“I said you could go,” Killion said with a hard edge in his voice.
“Yes, sir!” Longarm pivoted on his heels and marched back outside. Clyde followed, and closed the door behind him.
“Custis?”
Longarm turned to confront the older Killion son. “Yeah?”
Clyde’s hand streaked out and the back of it slammed into the side of Longarm’s face so hard he staggered. He started to ball his fists, but checked that impulse just in time. “What the hell did you do that for?”
“For staring at Desiree. You’re lucky my father didn’t have you castrated.”
Longarm wiped blood from his lips with the back of his sleeve. “Hell, man, I just looked at her!”
“if you ever look at her that way again, I’ll kill you with or without my father’s orders. Understood?”
It was all that Longarm could do to nod his head and then stomp back down the stairs.
Chapter 11
Even a good player, such as Longarm considered himself to be, didn’t have much of a chance in a game of marked cards. He’d seen the marks, and they weren’t even all that professionally done. Just some filling in of the squiggles on the backs of the cards so that the Killions knew who held face cards and could bet accordingly. Longarm would have loved to just grab those marked cards and cram them down Clyde’s throat, but that would result in a bloody gunfight and he was determined to avoid that at all costs.
It galled Longarm terribly to be slapped and then cheated by a crowing, braying fool, but Longarm knew that he was playing for far bigger stakes than the measly dollars he was being cheated out of this night.
“Well, boys,” he said later that night. “I’ve just got about ten dollars left and I’m going to have to quit.”
“Who said?” a man named Dean wanted to know. “In Helldorado, you quit a card game when you’re told to and not before.”
Longarm glanced at Clyde, who took a sudden interest in his winnings. That told Longarm that Dean was acting on his own and that Longarm was probably being tested. If he backed down from Dean, he might as well tuck his tail between his legs and let them run him out of Helldorado tonight.
A fierce sense of joy filled Longarm as he realized that here, at last, was a challenge that he did not have to ignore. And so he stared at Dean with more anticipation than anger. The man was big, coarse, and itching for a fight that Longarm was more than happy to provide.
Longarm pushed to his feet. “I’m quitting now,” he said evenly.
All conversation in the saloon stopped. The men at the poker table who had smugly collected Longarm’s dollars with their poorly marked cards grinned, probably expecting Dean to dismantle the scruffy-looking mustanger who had ridden into their town. A good, brutal whipping was their idea of great fun.
“What did you say?” Dean asked, coming to his own feet with his hands balled into big fists.
“I said don’t push me, Horse Face.”
Dean’s jaw dropped. Up to this point, Longarm had been the model of servitude. This talk just didn’t fit the image he’d carefully crafted in order to lower their guard.
Dean brushed back the hem of his coat to expose a well-worn Colt. “You’re gonna get down on your knees and beg for your worthless life or I’m going to shoot you full of holes.”
Longarm pushed back his own coat. He had a feeling that Dean was as fast with his gun as he was good with his fists. Either way, he was not a man to be taken lightly, and Longarm was going to have to either kill or completely humble the arrogant outlaw.
“If you want to spend the rest of your life in a pine box, make your play,” Longarm said easily.
A flicker of doubt crossed Dean’s eyes. He wasn’t a coward and was confident of his ability, but Longarm knew the man would have preferred to have bluffed his way to victory rather than risk a bullet.
Clyde collected his own winnings and pushed back his chair. “I think I’ll get out of the way,” he said to no one in particular.
The others had the same idea, and their table emptied. Other tables emptied too as men quickly left the line of fire. Longarm could feel his blood starting to pound because nothing was certain in a gunfight other than that someone was probably going to die.
“Well?” Longarm asked.
When Dean gulped and then nervously glanced around as if seeking support, Longarm casually reached down with his left hand and brought his whiskey to his lips. He never took his eyes off those of the man he faced, and he barely sipped his drink before lowering it with a thin, half-smile.
“Well, Dean,” he asked again in an entirely pleasant tone of voice. “What the hell is holding you up? Got a streak of yellow running up and down your spine?”
Beads of sweat burst out across Dean’s forehead and his fingers waved over his gun butt. “I’m going to gut- shoot you, mister. I’m going to see you die slow!”
Longarm lowered his glass a little. “Go on,” he urged. “Make your play.”
Dean went for his gun. Longarm saw his eyes blink even as the man’s hand dropped to his Colt. Longarm flicked the whiskey into Dean’s eyes, then grabbed the edge of their poker table and pushed it hard into the outlaw. The edge of the table caught the hammer of Dean’s gun as he blindly struggled to bring it up to fire. The gun fired harmlessly into the sawdust-covered floor, and then Longarm was heaving the table through and over the falling outlaw.
The whiskey had blinded Dean, and he was trying to wipe his vision clear when Longarm lashed out with a boot that caught him under the chin and snapped his head back. Dean rolled and Longarm kicked his forearm, sending
