by Matt Braun
“Can’t find him, that’s why. Searched all over town and ain’t seen hide nor hair of him. Them boys said he was about seven feet tall, with a big bushy mustache, and sportin’ one of them hats like the drummers—”
Something clicked in Hazeltine’s head and his eyes glistened like soapy agates. Since storming into the saloon he hadn’t paused for wind, and in a sudden rush of awareness, he finally swiveled around for a look at the Irishman.
McCluskie grinned. “Deputy, it appears you’ve got your man.”
“Well I’ll be go to hell.” Hazeltine’s jaw snapped shut in a grim line. “Mister, you’re under—”
Spivey broke in hurriedly. “Now hold on a minute, Tonk. This here’s Mike McCluskie. Chief security agent for the Santa Fe. You can’t go arrestin’ him for clobberin’ some damn trailhand.”
“Who says I can’t? ’Sides, I already told you, it weren’t no fistfight. It was a massacre. Why, he’s likely addled that boy permanent.”
Spivey groaned and shot the Irishman an imploring look. “What about it, McCluskie? You must’ve had some reason to hit that drover.”
“Best reason I know of. He tried pullin’ a gun on me.”
“The hell you say!” Hazeltine’s lip curled back over his yellow teeth. “That whole bunch is ready to swear you jumped that boy before he even had time to get unlimbered.”
“What you’re sayin’ is that one of them let the cat out of the bag about him makin’ a grab for his gun.”
“Is that right, Tonk?” Spivey demanded.
“What if it is? He just reached. Never even cleared leather.”
The saloonkeeper let out a long sigh. “What d’ya say we just forget it? Seems pretty clear that Mr. McCluskie was provoked and I got an idea the judge would see it the same way.”
Hazeltine glowered back at him for a moment, then turned his gaze on the Irishman. “Mister, you’d better watch that stuff in my town. Next time it won’t go so easy. Railroad or no railroad.”
McCluskie regarded him with impassive curiosity. “Heard you made quite a name for yourself down in the Nations.”
“What’s that to you?”
“Nothin’. Just funny, that’s all. Way I heard it, the tribes don’t allow a white man to wear a badge down there.”
Hazeltine tried staring him down and found that he couldn’t. At last, face mottled with anger, he brushed past and stalked out of the saloon. McCluskie watched him through the door, then grunted, looking back at Spivey.
“Just offhand I’d say that’s the queerest lookin’ breed I ever saw.”
“Breed? Why hell, McCluskie, he’s got no more Injun blood in him than you do.”
“Think not?” McCluskie idly toyed with his glass, joining a chain of wet little rings on the bar.
“Well, maybe you’re right. Course, that being the case, I’d give a bunch to know which side he was ridin’ with when he made that name for himself.”
“What d’ya mean, which side?”
“Why, there’s only two sides, Mr. Spivey. Always has been. And one of ’em don’t wear badges.”
The saloonkeeper started to say something, but couldn’t quite manage to get it out. McCluskie filled their glasses again and lifted his own in salute.
“Here’s mud in your eye.”
CHAPTER 3
THE SUN was an orange ball of fire, settling slowly earthward, when McCluskie came out of the cafe. He paused for a moment, working at his teeth with a toothpick, and speculated on the evening ahead. The train wasn’t due in for a couple of hours, which left him with time on his hands and damn few ways to spend it. Wine, women, or cards. That’s about what it boiled down to in a whistlestop like Newton. Texans had little use for much else, and the vultures who preyed on them were old hands at keeping the entertainment raw and uncomplicated.
Mulling it over, he decided that women were out. Leastways for tonight, anyway. He still hadn’t simmered down from yesterday’s donnybrook with Belle, and it bothered him more than he cared to admit. Oddly enough, her raking him over the coals that way had made him want her all the more. There was something about a woman with spirit that made the game a little spicier, and there was no denying that Belle could be a regular spitfire when the notion struck her. Trouble was, she could get awful damned possessive in the bargain. Which sort of threw cold water on the whole deal.
Still the idea of stopping off at one of the other houses left a sour taste in his mouth. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day, after he’d got Belle off his mind. It wasn’t like he had to have a woman, anyhow. There were lots of things a man needed worse, although at the moment nothing occurred to him that just exactly fitted the ticket.
Grunting, he snapped the toothpick in half and flipped it into the street. Hell, it was too damned hot to start messing around anyway. That was one thing a man could always count on. Kansas in July. Hotter’n Hades, and not enough shade to cool a midget.
They ought to give it back to the Indians.
With women crossed off his list, that left only cards and whiskey. McCluskie hauled out the makings and started building a smoke. Dusk wasn’t far off, and what with the money shipment set to arrive, he didn’t rightly have time to get himself snarled up in a poker game. A man needed to be loose and easy when he gambled, with nothing on his mind but the fickle lady. Otherwise some slick operator would punch his ticket and hand him his head on a platter.
Besides, Santa Fe trains had been known to come in on time. Not often, and certainly with nothing that would tempt a man to set his watch by their regularity. But every now and then an engineer somehow managed to limp into a station at the appointed hour. In a way, it was sort of like bucking the roulette wheel. Pick a number and make your bet. There was a winner every time and no such thing as a sure-fire cinch. Which went double for the Santa Fe. The odds went out the window where their train schedules were concerned.
By process of elimination, McCluskie had pretty well whittled down his alternatives. Women and cards would have to wait, and in Newton that made for slim pickings. Whiskey seemed to be the only thing left, and the way things were shaping up, a pair of wet tonsils sounded better all the time. Little gargle water might just do wonders for his mood.
Flicking a match, he lit his cigarette and headed toward the tracks. He could just as easily have crossed the street and had a drink at the Lone Star. But tonight he didn’t feel like matching wits with Spivey. It was a dull pastime anyhow. The saloonkeeper was sharp as a tack in his own way, but he was about as subtle as a sledgehammer. Thought he was going to outfox the big dumb Mick, and all he did was wind up getting himself sandbagged. If it wasn’t so pitiful, it might have been funny. Besides, Spivey would likely turn up at the depot later anyway, so there was no sense wasting good drinking time playing cat and mouse.
South of the tracks was more McCluskie’s style at any rate. Everybody down there was crooked as a dog’s hind leg and nobody tried to pretend otherwise. In a queer sort of way, it was perhaps the purest form of honesty.
Crossing the tracks, it occurred to the Irishman that he tended to think of them as birds of prey. Most were just vultures. Hovering around, waiting to pick the bones after the trailhands had been shorn of their illusions and their pocketbooks. In this class could be lumped together the soiled doves and dancehall operators and saloonkeepers. Of course, there were the turkey buzzards, too. Like Rowdy Joe Lowe and his wife, Crazy Kate. They were the real carrion eaters, the bottom of the heap. What they wouldn’t do for a nickel hadn’t yet been invented.
Looking at it the other way round, though, the sporting crowd had its own brand of nobility. At the top were the hawks, and a mere handful of crafty old owls. This group, small in number and worlds apart from the grungy bone-pickers, was comprised strictly of highrollers, bunco artists, thimble riggers, and slippery fingered gamblers. Not a tinhorn among them. The elite of whatever underworld they chose to frequent.
Already McCluskie had heard that the highrollers were flocking to Newto
n like a gathering of royalty. Dandy John Gallagher. Jim Moon. Pony Reid. Names to be reckoned with wherever men talked of faro, three-card monte, chuck-a-luck, or poker. Beside them the likes of Ben Thompson and Bill Hickok and Phil Coe were small potatoes. Amateurs. Chickenfeed sparrows trying to fly high in the company of hawks.
Passing Hoff’s Grocery, he noted that the southside was already humming. Cow ponies lined the hitch rails, standing hipshot and drowsy in the dusky heat. Their owners, either three sheets to the wind or fast on their way, were in evidence everywhere along the street. After nearly two years in Abilene, McCluskie could just about slot Texans into the right pigeonhole simply by observing their actions.
The newcomers, fresh off the trail, made a beeline for some place like the Blue Front Clothing Store, splurging a hefty chunk of their pay on fancy duds. Those who had had a bath and sprinkled themselves with toilet water could be found in one of three places. Getting their ears unwaxed down in Hide Park. Swilling snakehead whiskey at two-bits a throw. Or testing their none-too-nimble wits against the slick-fingered cardsharps. The ones who gave lessons in instant poverty.
Lastly, there was the motley crew who were flat on their rumps. Broke, busted, and hungover. Most times they could be spotted cadging drinks, or loafing around Hamil’s Hardware eyeballing Sam Colt’s latest equalizer. Some of these were reduced to selling their saddles in order to get home, which in a Texan’s scheme of things was only slightly less heinous than herding sheep.
McCluskie had to laugh everytime he thought about it. Whichever way a man looked at it, cowhands were a queer breed. They had the brass of a billygoat, but the Good Lord had somehow put their behinds where their brains were supposed to be. Heaven for them didn’t have nothing to do with the Hereafter. It was fast women and a jug of rotgut. In just that order.
Shouldering past a bunch of drunks crowding the boardwalk, he pushed through the doors of the Gold Room Saloon. The Texans paid him no mind this time. He was garbed in a linsey shirt, mule-ear boots, and a slouch hat. Along with the Colt Navy strapped high on his hip, the outfit made him one of the crowd. Taller than most, beefier through the shoulders perhaps, but to all appearances just another sporting man out to see the elephant. Which was exactly how he liked it. Having worked his way up from a track layer, he always felt more at ease among men who sweated for a living. Even Texans.
Apparently the Gold Room was one of Newton’s better watering holes. Unlike most of the dives, it wasn’t jammed to the rafters with caterwauling trail hands. Then he saw the reason. Standing at the bar was Dandy John Gallagher. High priest of the gambling fraternity.
Plainly he had stumbled upon the lair of the high rollers. Where sparrows and pigeons alike were separated from their pokes with style and consummate skill.
Walking forward, he stopped at Gallagher’s elbow, who was in the midst of lecturing another man on the merits of some strange new game called Red Dog.
“Mister, I’m lookin’ fer a tinhorn name o’ Gallagher. The one they run out o’ Abilene fer dealin’ seconds.”
The gambler went stiff as a board, shoulders squared, and slowly turned around. The look in his eye would have melted a cannonball. Then, quite suddenly, the tight-lipped scowl exploded into an infectious grin.
“Mike! You sorry devil. Put’er there!”
McCluskie clasped his hand in a hard grip. “Been a long time, Johnny.”
“Too long, by God.” Gallagher gave a final shake, then jerked a thumb at his companion. “Why, not ten minutes ago I was saying to Trick here—hey, you two haven’t met. Mike McCluskie, say hello to Trick Brown.”
The two men hardly had time to exchange nods before Gallagher was off again. “Anyways, I was saying to Trick that there just aren’t enough real gambling men around these days. No competition. But, hell’s bells, now that you’re here, I might just change my tune.”
“Johnny, you’re out of my league. No contest.”
“Don’t grease me, boy. I’ve seen you play. Remember?”
“Hell, I ought to. The lessons cost me enough.”
“Judas Priest! You could churn that stuff and make apple butter. C’mon now, Mike, what do you say? Let’s get a real headknocker going. Table stakes. Straight stud. Just like the old days.”
“Well, I guess I might try you on for size. Just for old time’s sake, you understand. But it’ll have to be later tonight. I’ve got an errand to tend to first.”
The gambler punched him on the shoulder. “Something young and full of ginger, I’ll lay odds. Never change, do you?”
McCluskie laughed easily. “You’ve got a lot of room to talk. I didn’t feel any calluses on your hand. Bet you’re still coatin’ them with glycerin morning, noon, and night, aren’t you?”
“Christ A’mighty, Irish! They’re tools of the trade. Wouldn’t want me to disgrace the profession, would you?”
McCluskie was distracted by someone waving from a faro layout at the back of the room. He looked closer and saw that it was Pony Reid. “Listen, I’m gonna have a quick drink and say hello to Pony. I’ll catch up with you somewhere around midnight. Just don’t let anybody peel your roll till I get back.”
“Fat chance. Take care you don’t get waylaid yourself. Remember, Irish, a poker game is elixir for the soul. You keep that in mind, you hear?”
McCluskie was still laughing as he strode toward Pony Reid. Gallagher and Brown watched after him a moment, then turned back to their drinks. Brown sipped at his liquor for a minute, apparently lost in thought, and finally glanced over at his friend.
“Johnny, did I get the drift right? The way you talked that hayseed is some kind of bearcat with a deck of cards.”
“He’s more than that, Trick. In a straight game he could hold his own with anyone you want to name.”
“Yeah? Well I’ll bet I’ve got a few moves that’ll leave him cross-eyed. Maybe I ought to sit in on that game myself. We might just clean his plow faster’n scat.”
Gallagher seemed vastly amused by the idea. “Trick, you’re new to the circuit, so I’m going to give you some free advice. Don’t ever try to slick Mike McCluskie. He’ll kill you quicker than anthrax juice. Looks are deceiving, my boy, and if you’re going to live long in this trade, you’d better learn to size a man up. What you just saw wasn’t a hayseed. It’s a Bengal tiger crossed with an Irish wolfhound.”
The gambler’s pale, milky eyes drifted again toward the back of the room. “Besides, he could probably outdeal you with his thumbs chopped off.”
* * *
McCluskie left the Gold Room an hour or so later. His humor was restored and his mood was considerably lighter. While he’d meant to have only one drink, he found it difficult to quit the genial company. There was a camaraderie among professional gamblers that had always intrigued him, and strangely enough, he felt drawn to it in a way he had never fully fathomed. Not that he was blinded to their flaws. They had feet of clay just like everyone else, and the brotherhood they shared was dictated more by circumstances than any need of fellowship. Essentially they were loners, preying on the unwary and the gullible with no more scruples than an alleycat. Within the fraternity there were petty squabbles and jealousies, and an incessant bickering as to who held title to King of the Hill. The same as would be found among any group of men who lived by their wits and felt themselves superior to the great unwashed herd.
Yet there was a solidarity among gamblers that was rare in men of any stripe. They saw themselves as a small band of gallants pitted against the whole world. Though each of them was concerned with feathering his own nest, they could close ranks in an instant when it suited their purpose. Such as combining forces to trim a well-heeled sucker, or standing together when confronted by an indignant mob of righteous townspeople. More than that, they seemed to genuinely enjoy each other’s company, much as a breed apart prefers its own kind, and their good-natured banter was seldom extended to outsiders. Except for a select few who were somehow allowed to join the inner circle.
The offshoot of this mutual affinity was that McCluskie could meet them head-on across a gaming table without fear of being greased. With a morality peculiar to the breed, they never cheated friends. Unless, of course, it tickled their fancy. For just as they were addicted to gambling, so were they congenital scamps. With them the practical joke was a universal pastime, engineered and executed with such flair that it frequently approached an art form. Like the time Pony Reid had palmed a cold deck into the game and dealt each of the players four aces. The betting sky-rocketed like a roman candle, and when it was over every man at the table had raised clean down to his stickpin and pocket watch. The showdown had been nothing short of spectacular, and the look on the players’ faces was a classic study in slack-jawed stupe-faction. Even years afterward, it was generally conceded that Pony Reid had taken the brass ring for sheer gall. To cold deck a gathering of one’s own confederates was considered the ultimate in technical virtuosity.
McCluskie had prompted Reid to retell the yarn again tonight, when they were on their fourth drink. Now, walking up Main toward the train station, he was still chuckling to himself. Taken as a whole, gamblers were a cutthroat bunch. Born thieves with no more conscience than a hungry spider. But they were likeable rogues, practicing their own brand of honor, and in a curious way, a notch above those who used the law to whitewash their sleazy schemes. Leastways it had always been his observation that not all of a town’s rascals came from the wrong side of the tracks.
Mounting the steps to the depot platform, McCluskie’s amiable mood did a bellyflop. Standing there, like a double dose of ice water, was Newt Hansberry and his assistant flunky, Ringbone Smith.
