“Maybe you don’t have it right now, but you’ll be doing another job with Frank Dodd soon, and when you do, I’ll expect my four hundred.”
“All right,” Stillwater said. “It’s a deal.”
“Jules, you might want to think about this for a bit,” Conklin cautioned.
“What do you mean?”
“Look at where she has been standin',” Conklin said. “You think she don’t know what his hand is? Now, you got to ask yourself, is she doin’ this just so she can get a cut of your money next time we do a job? She might just be tryin’ to sucker you in.”
“Yeah,” Stillwater said. He stroked his chin and stared across the table at Clark. “You think you’ve got me in your sights, don’t you?”
“I’m just trying to learn the game,” Clark answered innocently.
“All right, all right, the pot’s yours,” Stillwater said, turning his cards up on the table. He had a full house, aces over jacks. “What have you got?”
Clark’s cards stayed facedown on the table just the way he left them, four in one pile, one in another. He reached out to rake in his pot.
“I asked you a question, mister. What have you got?” Stillwater asked again. He reached for Clark’s cards, but Clark caught him around the wrist with a vise grip.
“Huh-uh. I don’t know all that much about this game, but I know that if you don’t pay, you don’t see. You didn’t pay, so you don’t see them,” Clark said easily.
With his other hand, Stillwater slid a twenty-dollar bill across the table.
“Is that enough to let me see?”
“I reckon so. Like I said, if you’re willing to pay for it.” Clark turned up his cards. Instead of four of a kind, there were two small pairs.
“What? I had a full house! You didn’t have me beat! “ Stillwater said angrily.
“Well, now, let’s think about that, Stillwater,” Clark said. “You are right, my cards didn’t beat your cards but I did beat you,” Clark said. “It’s called running a bluff.” He smiled up at Cindy. “What do you think, Cindy? It looks like he won’t be spending any of my money on you after all. But that’s all right. I’ll spend some of his money on you.”
“Mister, I ain’t goin’ to forget this,” Stillwater said angrily. He stood up, then walked quickly, and angrily, out of the saloon.
Everyone in the saloon was quiet as Stillwater left. Then Conklin looked over at Clark.
“Kid, he’s my pard, and I ride with him,” Conklin said. “But I got to tell you, he ain’t the kind you want on your bad side. If I was you, I’d be mighty careful around him from now on.”
“Thanks,” Clark said. “I’ll heed your advice.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Cloverdale is a nice town,” Doc Baker was saying. “That’s why I moved my practice here. Right now we are at end-of-track, but if they ever continue it on into California, as I believe they will, it will be an even nicer town.”
“It would be nicer now if it weren’t for Wallace,” Nabors said.
“Tell me about this sheriff,” Smoke said.
“I saw a word one time that fits this sheriff,” Nabors said. “The word was potentate. That’s what this sheriff thinks he is.”
“But he was elected, wasn’t he?”
“Oh, yes, he was elected all right,” Doc Baker said. “And if you would ask the average person on the street what kind of job they think he is doing, they would probably say he is doing a good job. He keeps his jail full of drunks, people who spit on the street, deadbeats, and the like. But all the time he is doing that, people like Frank Dodd and his gang operate with impunity.”
“Impunity,” Nabors said, laughing. “Now, you see here, Smoke? That’s why I like to keep the doc on as my friend. How many people do you know who can use a word like impunity?”
Smoke thought of his wife, Sally, back at Sugarloaf. A former schoolteacher, and the smartest person he had ever known. Impunity would be one of her words. He smiled.
“It’s a good word all right,” he agreed.
“That’s him,” someone suddenly yelled, his shout having the effect of bringing all other conversation to a halt.
Looking toward the sound of the shout, Smoke saw Dawes standing just inside the saloon, holding his bandaged hand. He let go of it long enough to point Smoke out to a man wearing a badge. Smoke recognized him as the same man he had seen on the railroad track, shortly after the cowboy, Andy Emerson, had been killed. It was Sheriff Wallace.
“That’s the man who shot me.”
“Is that true, mister?” Wallace asked. “Did you shoot Mr. Dawes?”
“I did.”
“Wait a minute, I know you. You’re the fella I met who had just came in on the train after the little ruckus with
