They are hanging me in the morning.

But I can keep my scalp.