“Why, Jack,” Doc said with a grin. “You made a fool out of me. Steve and I here bet that you couldn’t count higher than twenty, and that was only if you took off your boots.”
“Twenty-one if I dropped my trousers,” Jack retorted. “But I can count as high as you please when there’s money involved.”
Everyone at the table got a laugh out of that, and Steve seemed even more relieved to be out of the game.
Without batting an eye, Weeks nodded down to his wall of chips. “I’ll bet everything I’ve got left.”
Jack started to choke on the whiskey he’d just sipped.
“You’re trying to shove us out,” Caleb said. “You don’t have the cards to pull this off.”
“One way to see for yourself,” Weeks replied.
“You know I don’t have enough to cover that bet.”
“Then maybe we can make this game really interesting. You put up your shares in that saloon of yours, and we can see what cards we’ve been dealt.”
“You want my part of the Flush? That’s worth more to me than whatever you’ve got in that pot.”
Weeks nodded slowly and said, “Then I guess you’re out.”
Caleb took another look at his cards. They were still the same as the last time he’d paid them a visit. Shifting his eyes up until he was staring straight at Weeks, be said, “Put up something of equal value to my saloon, and we’ve got a bet.”
“Fine,” Weeks said a little too quickly. “What about this place here? I may not own as much of Thompson’s Varieties as you do the Busted Flush, but I’d say there’s enough to cover the discrepancy between the initial bet.”
“My part of the Flush against your part of this place?” Caleb asked.
“That’s what I said.”
Sucking in a deep breath, Caleb forced himself to nod. “Let’s do it.”
It seemed as if every other noise in the saloon had been snuffed out. A few of Weeks’s gun hands stepped forward as if they’d emerged from the walls, adding another layer to the tension that was unfolding.
Jack’s nervous laughter cut through it all like a brick coming through a plate glass window. “Jesus H. Christ, I should’ve kept my beak out of this one!” he said while tossing his cards away as if they’d sprouted thorns.
“You heard the man, Doc,” Weeks said with a satisfied grin. “Pick up that deck and deal us our cards.”
Doc set his glass down and picked up the deck. After all the words that had been flying back and forth, it seemed as though he’d nearly forgotten that he was dealing. With the deck in his left hand and his fingers running along the edges, he looked up at Weeks and asked, “How many?”
“Just one.”
Caleb felt the knot cinch in tighter around his guts. Although there was nothing on the table apart from the cards, shot glasses, and a mess of money, he knew his very livelihood was sitting in that pot.
Doc’s fingers plucked a card from the deck with subtle ease. His movement was so quick that the card seemed to spring into his hand to be launched across the table. It landed neatly on top of Weeks’s other four and remained there.
Weeks tapped a finger on the card and grinned like a snake with a belly full of squirming mice.
“I’ll take two,” Caleb said.
With similar ease, Doc tossed two cards across the table to land in front of Caleb. His job done, Doc set the deck down and took another pull from his whiskey.
“Care to add anything else to the mix?” Weeks asked. “Or should we just show what we’ve got?”
“I don’t have anything else,” Caleb replied through gritted teeth. With that, he showed his hand. The only thing that had changed for him was the fact that he now had a deuce and a seven to keep his three nines company.
“Not bad, Mr. Wayfinder. Let’s see if I can do any better.” Like a true showman, Weeks flipped over his cards one at a time. The king and queen of spades were the first to show, followed by the four and six of the same suit. His smile had already reached its triumphant peak when he flipped over the card Doc had so recently given him.
“Stings, doesn’t it?” Weeks said, still keeping his eyes focused on Caleb.
Once more, silence had engulfed the table. Caleb, Jack, and Steve were all staring intently at Weeks’s cards. Nobody seemed able or willing to make a noise. Doc, on the other hand, started laughing.
“Looking for this?” Doc asked as he peeled off the top card from the deck. It was the ace of spades, and when Weeks saw it, he quickly looked down at his cards.
Sitting there next to all those spades was the ten of hearts.
The smile melted off Weeks’s face, leaving behind a visage of bitter rage. “What the fuck is this?” He snapped his head up and found Doc already getting to his feet. “What the hell is going on here, Holliday?”
But Doc was shrugging and walking for the door. When some of Weeks’s gunmen stepped in his way, Doc merely turned sideways and stepped between them.
Glancing uncomfortably at Weeks and the gunmen that were appearing like flies at a picnic, Steve edged back from the table and looked for somewhere he could disappear.
Jack Vermillion let out a low whistle and shook his head. “I guess the game’s over.”
“Almost,” Caleb said. “But not quite.”
[27]
The front door to Thompson’s Varieties was flung open to smack against the wall. Exploding from there like an arrow from a bow, Doc stumbled into the street where he quickly regained his footing and straightened his coat. The men who’d shoved him through the door came out next and were, in turn, shoved aside by Bret Weeks.
“You’re a dead man, Holliday!” Weeks snarled. “That wasn’t supposed to happen!”
Doc shrugged and said, “The cards can’t favor you all the time, Bret.”
Standing toe-to-toe with Doc, Weeks was breathing as if he’d run a few miles to get there. Sweat dripped along his bald scalp and curved around his narrowed eyes. Shaking his head, he growled, “That’s not what I mean, you skinny little prick, and you goddamn well know it!”
Doc looked back at him as if they were discussing which wine would most compliment their next meal. “I didn’t make the bets in there. I wasn’t even in the hand. You’re the one who got in over his head.”
As Weeks moved his hand closer to his gun, the men who had clustered around him did the same. “You gave me the signal. You knew it was time to make the move, and you fucked me! You even had the . . .” Weeks had to take a moment to force himself to breathe before he could continue. “. . . had the gall to show me the card you knew I was supposed to get.”
Doc’s eyes shifted around to all the gunmen who were staring at him with murderous intent in their eyes. Dismissing those men, their guns, and the lethal fire in their eyes, Doc shrugged and said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you could be referring to.”
Weeks had had enough. He was so enraged that he didn’t even think to go for his pistol. Instead, he reached out to take hold of the very source of his anger by clenching both fists around the front of Doc’s jacket. Nearly pulling Doc off his feet, Weeks glared straight into Doc’s face and hollered, “You were supposed to deal me the winning hand, goddammit! That was the deal! You fucked this up on purpose, and don’t try to tell me otherwise!”
The circle of gunmen was closing in around Doc and Weeks, although even they knew better than to intrude upon their boss’s tirade.
“We set up the signals,” Weeks fumed. “You gave the nod. I raised the bet. I’m supposed to be the owner of that Injun’s shit hole saloon right now! Instead, you decided to piss all over the plan, and for what?”
Doc’s face was unreadable. The flash of anger that had shown when Weeks grabbed him had passed. Instead, there was just enough of a smile on his face to keep Weeks’s own rage burning brightly.
After letting out another breath, Weeks pulled back just a little bit before letting go of Doc’s coat. He looked around at his men and nodded at the way they stood there, waiting for the order to pounce. “You want to die. Is that it, Holliday? You’re sick of hacking up your lungs every day, and you want me to put you out of your
