Nearby players and patrons had overheard. A current of hushed voices rippled through the room. All eyes turned to their table. The more prudent sidled elsewhere to avoid taking a stray slug.
Fargo happened to notice one man who did not. Another townsman, he sported bushy sideburns and, like Niles, wore a bowler. The man had been idly watching their game. Fargo had not thought anything of it until now. He realized that the man was standing behind Hale Tilton, but to one side, where Tilton was less apt to notice.
A conviction came over Fargo that there was more to Niles’s and Weaver’s shenanigans. On a hunch, he casually shifted in his chair, and sure enough, another townsman was behind him. It set him to wondering why they had let him win so much. Maybe he was imagining things. But then, it was his habit to keep his cards flat on the table and slide them close to the edge before taking a quick peek. The man behind him had not been able to see his cards.
The bank teller removed his cigar and jabbed the lit end at Niles. “Is what he says true? Have you and Weaver been cheating us?”
“Of course not, Sam,” Niles said unconvincingly.
“Because if you have,” the teller went on, “it stands to reason this isn’t the first time.”
Niles colored the same shade as a beet and snapped, “I tell you it’s not true! Why in hell don’t you believe me?”
Sam jabbed the air with his cigar again. “Because it explains how you manage to win so often on days that me and some of the other boys get paid. Or didn’t you think any of us would notice?”
“I don’t have to sit here and take this!” Niles declared, and started to rise. He stopped when Hale Tilton’s right arm rose and extended in his direction, Tilton’s fingers bent slightly back.
“You are not going anywhere until your friend turns over the cards you dealt him,” the gambler said in a low tone pregnant with menace.
Weaver was squirming in his chair like a chipmunk on a hot rock. “Niles? What do I do?”
“You don’t turn over the cards and you keep your damn mouth shut.” Niles gazed expectantly around the room, but if he was hoping for support from any of the onlookers, he was disappointed. No one was willing to intervene. Cheating at cards, like stealing a horse, was a serious offense.
“The cards, Mr. Weaver,” Hale Tilton said quietly.
Trembling like an aspen leaf in a brisk breeze, Weaver reached for his cards but stopped at a sharp cry from Niles.
“Don’t you touch them, damn you! He has no right to make you! We will forget about this hand. Everyone can take their money from the pot, and that will be that.”
“No, it will not.” The gambler slowly rose. “My patience has a limit, gentlemen. I strongly suggest you do as I have asked.”
Without being obvious, Fargo was keeping an eye on the townsman behind Tilton and the townsman behind him. The gambler, preoccupied with Niles and Weaver, had not noticed them.
“You can go to hell!” Niles blustered.
“After you,” Hale Tilton said.
“Someone send for the marshal!” Niles was clutching at a legal straw. “He’ll put a stop to this nonsense.”
No one moved, nor offered to go. The bartender brought his hands up from under the bar. He was holding a shotgun, but he did not point it at their table. He was content to let the confrontation play itself out without interfering unless he absolutely had to.
Fargo edged his right hand closer to his Colt. Experience had taught him that when the explosion came, it would be swift and brutal.
Hale Tilton leaned across the table. With his left hand he turned over the cards in question. “Just as I thought.”
Four aces and a king lay there for all to see. Too late, Weaver snatched them and clutched them to his chest. “It wasn’t my idea,” he said.
“Hush, damn you!” Niles fumed. “He can’t prove anything if you keep your fool mouth shut!”
“Who needs to?” the gambler asked. “What will it be? Parade you down the street tied to a rail?”
“I would like to see someone try,” Niles snarled, and made as if to leave. As he turned, his hand darted under his jacket.
A flick of Hale Tilton’s wrist, and just like that a nickel-plated derringer gleamed in the lamplight. The
“Kill the son of a bitch, boys!” Niles cried.
Hale Tilton shot him.
The townsman behind Tilton and the townsman behind Fargo clawed at concealed revolvers. In a heartbeat Fargo was out of his chair with his Colt level. He sent a slug into the man behind the gambler, whirled, and banged off a second shot, all so fast that to the onlookers the two shots sounded as one.
The townsman behind Fargo did not go down. He staggered against the wall, regained his balance, and brought up a Smith and Wesson.
Fargo never did like backshooters. He shot the man in the chest, not once but twice, and at each cracking retort, holes appeared in the townsman’s store-bought shirt. The man was dead before his face smacked the floorboards.
Gun smoke hung in the air. Niles was sprawled on his back with a new hole between his eyes. The townsman behind Tilton was on his side, groaning and mewing about his shoulder being broken.
“I’m obliged for the help,” the gambler said.
Fargo scanned the onlookers. None were disposed to avenge the fallen. He started to reload, saying, “There is no shortage of jackasses in this world.”
Nodding, Hale Tilton grinned. “If a man can’t cheat worth a damn, he should take up knitting.”
Now it was Fargo who grinned, but the grin evaporated when what he took to be another townsman came striding purposefully toward them. Quickly, Fargo replaced the last spent cartridge and twirled the Colt so the muzzle pointed at the newcomer. “That’s far enough, mister. I have plenty of peas left.”
The man stopped. Smiling suavely, he doffed a derby and said with a slight twang, “I assure you, sir, I mean you no harm. Quite the contrary. Your marvelous display has confirmed the reports we have received about you.”
“What the hell are you jabbering about?”
“It’s quite simple, really.” The man’s smile widened. “My associates and I would like to hire you to kill someone.”
2
Skye Fargo did not hire out his gun to kill. He was a tracker, a scout, a frontiersman. He was fond of cards, whiskey, and women, although not necessarily in that order. He was prone to wander, spurred by an unquenchable yearning to see what lay over the next horizon. He had killed before, many times, but always when it had to be done, when his life or the lives of others hung in the balance, when it was survive or die.
“I’m not a hired assassin,” he said curtly.
“Did I give the impression I thought you were?” the man rejoined. “If so, I apologize. Perhaps I phrased my praise in the wrong vein. It need not be you who does the killing.” He paused. “We are interested in you primarily for your tracking ability, which we hear is outstanding.”
Fargo studied the man anew; his clothes were nicely tailored, a gold watch chain hung from a fine vest, his polished shoes shone. This man was not the sort who usually frequented watering holes like the Hitch Rail.
“Mind if I buy you a drink and you and I discuss our proposal?”
Hale Tilton had been listening. “Go ahead if you want,” he said to Fargo. “I’ll explain things to the marshal when he shows up.”
“If he needs me I’ll be over there.” Fargo pointed at an empty corner table. “After you,” he said to the dandy
