“I don’t want any special favors, Bat.”
“And I’m not offering you any. You’re one of the winners. I want you to be rested and at the top of your game when play resumes.” Masterson paused. “Anyway, don’t be so damned stiff-necked. If somebody offers you a little help—which I’m not—there’s nothing wrong with accepting it. Your father’s the same way, always determined to go it alone.”
Conrad smiled. “All right. Thanks. I am tired.”
“Go turn in. I’ll see to it that you’re awake in plenty of time for the next round.”
Grateful for the respite, Conrad went along the hall to the room and stretched out on the bed as soon as he had kicked off his boots and taken off his coat. Despite everything on his mind that he thought might keep him awake, he was asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.
A soft rapping on the door woke him later. He sat up, yawned, and swung his legs off the bed. He went to the door and opened it, finding one of the pretty hostesses standing there. She smiled at him. “Mr. Masterson wanted to let you know the next round of the tournament will begin in about an hour, Mr. Browning.”
“Thank you,” Conrad said, covering up another yawn as he did so. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Almost six o’clock, sir.”
Conrad frowned. “In the morning?” That would mean he hadn’t gotten much sleep at all.
“No, sir. Six o’clock in the evening.”
“Oh.” That made more sense. His deep, dreamless sleep had lasted more than twelve hours. A sudden growl from his belly confirmed that. He was ravenously hungry. “Thank you. Could I get a basin of hot water?”
“Certainly, sir.”
After he had shaved and cleaned up, Conrad slapped as many of the wrinkles out of his clothes as he could and went to join the others in the tournament room. He found a sense of anticipation in the air. Even though only eight players would be continuing the game, many of the men who had taken part planned to stay and watch.
Bat Masterson was standing beside the table of food and drink. Conrad went over to join him and began filling a plate. One of the hostesses poured a cup of coffee for him.
“Feeling better?” Masterson asked.
“Almost human again,” Conrad replied, smiling.
“You were worn out, and I can’t say as I blame you. By the way, I paid a visit to the hospital earlier to check on Arturo.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Trying to tell the doctors and the nurses how they can run things better.” Masterson chuckled. “That fella’s got opinions on just about everything, doesn’t he?”
“And he doesn’t mind expressing them. I’m glad to hear it. It sounds like he’s getting back to normal in a hurry.”
Masterson grew more serious as he went on, “I took the liberty of hiring some men to sit outside his room and keep an eye on him.”
“Guards, you mean?”
“That’s right. I don’t think that woman would try to hurt him while he’s in the hospital, but you never know.”
Conrad thought about it and nodded slowly. “You’re right. That was smart of you, Bat, and I appreciate it. Arturo can testify that she was trying to have me killed. Of course, so can the man who was arrested, not to mention you and me.”
“She can’t get to him in jail or to us,” Masterson pointed out. “Arturo was out there defenseless. Not anymore, though.”
The food and coffee made Conrad feel better, not to mention what Masterson had told him about Arturo. He looked around the room, searching for Rance McKinney, but didn’t see him. With a slight feeling of alarm, he asked where the rancher was.
“One of his men showed up a few hours ago with a message from his foreman,” Masterson explained. “Some sort of trouble at the ranch, I expect. Rance said he’d have to go and take care of it but insisted he’d be back in time to take part in the next round.” The former lawman frowned. “Come to think of it, he should have been here by now. I warned him if he wasn’t here when we were ready, he might have to forfeit his place in the tournament.”
Conrad’s worry grew. “You can’t do that, Bat.”
“I know why you want him to be here, Conrad, but there are other players who put up a lot of money to take part in this. I have a responsibility to them, too.”
“I know that. I’d just hate to think that it’s all been for nothing.”
“You might wind up winning a lot of money,” Masterson pointed out. “But that doesn’t really mean a lot to you, does it?”
Conrad didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
A few minutes later, his worry eased as Rance McKinney came into the room. The rancher still wore his black outfit and the black-and-white cowhide vest. Obviously he hadn’t taken advantage of the opportunity to get some fresh clothes. Conrad supposed he had been busy with whatever had taken him away from the Palace in the first place.
He didn’t really care what that might be. The important thing was that McKinney was back.
Bat Masterson called for everyone’s attention and had the eight big winners from the first round come forward. Conrad didn’t know any of them except McKinney. One of the hostesses brought out the same big white hat they had used for drawing lots a couple days earlier.
“As per the rules of the tournament established before it began, in this round there will be two tables with four players at each one. Step up, gentlemen, and draw for your table assignments.”
Conrad wished that Masterson could just put him at the same table as McKinney, but that would go against the rules everyone else had accepted, and it would look suspicious, as well. Even so, he had to suppress a groan of disappointment as he drew a chip marked with a numeral 1 and McKinney drew one putting him at the second table.
“Take your seats, gentlemen,” Masterson said, “and best of luck to you all!”
Chapter 20
The other three men at Conrad’s table introduced themselves as David Carruthers, Adam Neville, and Steven Gray. Carruthers was a tall, distinguished man with a fringe of white hair around his head and a white goatee. Neville was lean and dark-faced, with deep-set eyes. Gray matched his name, a bland, colorless man, but Conrad knew not to underestimate him because of that. All three men had triumphed in the first round of the tournament, so he knew they had to be excellent card players.
They knew the same thing about him and would be approaching him warily. Hand after hand went by with the pots remaining fairly small. Nobody won or lost much. Conrad and Carruthers were slightly ahead, but that could change in a matter of minutes.
Concentrating on his cards and his game didn’t leave Conrad any attention for the other game, so he didn’t know how McKinney was doing. All he could do was hope that he and McKinney emerged as the winners, so they would face off in the final showdown. Luck had been running against Conrad lately, not in his cards but in the things that really mattered to him, so he hoped Fate would look kindly on him.
By the time the four men took a break at midnight, Carruthers had pulled farther ahead. Conrad was about even, Neville and Gray struggling a little more. The pots had increased gradually. It wouldn’t take two days to determine the winner, Conrad sensed. The game might be over by morning.
Bat Masterson came over to him and commented, “The cards seem to be running pretty good for you, Conrad.”
“Not as good as they are for Carruthers.”
“David’s a fine player, all right.” Masterson nodded. “But so are the other two. They could get right back into this with just a few lucky hands.”
Conrad was well aware of that. As the stakes grew higher, so did the potential for sudden shifts in the game.
Play resumed and continued on through the wee hours of the morning. Neville’s luck never turned. Around four o’clock, he threw in his cards at the end of a hand and muttered, “That’s it for me. I’m busted.”
“Too bad,” Carruthers said smoothly. “You played a good game, Adam.”
Neville shrugged. “N
ot good enough.”
There was no disputing that.
Neville shoved back his chair and left the table.
“Why don’t we take a break, gentlemen?” Carruthers suggested. Conrad and Gray nodded in agreement.
Masterson wasn’t around, so Conrad got a cup of coffee and sat down on one of the armchairs, stretching out his legs in front of him. Play continued at the other table, so without being too obvious about it, he watched Rance McKinney. The rancher was betting heavily, and the stacks of chips in front of him were smaller than those in front of the other players. Conrad felt like sighing. If it kept up, he wouldn’t be facing McKinney in the final round. In that case, he wouldn’t have lost anything except some time, and as Masterson had pointed out, he might be considerably wealthier when all was said and done.
But money didn’t mean anything to him. The only important thing was finding his children.
When he and Carruthers and Gray resumed their game, a certain recklessness began to crop up in Conrad’s play. He was aware of it and tried to rein it in, but the stress of the past few days—the past few months, really—had all his nerves on edge.
He had been prepared to spend the rest of his life as Kid Morgan, drifting from place to place, a loner and a fast gun. But then had come the hellish ordeal in Hell Gate Prison, followed by the discovery of the plot against him by Roger Tarleton, Pamela’s cousin, and then the most shattering blow of all, the revelation of the twins’ existence and their role in Pamela’s evil plan. Since then he had carried out his search for them, only to encounter deadly traps almost every step of the way. It was too much for one man to cope with, he thought, especially for a man who already had to come to grips with his wife’s murder.
He was tired of it. He wanted it over. He wanted to be united with his children now, so he could put all the dreadful past behind him.
Unfortunately, life didn’t seem to be paying any attention to what he wanted. It went along on its bitter way, dealing out more heartbreak and tragedy.
He took a deep breath as he realized he had just pushed twenty thousand dollars worth of chips into the center of the table to call a bet. He had two pair in his hand, nines and fives, but Carruthers took the pot with a flush.
Conrad’s jaw tightened as he studied his chips. He still had a good stake, plenty big enough for him to continue, but he couldn’t afford to lose any more on careless, distracted plays. He saw the faint smile on Carruthers’ face. The man thought he was losing his edge and would be easy pickings from here on out.
Carruthers was about to find out just how wrong he could be.
Coolly, almost emotionlessly, Conrad continued playing, and the chips began to flow back in his direction. It was a trickle at first, then a steady stream. He folded when he didn’t have a good hand, stuck with his cards when he did, bluffed every now and then just to prove he could. Surprisingly, Steven Gray matched him almost hand for hand, and it was Carruthers who began to be squeezed out. Conrad saw the desperation growing on the man’s face.
He had lost track of the time. Was it morning yet? He didn’t know and didn’t care. Bat Masterson was back in the room, moving from table to table to watch the play. Conrad wondered fleetingly how McKinney was doing, but he didn’t take his eyes off his cards and his fellow players to check.
He tried to fill a straight and failed, winding up with a pair of threes to show for it. When he looked across the table at Carruthers, who had about twenty thousand left, instinct told him to see what would happen if he raised. “Five thousand.”
Gray saw the bet and upped it five more. Carruthers stayed in.
“I’ll see that, and ten thousand more,” Conrad drawled as he pushed the stacks of chips to the center of the table.
Gray shook his head and tossed in his cards.
Carruthers had gone pale at the size of the bet. It would cost him everything he had left to call. But if he folded, it would be a simple matter for one of the others to force him out on the next hand. That would just be postponing the inevitable. “Call,” he said as he pushed in everything.
Conrad put down his pair of threes.
Carruthers let out a deep groan as his fingers tightened on his cards until they started to bend. With a visible effort, he forced his hand open and dropped the cards faceup on the table . . . a pair of twos, a seven, a jack, and a queen.
“I thought you were bluffing,” Carruthers rasped.
Conrad shrugged. “I was. I just wanted to see how far I could push you.”
“And you wound up pushing me all the way out.” Carruthers dragged a deep breath into his lungs and blew it out in a sigh. “Well played, Browning. I didn’t think you had it in you. Your nerves must be made of steel.”
Conrad didn’t know about that, but he knew his nerves had been tempered by all the gunfights he’d been in during the past couple years.
“Very good,” Carruthers went on as he pushed back his chair. “Congratulations to you both. I’ll be interested to see what happens now.”
Masterson came over, shook hands with Carruthers, and invited him to have a drink. Conrad and Gray stood up and stretched. Conrad checked the time. It was a little after eight o’clock. In the morning, he supposed. He didn’t think he had lost that much track of the time.
A glance at the other table showed him that only two players remained there, and to his surprise, one of them was Rance McKinney. Obviously, the rancher had staged a comeback. He and the other man looked to be about even.
Conrad went over to Masterson and asked, “Do you think you could send someone over to the hospital to see how Arturo is doing, Bat?”
“I figured you’d want to know,” Masterson said with a smile, “so I did better than that. I stopped there myself a little while ago. It’s before visiting hours, so they didn’t want to let me see him at first, but I can be pretty persuasive when I want to.”
“Plus no one wants to say no to the famous Bat Masterson.”
Masterson’s smile widened into a grin. “What’s the point of having a reputation if you can’t take advantage of it?”
“So how’s Arturo?”
“Considerably stronger. They’ll probably let him out of there in another day or two. He’ll have to wear a sling for a while, the doctor says. But his arm should be all right.”
Conrad nodded as a feeling of relief went through him. Their journey had turned out to be more dangerous for Arturo than Conrad had intended.
“Just you and Gray now, eh?” Masterson went on.
Conrad nodded. “That’s right.”
“And it’s down to McKinney and Jack Lawlor at the other table. Things may work out for you yet, Conrad.”
“I hope so. I’ve got a lot riding on this.”
A short time later, he and Steven Gray returned to the table. Since Conrad had won the last hand, he had the deal. He called five card draw.
After he’d won a couple small pots, Gray took the next hand and changed the game to seven card stud. Conrad wasn’t as comfortable with that but had no choice but to go along.
Gray won several hands in a row, and Conrad felt his nerves growing taut again. As if sensing that, Gray started pushing with bigger and bigger raises. Conrad told himself to settle down.
At the other table, Rance McKinney suddenly burst out, “Yes! Hot damn!”
Conrad glanced over and saw the dejected slump of the other player’s shoulders. The man shook his head and spread his hands, indicating that he was out.
“How about it, Browning?” Gray asked. “Are you in?”
Conrad saw the arrogant grin on McKinney’s face. He turned to look at the cards in his hand, and once again the blood in his veins seemed like ice water.
“Oh, I’m in.”
To the very end.
Chapter 21
After that, Conrad’s nerves didn’t bother him anymore. His goal was in plain sight. All he had to do was reach it. He played with a cool-headed resolution, taking chances when his instincts told him it mig
ht pay off. Most of the time he was right. The pile of chips in front of him began to grow as the chips in front of Gray dwindled.
With McKinney emerging victorious at the other table, theirs was the only game left. Men gathered around the table to watch. They were careful not to get too close and distract the players, but Conrad and Gray were definitely the center of attention. McKinney came over and watched several hands with a sneer on his face.
Conrad ignored him. He raised two thousand. Gray called. Conrad took the pot with two pair.
He won the next two hands as well. On the next hand he got two eights and two jacks on the deal. He bet ten thousand. Without hesitation, Gray saw the bet and raised it five grand. Conrad discarded the three that had come with the eights and the jacks and dealt himself a third jack. He bumped the bet up ten thousand more.
Back and forth the bet went, each man grim faced with determination as the pot grew to staggering proportions. If he lost that hand, Conrad realized, he wouldn’t be out of the game, but his chances would be severely crippled. The same was true of his opponent.
Gray knew that, too. He said, “There’s no point in dragging this out.” He waved a hand toward the chips he had left. “Everything. I’ll bet it all.”
It was a desperate move. Conrad counted quickly. He was a thousand dollars short of being able to cover the bet. He had to fold in order to have anything left for the next hand.
A chip sailed onto the table and landed on the pot. “It’s on me, Browning,” Rance McKinney said. “Call him.”
Conrad turned his head to look at the rancher. “Why would you want to help me out?”
“Because you’re the one I want to face, not this pasty-faced tinhorn.”
Anger kindled in Gray’s eyes. He leaned forward, about to say something, but Bat Masterson stepped up to the table.
“Gentlemen, let’s not have any trouble here.” The former lawman’s voice was calm and quiet, but it had a steely edge to it. He reached down and picked up the chip McKinney had thrown into the pot. “Sorry, Rance. Stakes are limited to what each man has on the table.”
The Loner: Killer Poker Page 13
