Colter squatted and took hold of the man’s shoulders. “Don’t die on me, damn it! I need to know.”
A smirk curled the man’s mouth. “It’s too late for me. I feel my life ebbing. But maybe I will give you a clue.”
Suspecting the clue would be worthless, Captain Colter said, “I’m listening.”
“We don’t have far to go,” the man said, and cackled as if it were the funniest utterance ever made. More blood flowed from both his mouth and his nose. He choked. He sputtered. Then he was still.
“Is he gone?” Sergeant Pearson asked.
“Yes.”
“What was that he said about not having far to go?”
“I wish to heaven I knew,” Captain Colter said in frustration. The raid had not worked out as planned. He was no closer to the truth, and countless lives were at stake. He summed up his sentiments with a simple “Damn.”
1
Skye Fargo was having one of those nights when Lady Luck sat on his shoulder. He had won two hundred dollars at poker, bucked the tiger at faro and won sixty-seven dollars more, and was now back at the poker table facing a stack of chips in the pot that promised to add five hundred to his poke if he won.
The only thing better than a winning streak was a willing woman, and Fargo’s luck had held in that regard, too. A dove by the name of Saucy had taken a shine to him earlier that night when he strolled in through the batwings. She was like a she-bear drawn to honey—and he was the honey.
Miss Saucy McBride was quite an eyeful. Red hair cascaded in curls to bare white shoulders as smooth as alabaster. She had an oval face distinguished by full, upturned lips that appeared as succulent as ripe cherries. A scarlet dress clung to her full figure as if painted on. But it was her eyes that most interested Fargo—hazel pools of desire mixed with a healthy sense of humor.
At the moment, Saucy was perched on Fargo’s lap with one arm around his neck and the other resting on his thigh. She was making small circles on his leg with the tips of her fingers. Fargo wanted to throw her to the sawdust-covered floor and have her right there, but there was the matter of winning the five hundred dollars.
Four other players were at the same table. One had already folded. Another was a mousey store clerk who bet only when he had a sure hand, which always turned out to be an especially good one.
The third player, a chunky bank teller partial to cheap, foul-smelling cigars, played like a bull in a china shop. He bet practically every hand and bluffed as often as he held good cards. There was no predicting him, although Fargo had noticed that the last two times the teller had bluffed, he removed his cigar from his mouth and tapped it in the ashtray before betting.
The fourth player was cut from a whole different cloth. Hale Tilton was a gambler by profession. He favored a black jacket and pants, with a frilled white shirt. A wide-brimmed black hat was tillted low over his eyes so no one could read his expression. He, too, was unpredictable, although slightly less so in that he did not bluff as often as the teller. When he did, it was because he sensed weakness in the others’ hands.
The teller was about to bet. He took his cigar from his mouth, tapped it on the ashtray, and pushed in fifty dollars.
“Interesting,” Hale Tilton said, and added fifty of his own.
It was Fargo’s turn. He had two queens, a king, an eight, and a three. Only a queen and the three were the same suit. It was not a great hand, but it had potential. He debated discarding the king, eight, and three and asking for two cards, then decided to discard only the eight and the three. But first he had to bet.
Fargo was fairly certain the teller was bluffing. The store clerk had at least a pair of jacks or he would not have opened. Hale Tilton might have a good hand or he might be counting on the draw. Either and all ways, Fargo was not about to bow out with a pair of queens. He added fifty dollars and asked for two cards.
The player who had folded was dealing. Another townsman, he wore a brown jacket and a bowler, and he could never seem to sit still. He was forever fidgeting. Fargo took it to be because the man had a nervous temperament, but now, as the man flicked cards to the store clerk, Fargo saw something that set his blood to boiling. If there was one thing he could not stand, it was a cheat.
Hale Tilton, in the act of stacking his chips, froze for an instant with his fingers poised over the table. Then slowly, almost sadly, he lowered his hand and said softly, “Well, well, well.”
“What’s the matter, Tilton?” the dealer asked with a smirk. “Not getting the cards you need?”
“Oh, I have no complaints,” the gambler responded. “Not about the cards, anyway. It’s simpletons who get my dander up. They mistakenly think I’m as simple-minded as they are.”
“Surely you’re not referring to any of us?” the teller demanded, his cigar clenched in a corner of his mouth.
“Not you, no,” Hale Tilton said. He focused on Fargo. “Do you want to do this or would you rather I did the honors?”
Fargo had played the gambler a few times before. He did not know Tilton well, but as rumor had it, he was fairly honest, for a cardsharp, and had a reputation as a gent who should not be crossed. “Be my guest,” Fargo said, and leaned back.
Hale Tilton glanced from the dealer to the store clerk and back again. “It always amazes me when peckerwoods try.”
“Try what?” the clerk nervously asked.
“In case you have forgotten, I gamble for a living. From Mississippi riverboats to prairie hovels to log saloons along the Columbia River, I have seen it all, done it all, where cards are involved.”
The dealer snickered. “Are you bragging or complaining?”
“I am making a point, Niles,” Hale Tilton said. He pushed his chair back and placed his forearms on the table, and if anyone besides Fargo noticed the slight metallic scrape Tilton’s right wrist made, they did not show it. “I’ve seen trimmed cards, cards with sliced corners, cards with bumps. I’ve seen holdouts of all kinds. Up the sleeve, in vest pockets, in belts. I’ve seen card cheats use special spectacles to read phosphorescent ink on the backs of cards. I’ve seen men use bugs.”
Fargo had been in a saloon in Kansas when a man was caught using a bug. Made of steel and shaped like a money clip with two sharp ends, the bug was jammed under a table and held cards the bug’s owner palmed until they were needed. The man in Kansas had been fortunate. Instead of stretching his neck, as was customary, the other players tarred and feathered him.
Niles glowered at the gambler. “There are a thousand and one ways to cheat, Tilton. What of it?”
“Usually only professionals mark cards and use holdouts,” Hale Tilton remarked. “Amateurs deal from the bottom of the deck or play with a friend and set up secret signals, or both.” The gambler stared squarely at Niles. “How you two expected to get away with it is beyond me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Niles huffed. He slid his right hand close to the edge of the table, and to his open brown jacket.
Tilton switched his hard stare to the store clerk. “And you, Weaver. Why would you try it? Don’t I always play fair with you boys when I visit Kansas City?”
Weaver paled and looked at Niles, who angrily demanded, “Are you accusing the two of us of cheating? Of working together to fleece a few hands?”
“Yes, that is exactly what I am saying,” Hale Tilton said. “But you are free to prove me wrong. Turn over your cards, Mr. Weaver, and show us what Mr. Niles has dealt you.”
Fargo patted Saucy on the fanny and bobbed his chin. A veteran of her trade, she understood immediately; she rose and moved well away from the table. Fargo lowered his right hand and hooked his thumb in his belt next to his Colt.
Weaver was not especially brave, but he knew his poker. “I am not required to show my hand until the betting is done. That’s the rule.”
“No one else is going to bet,” the gambler said quietly.
“Even so,” Weaver said, his voice rising, “I’m not turning my cards over, and that’s final.”
“You
