on things, but by the time the game starts, the rest of the house should be fairly quiet.”
Looking the room over once more, Fargo reached a decision. The poker table was in the center of the room, the bar area behind it and to the right in one corner. He walked across the room and lifted one of the heavy chairs, placing it several feet behind the dealer’s chair—in between the table and the bar. It put him too far from the door for his liking, but there was no helping it. If he was going to both watch the game and protect Hattie, he’d have to be positioned right there.
“This ought to do it,” he said.
“Very well,” she said. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Fargo? Anything at all?”
The words were suggestive enough, but considering that she was already sleeping with two senators, Fargo figured he’d be better off sticking to business. “Just one more question,” he said.
“Of course,” Hattie replied, leading him out of the room and back up the stairs. She blew out the gas lamps as they went and Fargo did his best to keep his mind focused on what he needed to know, rather than the seductive sway of her backside through the silk of her gown.
They reached the top of the stairs and paused in the entryway. “You had a question?” she said.
“Yes,” Fargo said. “I understand the stakes and the players. I know what I’m supposed to be doing. There’s just one piece of information I don’t have yet.”
“And that is?”
“Who is going to be dealing the cards?” Fargo asked.
Hattie burst out laughing, her voice echoing off the marble entryway in genuine mirth. “Oh, my,” she said. “I am truly amazed.” She wiped tears away from the corners of her eyes, still laughing. “It hadn’t even occurred to me that you didn’t know.”
“So?” Fargo asked, irritated at her mirth. “Who’s dealing?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I really did think you knew.” She managed to get her laughter under control, making a small handkerchief disappear into a sleeve. “I would’ve thought he would have told you.”
“He who?” Fargo snapped.
“Your friend,” Hattie said. “John H. D. Timmons will be dealing the cards tomorrow night, Fargo.”
Stunned, Fargo felt his jaw unhinge and he had to consciously force himself to close his mouth. When he opened it again, all he could mutter was, “Ah, shit.”
That was one twist in the trail he hadn’t seen coming at all.
10
Fargo left the Blue Emporium in something of a daze, crossing the street and barely avoiding being run over by a carriage. He needed to think and short of leaving the city, the best place to do that would be back in his room at the Bayou, so that’s where he headed.
Once he was back in his room, he stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. He wasn’t tired, but his mind was reeling from the implications of H.D. dealing the cards for the game. On the one hand, it was possible that he’d been chosen because he was unbiased. On the other, it was possible that he’d fallen under the influence of one or more of the players of the game—or simply the influence of cold, hard cash—and was somehow involved in one or more of the schemes going on here.
Fargo squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then started massaging his temples. By his count, there were now six poker players, one dealer, and one brothel madam involved in the game. Of those, five were potential problems and at least four had some kind of vested interest in the outcome. He realized he had a headache . . . and that he much preferred the straight decision making of a good fight than all of these shady characters and their secret plans.
A deep feeling of unease settled itself in his gut. The potential for this to turn into a basement blood-bath was pretty high, and he wondered if his initial assessment about the streets being quiet was right. If any of the three men—Parker, Beares, or Anderson— wanted to make a move, during the poker game might be the best time.
This, coupled with the fact that H.D. hadn’t bothered to mention that he was going to be dealing the cards, led Fargo to reach the conclusion that no matter what he did, he was going to be a target for trouble. Someone would want him dead and out of the way
No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than he heard the faint squeak of a floorboard in the hallway outside his door. It could have been a passerby, someone leaving his room, but the noise would have continued on, rather than ceasing.
Fargo slipped the Colt out of its holster, then placed it alongside, almost beneath, his right leg where it would be hard to spot. The door handle to his room rattled briefly and he mentally cursed himself for not bothering to lock the door when he’d come in. Closing his eyes to mere slits, he feigned sleep and waited, hoping the individual wouldn’t just shoot him down.
Through his restricted vision, Fargo saw the deep blue color of a pair of jeans and the tan canvas of a duster. Booted footsteps, quiet but noticeable, stopped at the foot of his bed.
Resisting the urge to move, he kept his breathing slow and steady. Until he heard the cold, metallic click of a pistol being cocked.
A deep voice began to say, “Get up, Trailsman,” but Fargo was already moving.
He launched himself forward, bringing the Colt to bear with his right hand, while sweeping the man’s gun out of the way with his left.
The man’s eyes went wide and he managed to say, “Oh, shit, he’s awake!” as Fargo jammed the barrel of the Colt against the man’s chest.
From the doorway, Fargo saw another man drawing down on him and he knew he didn’t have a choice. These men were here to take him away somewhere and kill him and he wasn’t about to let that happen.
Leaping off the bed, Fargo shoved the man in front of him toward the door, just as the other man’s gun went off. The bullet slammed into the first man, hammering into his back and driving him to his knees.
From the doorway, the second man said, “Oh, damn, Darby,” then tried to take aim at Fargo.
The Trailsman wasn’t going to give him the chance and he fired the Colt twice, the sound almost deafening in the small room. Darby fell over backward, dead, at almost the same time that his partner pitched into the hallway, crashing into the wall and sliding down. His eyes held the same look of surprise Fargo had seen on so many faces when meeting the reality of their own deaths. So many men who were willing to kill for money seemed to believe that they were immune to the fate they handed out to others. Death came as a cold surprise, but Fargo suspected they ended up in a much warmer place.
Stepping over Darby’s still form, he moved to the man in the hallway who was gasping out his last few breaths. “Heard . . . heard . . . you were good,” he wheezed.
“Who sent you?” Fargo snapped, kicking the man’s gun down the hallway. “Who wanted me dead so badly that they’d send you in broad daylight?”
The man coughed blood and grinned a red smile. “You . . . you’ve got to know,” he managed. “Just . . . about . . . everyone.”
“To . . . hell . . . with you,” the man said; then his breath hitched one last time and he died.
“Damn it!” Fargo snarled, resisting the urge to give the dead man’s body a kick. From the bottom of the stairs, he could hear shouting and the rush of steps. He wasn’t even going to have time to search the bodies before half of New Orleans was jammed into the hallway trying to see what had happened.
From experience, Fargo knew that the law would already be on its way—there was always someone who ran for the sheriff the minute they heard gunshots. He walked back into his room to wait, reloading the Colt and taking a position by the window.
Ignoring the questions from the people in the hallway who were alternating their queries with exclamations about the two dead men, Fargo kept his silence, watching the street below.
He wasn’t particularly surprised when, several minutes later, he spotted H.D. moving down the boardwalk at a fast clip, a crowd at his heels.
Standing framed in the doorway, H.D. whistled softly at the damage, then turned and said, “Show’s over,
