Chapter 1

The blackguard simply folded at the waist as I continued to pump bullets into his gut. My Starr DA in .38 caliber may not have had the stopping power of a .44 revolver, but it could hold six bullets that could be pumped out in less than half the time that the common Colt single-action revolver could produce, even in the hand of the most skilled shootist.

My Starr DAs were conventional cap and ball revolvers that had been converted to use those wonderful .38 caliber metallic cartridges that had been introduced by Smith and Wesson only a year ago. I could swap out an empty cylinder for a full one in only 8-12 seconds. That, combined with carrying two of the double-action revolvers gave me more firepower than the average man could conceive of.

You may ask why I used the Navy version in .38 caliber instead of the Army version in .44 caliber, and the answer was simple. I wore my revolvers in shoulder holsters under my frock coat, and the fact that the weight of the lower caliber weapon was less than that of the .44 caliber revolver was very noticeable after several hours at the poker table.

Poker was my love, my avocation, and my profession. I have been a professional poker player for almost all of my adult life. My Grandpa taught me to play when I was barely old enough to hold five cards in my tiny little hands. He taught me everything he knew about the game, including how to cheat and how to spot cheaters. I started playing poker professionally at the age of 12, and I have never cheated in a single hand, though I admit that the temptation was there on occasion.

In my 10 years of playing poker, I have rarely been very low on funds. That was mostly because most men who thought they knew a lot about the game just had not put as much effort into learning all of the details of poker the way I have. I no longer have to calculate odds consciously as I did in my youth. Now, I simply know what my chances are the moment I see my hand and watch the other players draw their cards. I never carry less than $250 in gold and I often carry up to $1,000.

That’s why I need two guns. Too many people think that a poker player doesn’t know how to handle a gun, and I have spent a lot of my time showing them the error of their ways. I am an excellent shot up at to 10 yards in range, and I have never had a reason to shoot at a longer distance. The rapid fire of the double-action revolver and the six bullets it holds have served me very well.

Perhaps I should tell you more about myself. My mother had an overflowing romantic temperament, and that was why she named me Prince. Albert was my last name, and she felt that Prince Albert would make a fine name for her only son. I had six sisters, all older than me, so you can imagine the trials I had as a youngster. Not only that, my name earned me a lot of fights on the school yard and in town, so I grew into a boy who was experienced in taking care of himself and standing up to opposition.

I am of average size and weight, 5’-6” tall in my bare feet and weighing 139 pounds. My hair is light brown, some even call it a dark blond, and I have blue eyes. The rest of my features are “regular,” and some women have even called me handsome. I dress as a gentleman should, with a frock coat, a white shirt, and a cravat. My boots are always polished and they have a relatively low heel, since I ride a horse as little as possible.

I am armed at all times with my two Starr revolvers, a bowie knife in my left boot and a derringer in my right one. I am an adequate knife fighter, though, as any other sensible man, I much prefer to use my guns, and I have not yet had a need for my derringer, though I do keep it in firing condition at all times.

My Grandpa taught me poker because he said that plowing the soil or punching cattle should be jobs reserved for men with more brawn than brains. Since I appeared to be reasonably intelligent, he prepared me for the role of a poker professional. My father was killed in the War of Yankee Aggression, and that left Grandpa to be the only man of the family until I came along.

Grandpa supported the family by playing poker, of course, though I suspect that my mother may have worked as a prostitute at times when money was tight just after the end of the War. This was never discussed, and I am not sure where I might have picked up the idea, but that was life in the former Confederate States of America for several years.

As soon as he thought I was ready, I was almost 13 years old, Grandpa gave me $5 in silver and sent me to a saloon to try my hand at poker. For protection, I was carrying a very old and unreliable Colt Pocket Pistol, but it was something, and it did make me feel like a man.

I had some trouble getting into a game because the men figured that I was too young to know the courtesies of the poker table, but Grandpa had made sure that I knew all of that. Finally I did get into a game and played for just over two hours. At the end, I walked away with $13, so I did make my first entree into the world of professional poker a successful one.

The men might have objected to one so young walking away with so much of their money (20¢ a day was the current wage for a working man), but I was so courteous as I took their money that they did not think ill of me. I was even invited back for more playing whenever I was available. I could hardly wait to get home to tell Grandpa of my success!

Grandpa was very proud of me and sent me out the next evening to a different saloon with a bigger stake, $8 in silver this time. I returned with $19, and Grandpa considered retiring if I could keep up my winning streak. I had already made enough profit to feed us for the rest of the month!

As it turned out, my streak did continue, and I became the primary breadwinner for the family. This pleasant life continued for four years until the big Indian uprising in 1876. I was involved in several fights with the Comanches until that momentous occasion when our little town was attacked by a great mass of Comanches and wiped out. It turned out that I was the only survivor from my family.

I survived only because I had been slightly wounded in the head and knocked cold by the bullet as it struck my head. There was so much blood that the Comanches must of thought that I had already been scalped, so they did not bother with me. However, Grandpa, Ma, and four of my sisters were killed outright in the raid. My other two sisters were raped to death before the Comanches were satisfied.

Our house was built of adobe, and it was not burned significantly even though the Indians certainly tried to destroy it. I did not return to consciousness until the next day, and, by then, it was certainly too late to do anything for my family. It took me two days to bury all of them and search the house for any valuables that the Indians might have missed.

Fortunately, the Comanches were not interested in money or other such things, but they did take all of our horses and our one mule that Grandpa had for his carriage. They also took all of the guns and ammunition that they could find, so I was going to have to start over from scratch when it came to arming myself. I did find a total of $231.14 that the Indians did not want, so I did have something to start out with.

I did manage to struggle into town and found it in a horrendous mess. No one was around, and I searched through all of the buildings before I gave up. I looked in the most likely places and picked up another $117.42. Hell, by the standards of the day, I was rich. I also found some jerky to get by on, though I did have to scrape the dirt off of it before I could eat it.

Luckily for me, a railroad ran through the town, and I was able to hitch a ride on a train that came through the next day. The train was carrying soldiers headed for some fort, I’ve forgotten which one, and there was a surgeon on board who sewed up the big cut in my scalp that the bullet had made. He said that there was a crack in my skull, but no depression, so I should make a full recovery.