“Not me ya have to worry about. I give ’im best I could and didn’t kill him. Zahn might be another story.”
“What do you mean, best you could?”
“Just that. I couldn’t see well enough to get past his arms, and the dog kept jerkin’ him around.”
Van Dyke half rose from his chair. “You were deliberately trying to kill him?”
“Buell!” Simon turned to confront him. “Better not say any more. Ya hear me?”
“I asked him a direct question, Mister Steele. I’ll thank you not to interrupt. Go on, Mister Mace.”
Buell looked at Simon, then Amos, and Amos shook his head. “I’ve said what happened,” Buell continued. “It’s in that paper you have in your hands. All of it.”
“How do you know what’s in this?” He waved the two sheets.
“We know you’ve tried to paint Missus Tapola in a less-than-favorable light,” Simon said. “We also know T. P. Triffet and your commander have told you different. We also know that unless you can find premeditation on somebody’s part, you have to cope with the ‘mess,’ as you call it.”
Rage boiled up in the captain’s face, the veins in his forehead pulsing. “You nearly beat a man to death, Mister Mace. You could have just as easily restrained him and brought him here for justice.”
“Didn’t see that as a choice,” Buell said. “The bastard was abusin’ a lady and my friend. The fact that you’re willin’ to defend him puts you down there with ’im.” Buell’s tone was low and steady, his eyes fixed on the enraged officer.
“Are you threatening me?” Van Dyke shouted.
“Seems you think so.”
The door burst open and a sergeant came in, his pistol at the ready.
“Get out!” Van Dyke screamed at him. The sergeant blinked once, and scrambled out.
“And you get out . . . all of you.” He was standing now, spittle in the corners of his mouth. “You’re rabble of the lowest order. You give the United States a black name. Get out!”
The three men rose from their chairs and started toward the door.
“If I had my way, those places you and Evans run would be burned to the ground.”
Amos jerked to a halt and turned around. “And if you had your way, the German bastard would have gotten away clean. So much fer yer army justice, Captain.”
They walked out, leaving the captain red-faced and trembling.
Zahn pushed the door shut with exaggerated care and stepped to Simon’s desk. Simon knew he had just visited Lori upstairs, and he hadn’t been looking forward to seeing him. “I’m sorry, Zahn. Really sorry. How is she?”
“I don’t know what to do to you, Simon.” Zahn’s hands clenched and unclenched.
“And I don’t know what to tell you, Zahn. I feel responsible for—”
“You are responsible! Let’s get that straight right now. I hold you responsible.” His eyes blinked rapidly and his hands shook.
“And I accept that. I had no idea she was outside.”
“When I came here, I thought you were one of the most honest fellas I had ever met. And decent. I felt perfectly safe leaving my wife alone with you in this place.”
“I appreciate that. I thought we were taking care of her.”
“By making her work sixteen hours, and serving a bunch of foreigners who you knew she didn’t like? Who you knew were making things difficult for her. That’s taking care of her?”
Simon could not meet his friend’s eyes. He watched the rapid rise and fall of Zahn’s chest as he struggled.
“If I had my way, she wouldn’t be upstairs now,” Zahn continued. “But you know as well as I do, she’s as stubborn as they come, and she takes the blame for this.”
“She shouldn’t and—”
“I know that! You put makin’ an extra dollar ahead of her, Simon, and I ain’t never gonna forgive ya for that.” Zahn walked to the door, and jerked it open, then turned around. “And she still trusts you, Simon, damn your soul.”
Simon sat in stunned silence, looking at the empty doorway, as Zahn’s words burned into his conscience.
CHAPTER 19
Simon was standing at the bar talking to Twiggs when the screen door banged shut. He glanced up at the back-bar mirror and recognized the man wearing a long, light-colored duster and a brown hat. Quinn. Simon turned around.
“Hello, Mister Steele. Mister Twiggs.” Quinn sauntered across the floor toward them.
“Mister Quinn,” Simon said. “I apologize, but I don’t remember your first name.”
“Farrel. As in wild, only spelled with an ‘a.’ ” He stuck out his hand.
“Good to see you again.” Simon hoped the lie wasn’t too obvious. “Come to visit, or on your way?” He recoiled mentally at the gambler’s feminine handshake.
“Thought I’d stay a week or so, and see if I could take some more of your money.” He chuckled, then looked at Twiggs. “How’re ya doing, Max?”
“Fine. Well into the summer now, so everybody’s ready to come out and play.” He shook the extended hand. “How’re things back East?”
“Don’t know, spent the winter in New Orleans. I like that place. Ya still got that Creole gal here?”
“Yeah, she’s here, in number four.”
“I see ya got those little houses finished. This is really nice.” He swept his arm toward the long mirrored back bar.
“Picked it up cheap,” Simon said. “I’ve got work to do, but let me buy you your first drink.”
“Okay. Think I’ll have a beer. Still got the games going at night?”
“Yeah, there’s always one or two Friday and Saturday. Depends on who’s around.”
A few seconds later, Twiggs set the glass of beer on the bar.
“Thanks, Max.” Quinn picked it up and quaffed about a third of it. Putting it down, he winked at Twiggs. “That’s good.”
Simon headed for his office.
“I’ll see ya later, then,” Quinn said.
That evening, the saloon filled with loud and boisterous men who apparently thought the more noise they made, the more fun they’d have. The smoke, almost a living thing, hovered about seven feet off the floor. Periodically, it fled out the front door and into the night as a bladder-plagued patron went out the back. The air was warm and thick, heavy with the smell of coal oil, sweat, liquor, and bad breath. Buell felt the dull throb of an impending headache. He had intended to join Amos at the table for some cards, but, as he looked over the milling crowd, he decided he had best sit tight. He caught Twiggs’s eye and brought his empty beer glass to his lips, signaling. Twiggs pointed at the pump handle and Buell nodded.
The game he’d wanted to join was going on only a few feet away, and Buell could see Amos’s cards all the time and catch occasional glimpses of Saint Louis Bob’s. Farrel Quinn and another gambler, whom he didn’t know, were playing, as were Rosie and Kent Berggren. The play had been fairly even, with Rosie up a little at the moment. Quinn had just dealt a new hand. Rosie fanned his cards open slowly, and Amos leaned back to give Buell a clear view of three nines. Amos needlessly sorted his cards, then closed the hand and waited.
At that moment, Twiggs walked up and handed Buell his beer. “Gawd, it’s noisy tonight. You’d think these fools hadn’t been out of the barn for months.”
“Yeah, and smoky. I’m gettin’ a real skull-splitter. Maybe this’ll help.” Buell took a pull on his beer.
“Need another, just holler.” Twiggs started to leave.
“Do you know that new feller sittin’ at Amos’s table?” Buell asked.
Twiggs stopped. “Says his name’s Weston. Come up from Cheyenne.” His eyebrows shot up in anticipation of another question.
“Okay. Didn’t recognize him. Thanks fer the beer.”
Twiggs nodded and made his way back to the bar.
Buell scanned the pulsing mob, then went back to watching the card game. Weston appeared to be a young man, early twenties. Unlike everyone else at the table, he didn�
�t wear a hat, and his friendly, open face invited trust. He caught Buell looking at him, and beamed a big smile in his direction. Buell nodded back, feeling neither friendly nor trusting. He was truly grateful there was no piano player for the instrument standing against the wall only five feet away.
Apparently, Rosie had opened because Bob threw five dollars in the pot. Amos raised him ten, and Kent folded. Weston and Quinn made eye contact for an instant, and then Weston looked at Amos. “Raise ya twenty,” Weston said. The gold coins hit the table. Quinn folded his hand and looked to his left.
Rosie peeked at his cards, exposing one corner at a time as though sneaking up on the pips might change them. Then he closed the fan. “Crap.” He threw down his hand and slumped back in his chair.
Bob breathed a long sigh, and slid his cards slowly toward the pot. “Fold,” he said glumly.
Amos picked up two twenty-dollar gold pieces and dropped them in the pot. Then, he laid his hand down on the table and leaned back. “Cost ya twenty more.”
Buell watched Weston’s face closely. There wasn’t a sign of apprehension or concern on his face, and he shoved two double eagles across the table and into the pot. “And twenty.”
Amos picked another coin off his stack and dropped it in the middle of the table. “Four of ’em,” he said with a smile and turned over his nines.
“Lookee here,” Rosie said with a chuckle. He smiled across the table at Weston.
Weston, not a ripple of emotion showing, laid his hand out on the table. Four kings!
“Gawdammit!” Amos said as Weston pulled the money toward his cache.
Quinn’s face started to color. “Kings are a killer,” he said loudly and cleared his throat. “I’m glad it’s your deal, Rosie, if I can’t do any better for myself than that.” He gathered the cards, squared the deck, and dropped it in front of the scowling teamster.
“Not me. I lose every time I deal.” Rosie passed the deck to Bob.
“Let me buy ya a drink,” Weston said with a smile. He stacked his coins neatly, then raised his hand and waved at Twiggs.
Twiggs hailed one of the women moving about the saloon. She soon stood by the table. The six players ordered their drinks and she went to the bar.
“I gotta take a leak,” Amos said. He stood and headed for the back door.
Buell followed him. When they got to Simon’s office door, Buell stepped inside.
“We got a card cheat, Simon. New guy that’s playing at Amos’s table.”
“You sure? I’m sorry,” he added quickly as Buell flushed. “What did ya see?”
“Amos had three pat nines and drew another. Weston, the new guy, had four kings dealt. And he knew it.”
“How so?” Simon asked.
“He just did, dammit. I’ve been watching players for more nights than I can remember, and nobody gets dealt four kings and just sits there like nothin’ happened.”
“But it does happen.”
Buell blew out a puff of air. “And Quinn and him were in it together. They were lookin’ at each other.”
“Ya can’t not look.” Simon held his hand up, palm out. “Now wait a minute, I can see your temper comin’ up. What you’re sayin’ is that Quinn knew what Weston and Amos had.”
“That’s right.”
“Well . . . how?”
“I don’t know. Lacey said they can mark a deck. I’m going to get that one and look at it.”
“What’s goin’ on?” Amos asked from the door.
“Buell says you just got skinned.”
“Bullshit. That’s just cards. I had a bettin’ hand, and so did that new guy.”
“You don’t think he’s cheating?” Simon asked.
“Hell, no. How would he know what I had? That was a new deck.”
“Well, I’m gonna look at it anyway.” Buell stepped back into the saloon and went over to the bar.
“Max, I want a new deck at Amos’s table.”
“Just did that. Bob asked for it when they got their whiskey.”
“Dammit. Where’s the old one?”
“Right here.” Twiggs reached under the bar and handed Buell the pack.
“You sure this is the same one?”
“Yeah. The other two games are still using the same decks. Why ya asking?”
“I don’t like the way that last hand went.”
“Neither did Amos,” Twiggs said with a chuckle.
“I mean, I think someone is cheating. I’m serious.”
“Well, all right. I guess you can keep that deck and look at it if ya want. Just let Amos know you have it.”
“He knows, and so does Simon.”
Buell put the deck in his vest pocket and went back to his stool. The six players sat studying their cards.
“Fold,” Rosie said and he slapped his cards down on the table. “You can’t deal any better than me.” He glowered at Bob.
Saturday night was a repeat of Friday, with Quinn and Weston again at Amos’s table. The same people played with the exception of Kent Berggren, his place taken by an army trooper. Buell had studied the deck Twiggs had given him the night before for over an hour. He paid particular attention to the nines and kings but had been unable to detect anything wrong. The game had been going on for over four hours. Amos and the soldier were the winners, Amos doing the best. Then it happened again. This time the heavy betting came from the soldier, with Weston calling and raising. And, as Buell expected, Weston won over a hundred and fifty dollars with four queens against four sevens.
“That does me,” the trooper said. “Thought I had ya.”
“Ya bet ’em when ya see,” Weston said. “It’s what I like about the game.”
“Do you do this for a livin’?” Rosie asked.
“Nope. I work for a cattle buyer in Cheyenne. Heard about yer place and decided to come up for a week. Glad I did.” He flashed his bright smile at the soldier. “Can I buy ya a drink?”
“Sure,” replied the trooper. “No hard feelings.”
“I gotta go outside for a minute.” Weston stood. “Come on, I’ll get ya that whiskey.”
“Ya gonna keep playing?” Saint Louis Bob asked, speaking up for the first time.
“Not me. I’m busted,” the trooper said.
“I’ll be back,” Weston said as he slid his winnings into a leather bag. “I just gotta get rid of a couple beers.”
They walked up to the bar, and when Weston headed out the back way, Buell got off his high chair and followed.
Outside, Buell, moving as quietly as he could, hurried to catch up with Weston. Just as they reached the privy, Buell poked his pistol between the man’s shoulder blades. “Keep right on walkin’.” Weston’s back stiffened and he stopped. Buell applied a little pressure. “Go on down by the river.”
Weston didn’t move. “What do you want? I left my money on the table.”
“I know that ain’t true. But I’m not after yer money.” He jabbed the narrow back again. “Git.”
They arrived at the river’s edge, and Buell stepped back.
Weston turned around slowly. “What do you want?” His voice was even, with no sign of panic or fear.
“I want to know how a man can be dealt four of a kind two nights in a row.”
“I wasn’t dealing.”
“I don’t need you to tell me that.” Buell could feel his anger rising.
“Look, Mister Lacey, I don’t look for trouble, and I don’t want any here.”
“Look or not, you got it. I see cheatin’ at the table, and you’re the one comin’ out with the heavy poke. You tell me what I should think.”
Weston stood silent, staring at Buell in the dim light. His gaze dropped to Buell’s pistol. “I needed the money.”
Buell sniffed derisively. “I damn well knew it. You son of a bitch. I knew it.”
“So what’re you going to do about it?” Weston’s voice was not quite steady.
“How are ya doin’ it?”
Weston glanced to
ward the back of the saloon. “I’m not.” He licked his lips.
The metallic crackle as Buell cocked the Remington widened Weston’s eyes. “I’ll ask ya one more time. How?”
“Quinn’s doin’ it.” Weston blurted the admission.
“Quinn?”
“Uh-huh.” The reply came quickly. “He came by the place I play at in Cheyenne. Took me for over five hundred dollars. He was taking my paper since I didn’t have the cash. Afterward, he told me I could get it all back and then some if I’d agree to come up here and give him a hand.”
“Do you split with him?”
“Not yet. So far he’s got it all. I’m supposed to see him tomorrow morning sometime. He gets it then.”
“And how does he do it?”
“I don’t know, honest. He must mark the cards or something.”
Buell shook his head. “Bullshit. I looked at the deck from last night. There’s not a mark on ’em. ’Sides that, those are our cards, fresh packs every night.”
“He said to wait for three or four face cards to come, and then call and raise. That’s what I did.”
Another long pause ensued while Buell stared at Weston, and Weston stared at the cocked pistol.
Finally, Buell lowered the hammer and jammed the weapon back in his holster. “You don’t want to think about touchin’ the Smith you got tucked in your belt.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Weston said, his voice almost a whisper. He swallowed hard. “So, now what?”
“Ain’t you I want to settle,” Buell said. He took half a step toward Weston. “But you’re no longer welcome here. I want you to go back inside, play a few hands, and then leave. When you do, let ’em know you need another trip to the privy, then go find your horse and ride out . . . quietly.”
“And that’s it?”
“Not quite. You know that little house by the stables?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s where I live.”
“And?”
“That’s where I want you to leave the money you stole from that soldier. Throw the poke under the porch. I’ll find it.”
“Okay.”
“You know I’ll come lookin’ fer ya. Right?”
“I’ve heard. I’ll leave it. And . . . thanks.”
“Jist remember, you’re not welcome. Now finish your business, and go back inside.” Buell turned abruptly and walked quickly toward the saloon.
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