“That’s the very least. But I don’t think I’d say anything jist yet. You have so much as told him the only thing he could really count on, yer friendship, is gittin’ shaky. He’s feelin’ a little exposed right now. Let ’im cool off a little.”
“Okay. I was feeling a little surrounded is all. I don’t need to do this anymore. The little houses at the ranch have paid me back a lot of money. I’m rich by many standards. You told me once, that if a man gets unhappy, he oughta move on. I can see that now.”
“Didn’t mean ya should jist run off. There’s a big difference. Leavin’ has to be a choice, not a condition. Any other way and you won’t think much of yerself later.”
Simon shook his head. “Did ya ever think about writing some of that stuff down. You know, like in a journal.”
“Naw, ain’t nothin’ but common sense. If a mule could talk, he’d put us all to shame.”
“I don’t know, Tay. You sure have a way of putting it all in a neat little bundle.”
“And whatcha think makes that bundle neat, Simon? Ya don’t put nothin’ in there ya don’t need. Folks have a habit of packin’ too much stuff. And that’s what yer startin’ to do. Don’t pack around the clutter, Simon.”
Relaxed for the first time in a week, Simon spent the next hour or so talking with Tay about the country west, the vastness, the purity and the loneliness of the high country.
CHAPTER 22
Buell walked into the office and pushed the door shut. Startled, Simon looked at the scowl on Buell’s face and put his pen down. Buell had not ventured into the office since the incident by the river, nearly a month before. Even as contrary as his friend looked, Simon was glad to see him standing there. “Mornin’ Buell. Devil after ya?” Simon tried to make his voice sound light and easy.
“I just saw Quinn.” Buell folded his lanky body into a chair, his scowl intact.
“So. He’s a customer. Not the first time he’s been here.”
“You know damn well what I mean.” Buell’s temper flared.
Simon sighed. “I know. Please try to keep a hold of your—”
“The sonuvabitch is a cheat. And I hate cheats.”
Simon leaned back in his chair, tired with disappointment. “I don’t want to preach, but—”
“Then don’t!” Buell sat up straight in his chair and glared.
“But we aren’t exactly snow white ourselves,” Simon continued. “If Barrschott was still here, we’d be taking everything we could from the army.”
“Gawdammit, Simon, it’s not the same. He stealin’ from us.”
“That doesn’t make sense, Buell.”
“I’m not here to make sense. I’m here to tell you I’m going to play one of these nights, and if I catch the sumbitch cheatin’, I’m gonna make him wish he’d stayed in Cheyenne, or wherever the hell he come from this time.”
“Don’t start something that’ll get the army in here, again.” Simon regretted the challenge as soon as he made it.
“Don’t tell me what to start or not start.” Buell stood up. “I don’t work for you.”
“Amos is going to see it my way.”
Buell stared, his eyebrows raised in amazement. “You’d go to Amos?”
“If you’re thinkin’ what I think you are, yes.”
Buell leaned over the desk. “I’m askin’ ya not to. Fella like Quinn needs to be taught a lesson.”
Simon saw another gate that wouldn’t open. “Not your kind, Buell. There’s nothin’ left to talk about after one of your lessons.”
“I’m playin’. You do what you want.”
Before he could respond, Buell jerked the door open, and without a backward glance, stormed into the saloon.
Since Buell’s threat two days before, work had been drudgery. So far, Quinn had sat in on three games, one in the mid afternoon, and two in the evening. Buell had watched, but not played. Sitting in the office waiting for the sounds of an altercation had frayed Simon’s nerves to breaking, so when Amos had stuck his head in the office just before suppertime and invited him to sit in on a game, he’d agreed just for something to do.
It was nearly nine thirty, and Simon shut the ledger he’d been working in, and pulled open the desk drawer. The blue-black Smith and Wesson pistol lying there immediately confused his intentions. After staring at it for a few seconds, he sighed and picked it up. He broke the barrel back to expose five dull-gray .32-caliber bullets. After locking the barrel in place, he dropped the small pistol into the inside breast pocket of his coat. Simon placed the ledger in the drawer, stood, and left his office.
He spotted Twiggs, busy, well down the saloon. Lifting the countertop, he went behind the bar and walked toward the bartender.
Twiggs nodded his head. “Had enough book work for the night?”
“Yeah. Amos asked me to join him for his game. Figgered why not. Been busy?”
“About normal. Lori’s just shutting down the dining rooms. That usually slows things up a bit. Is Quinn gonna play with you guys?” Twiggs scanned the saloon. He looked nervous.
“Don’t know. Buell’s been meaning to sit in one of these nights.”
“Buell?” Twiggs glanced toward the tall chair by the stairs.
Simon’s gaze followed, and he met eye to eye with the vigilant enforcer. Buell’s look was suspicious and cool. Simon nodded and smiled. Buell gave his head a barely perceptible dip and resumed looking over the customers.
“He don’t trust Quinn much, does he?”
“Not really. He’s convinced he’s cheating somehow. I hope to hell he’s wrong.”
“He wouldn’t do anything rash, would he?”
“With Buell, you can almost count on it.” Simon spotted Amos coming down the stairs. “There’s the boss. Have Molly keep an extra-sharp eye on the table will ya?”
“Okay. And . . . good luck.” Twiggs took one more careful look around the saloon before he acknowledged the waving hand of a persistent customer at the far end of the bar.
Just as Simon cleared the end of the bar, Rosie and Saint Louis Bob come through the front door. They steered a direct course to Amos’s table.
“Hey, Simon,” Rosie greeted. “Amos said you was gonna play tonight. Been a while since we took any of your money.”
“And that’ll be nice,” Bob said, “cuz it’ll keep ya from takin’ it from me.”
Simon looked at the two men, as different in demeanor as two people could be. Rosie, round face wreathed in a permanent smile compared to Bob, long slim face creased with worry lines and a look as serious as a snakebite. Simon felt himself relaxing.
“You in tonight, too, Buell?” Rosie walked around the table to his usual chair.
“Yep. Ain’t played cards for weeks. Quinn is back in town, and I want everybody to get a shot at some payback. He got real lucky last time, and took off before anybody got a chance to get even.”
“Well, c’mon, then,” Amos said as he dragged out a chair. “Let’s get ’er goin’.”
“I hate shorthanded poker, Amos,” Bob complained. “Ya know that. I ain’t got no luck at all playin’ with four.”
“I don’t think the number has a damn thing ta do with it, Bob,” Rosie said. He pulled out his chair and settled down. “Yer just a lousy cardplayer.”
“Who walked out of the last game over fifteen dollars ahead?” Bob scowled at Rosie.
“You did. And how many times a month do ya manage to do that?”
“Well, how many times have you won?”
“Yer dodgin’ my question.”
“Aw, sit down, Bob. I’m gonna skin ya both tonight,” Simon said.
Amos turned in his chair and looked at Buell. “C’mon, ain’t nothin’ goin’ on in here. Git yer tall self down here.”
As Buell slid off his chair, Quinn pushed through the screen door and headed for the table.
“Now quit yer whining, Bob, we got six.” Rosie punched his friend on the arm.
“Gents,” Quinn said. “Looks l
ike I’m the last one in.”
“Just settlin’ down,” Amos said.
Quinn took a seat between Bob and Amos. Buell pulled out the last chair next to Simon.
“Everybody ready to lose?” Simon asked. He looked directly across the table at Quinn.
“Not my intention,” the gambler said.
“Well, let’s get something to drink before we start,” Buell said.
Simon looked around the saloon for the nearest barmaid and spotted Molly, already on her way to the table.
“I see you’re paying attention.” Amos gave her a wide grin. “Knew you were the smartest of the bunch.”
“Smart ’nuff to know who runs this place. What’s yer pleasure?” Six orders, and she was on her way to the bar.
Amos picked up a fresh pack of cards and dragged his thumbnail across the seal. Buell’s eyes narrowed as Amos extracted and discarded the two jokers from the deck.
“Regular five-card draw.” Amos shuffled the cards several times, then put the squared deck in front of Quinn. “Cut?”
Quinn’s manicured fingers lifted the top half of the deck and set it on the table. “That’ll put what I need on top,” he said. He flashed a smile around.
Simon glanced at Buell and saw his jaw muscles twitch. Amos put the bottom stack on top of Quinn’s cut, then dealt everybody five cards.
Bob won the first hand, and declined the deal when Amos offered. To everyone’s surprise, Bob won the second hand as well. Smiling for the first time since they all sat down, he winked broadly at Rosie. “Now that’s how poker’s played, ya fat old fart.”
“Oh gawd, win two hands and now he’s the expert,” the teamster replied. “We gonna have to listen to this all night, Amos, or you gonna do us a favor, and kick his ass outta here?”
“Let ’im crow. We’ll clip his wings soon enough. Wanna deal, Bob?”
“Hell no, you’re doin’ fine.” Bob chuckled. “Keep ’em coming and I’ll have all yer money.”
“My gawd!” Buell half shouted. “Can we play cards, or are we gonna sit and jaw all night?”
Amos looked at him and wrinkled his nose. “What’n hell climbed up yer ass?”
“Well, we gonna play or not?” Buell’s tone wasn’t so sharp, but sounded almost contrite.
“Yeah, we’ll play.” Amos looked around the table at the silent men. “Keep yer hat pulled down, cuz I ain’t gonna deal ya nothin’ now.” His face lit with a wide smile, eyes sparkling. “Sheesh.”
The rest of the table responded in kind, pent-up breaths expelled and shoulders relaxed. Bob picked up half a dozen coins, and stacked them neatly as he leered at Rosie. Amos started dealing the next hand.
Simon’s eye caught Buell’s, and Simon saw the question. Buell’s nod toward Amos was so slight, nobody but Simon would have seen it. Simon, too, glanced at Amos, and shook his head the least bit.
“Good.” Buell mouthed the word, and for the first time since the altercation at the river, his eyes were friendly again.
Simon relaxed in his chair, pleased that he hadn’t said anything to Amos. He picked up his five cards, and mentally selected two for discard. He won the hand.
The game went on, Bob still winning more than usual, and Buell watching Quinn’s every move. Rosie was having a terrible streak of bad luck. Every time he had a half-decent hand, one of the others would edge him out by the slightest margin. He had three sevens, Simon had three nines; Quinn’s queen-high straight beat Rosie’s ten-high. Simon, feeling loose, started to enjoy the game, the company and the warm, mellow feeling brought on by the French brandy.
Quinn shuffled the cards, a blur, as he loosely held half the deck in one hand and chopped the other half into it. He did this four or five times, then Bob cut the deck. Quinn picked them up and started dealing.
Simon kept his eye on Buell’s face through the whole sequence, and suddenly a sick feeling stormed the pit of his stomach. The comfortable ease of the evening vanished.
By the time Quinn had finished dealing, Buell’s jaw was set in a hard clench. A couple of minutes later, Bob could hardly sit still. When Amos had failed to open, Buell had, Simon folded a handful of junk and Rosie, Bob and Quinn all called. Amos folded. Everybody got their cards, and Buell bet ten dollars, Rosie called. Bob did likewise and raised twenty-five. Everyone’s eyes went to Quinn. He picked up his whiskey glass and took a sip, then called and raised fifty dollars.
Buell stared at Quinn’s impassive face, then slowly pushed his cards toward the pot. “Fold,” he muttered quietly.
“Sumbitch,” Rosie said. “You bastards have done it to me once too often.” He counted out seventy-five dollars and picked up the stack.
Simon caught his eye and gave a noncommittal shrug as Rosie’s face asked the age-old question.
“Shit!” Rosie dropped the coins back into the small pile in front of him. “Fold,” he declared, disgust in his voice.
Bob gave his beleaguered friend a superior smile, and dropped his bet, already counted out, into the pot. Then he picked up two large gold coins and dropped them after. “And forty more.”
Simon shook his head. Bob looked as happy as he had ever seen him. Tonight must be the luckiest night of his entire life. Everyone watched Quinn.
“Must be good,” the gambler said with a grin. “Forty more, huh?”
“Or you can fold,” Bob replied. “I would if I was you.” He leaned well back in his chair and laid his clasped hands across his belly.
“Naw, I gotta see ’em.” Quinn nonchalantly tossed the two coins into the pot. “All right?”
Bob leaned forward and picked up his cards. Slowly, one at a time, he laid down his cards. “Four beautiful nines. Tonight has been my night.” The breath Bob expelled was felt a third of the way around the table.
Simon had a hard time taking his eyes off Bob, but finally, along with everyone else, he turned his attention to Quinn.
The gambler, a ghost of a smile on his lips, picked up his cards.
“If those are four kings, you’re a dead sumbitch!” Buell’s tipped over chair clattered to the floor. He towered over the table, his face screwed tight in anger.
Simon’s groin seized, his entire body reacting with a cold damp chill.
Quinn tried to swallow his emotion as his eyes fastened on Buell’s gun hand. “You can’t be accusin’ me of cheating. I haven’t won a decent hand in over four hours.” His voice sounded steadier than his face suggested.
“And you ain’t lost one either,” Buell replied through clenched teeth. “You been waitin’ for this one.”
“Take it easy,” Amos said quietly. He looked up at the angry gunman. “We can easy sort this out.”
“Best move yerself, Amos,” Buell said. His eyes never left Quinn’s face.
“Now look, I ain’t cheatin’ nobody.” Quinn’s Adam’s apple bobbed once. “But I’ll step out of the game if that’s what yer wantin’.”
“I’m wantin’ to see them cards.” Buell’s voice was now low and steady—and deadly.
“I ain’t gonna die over a couple hundred dollars. I’m not gonna touch ’em.”
“Then let yer partner do it.” Buell’s eyes glanced so briefly at Twiggs that Simon almost missed it.
“Partner?” Amos looked at Simon.
Quinn edged his chair back from the table, the legs squalling in protest. As he leaned forward to get his feet under him, his hand shot into his vest.
The flash and roar of Buell’s pistol blended with the moan of total despair from Saint Louis Bob. “Aawwwwhhh.” His chair went over backward, spilling him into the floor. In a continuing motion, he turned to get on all fours, and scrambled on hands and knees toward the front door. “Oohhhhh gawwwddddd,” he wailed, his voice a tremolo of terror.
Rosie sat immobile and speechless, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Time slowed. Quinn clutched his chest as disbelief mixed with fear rippled across his face. He looked down at the rapidly spreading crimson on his whit
e shirt. His hands tried to contain the edges of the stain, then he gulped as his lungs failed to function. Slowly, as though doing it quite deliberately, he sank back onto his chair. His breath now came as short, desperate gasps, and the color started to drain from his face. He looked again at his chest, now saturated with blood. One hand reached for the table’s edge, missed, and he fell forward, smashing his shoulders and head into it. With one final attempt to breathe, a gurgle, he slumped to the floor, his feet tangled in the chair.
Dreamlike, Simon sought Buell’s eyes. He was standing, but he couldn’t remember getting to his feet. Slowly, Buell turned toward him. A look of finality filled his face, his leveled pistol went down and dropped into the holster. Amos, a puzzled expression on his face, gazed down at the fallen gambler.
Then Simon saw movement behind Buell. His brain slowly recognized Twiggs, moving quickly from the far end of the bar toward the center. He stopped at the beer pumps, and reached under the counter. And then Twiggs had his shotgun. The friendly bartender’s easygoing features hardened with grim determination. As the scattergun came up, Simon heard first one hammer, then the other, make the unmistakable sound of being cocked.
Simon returned Twiggs’s excited stare, both men looking down opposite ends of the twin barrels. The bartender’s eyes blinked rapidly, and a twitch flicked across his face, sweat beads on his forehead betraying his fear. A slight shift, and Simon was once again looking at Buell. His friend’s eyes now held a question. Simon answered when he reached into his coat pocket and drew his short pistol. The look on Buell’s face changed to dismay, then to disbelief as Simon cocked the piece and pointed it at him. Buell turned his head away while Simon continued to swing past his face. Twiggs’s frightened eyes appeared over the sights of the stubby Smith and Wesson. He vaguely heard Buell scream. “No, Simon. Nooooo!” Simon pulled the trigger.
A little tuft of hair flew straight into the air, and Twiggs’s eyes went impossibly wide. The mirror behind him shattered as the deadly messenger, its task complete, came to rest in the back bar. Twiggs’s eyes rolled up into his head, and he slumped forward, his shoulders caught between the two pump handles. The shotgun clattered to the floor on the other side of the bar, and Simon found himself looking into the dead eyes of the bartender. Twiggs’s face remained held up for view by one folded arm, like a trophy animal. A thin trickle of bright blood flowed from the top of his head and down his face.
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