California Carnage (19 page)

The other players were not happy. They were staring at Fargo as if he were a snake they had found in their midst.

‘‘It is your turn to bet, mister,’’ one of the lumberjacks said.

‘‘Oh, hell,’’ Fargo said. He was tired of wrestling with the liquor. ‘‘I might as well go whole hog.’’ He pushed every chip he had to the middle of the table.

The drummer let out an exaggerated sigh and set his cards down. ‘‘I regret I must fold. The cards have not been kind to me tonight.’’

‘‘They have been kind to him,’’ the second lumber-man said resentfully, jabbing a thick finger at Fargo.

‘‘Downright amazing how kind they have been,’’ echoed the first. ‘‘It’s almost enough to make me think he has them trained to do what he wants.’’

The drummer stiffened. ‘‘Now, now. Let’s not have that kind of talk, shall we? I have been watching him closely and I can assure you he has not been cheating.’’

‘‘No, he has not,’’ said the man in the bowler. He had a thick mustache laced with gray. ‘‘He has been most careful when it has been his turn to deal.’’

‘‘I know,’’ the timberman reluctantly agreed, his mouth curling in a lopsided grin. ‘‘I almost wish he was cheating, though, so I could get my money back.’’

Fargo smiled. ‘‘I have a wish of my own. I wish I was playing millionaires.’’

The others laughed, and the drummer said, ‘‘You are not doing too bad, friend. The pot is close to four thousand.’’

All eyes swung to the man in the bowler. It was his turn to bet. He stared at the pile of chips, then at his cards, then chewed on his lower lip before saying, ‘‘I do not have enough to stay in but I do not care to fold. Would it be all right if I bet something of equal or greater value?’’

‘‘Cash or coin,’’ one of the timbermen said gruffly.

‘‘We agreed on that at the start,’’ said the second.

‘‘Indeed we did,’’ the man in the bowler replied. ‘‘But since the rest of you have bowed out, maybe we should let the gentleman in buckskins decide.’’

‘‘I don’t need a watch,’’ Fargo said, alluding to the gold fob visible on the man’s vest.

The man chuckled and shook his head. ‘‘I wouldn’t part with it in any event. No, I was talking about something else.’’ He reached inside his jacket and drew out a long, slender wallet. From it he took a folded sheet of paper.

‘‘What’s that?’’ the drummer asked.

‘‘This,’’ the man said as he unfolded it, ‘‘happens to be a legal document. It is a claim to my gold mine.’’

Fargo was drunk but he was not
that
drunk. ‘‘What are you trying to pull?’’ Passing off fake claims was a favorite tactic of swindlers.

‘‘My name is Frank Toomey,’’ the man said. ‘‘I have just come from Alaska. My mine, the Susie T, has been duly filed on and recorded. I would like to wager the claim.’’

Fargo’s head was pounding worse than ever. It did not help that the saloon was thick with cigar smoke and the reek of unwashed bodies. Lowering his hand under the table, he slowly drew his Colt and just as slowly placed it on the table.

Frank Toomey’s eyebrows tried to come together above his nose. ‘‘What is that for?’’

‘‘For jackasses who think I am one and try to cheat me,’’ Fargo bluntly answered.

Toomey set his cards facedown and spread his hands in front of him. ‘‘I assure you I am not trying to cheat you. The mine exists. My claim is in order. Win the pot and the Susie T is yours.’’

‘‘Listen to yourself,’’ Fargo said in disgust. ‘‘You want me to believe that you’ll risk losing a gold mine for a pot this size?’’ In high-stakes games it was not unusual to have pots worth hundreds of thousands. Compared to that kind of money, four thousand was paltry.

‘‘Hear me out, if you would be so kind,’’ Frank Toomey urged. ‘‘Yes, I have a gold mine. But that does not mean I have a lot of money. I only recently filed, and I need equipment and whatnot to get the mine up and running. In fact, that is why I came to Seattle. To scrounge up the capital I need to make the Susie T a going concern.’’

‘‘How much gold have you brought out of the ground so far?’’ Fargo asked.

‘‘Enough nuggets to fill the poke that I used to get to Seattle and to buy the chips to play at this table,’’ Toomey replied.

‘‘That’s all?’’

One of the lumberjacks snorted.

‘‘So what you are saying,’’ Fargo continued, ‘‘is that this gold mine of yours could be next to worthless?’’ He had seen it before. Ore hounds who thought they had struck the mother lode.

‘‘I know what you are thinking. But I have seen the vein. I chipped the nuggets out myself. There is gold, and a lot of it.’’ Toomey indicated the pot. ‘‘To you that might not seem like all that much, but four thousand will buy a lot of the things I need.’’

‘‘I don’t know,’’ Fargo said.

‘‘The equipment will be mine, free and clear,’’ Toomey went on. ‘‘I won’t have to pay it back, like the loan I hope to get at a bank. That’s why I sat in, hoping to win a hand like this.’’

‘‘You are taking an awful lot for granted.’’

‘‘Maybe so,’’ Toomey said. ‘‘Maybe betting the mine is a mistake. If so, it won’t be my first, and probably not my last. So what do you say? Will you humor me? Let me wager the Susie T.’’ He held the claim over the mound of chips.

‘‘I must be loco,’’ Fargo said, and nodded.

Frank Toomey made a show of neatly placing the folded paper on top. He picked up his cards. ‘‘I realize you go first but I can’t wait, so if you will permit me.’’ With a flourish he turned his cards over. ‘‘A full house,’’ he announced. ‘‘Kings and twos.’’

‘‘Not bad,’’ Fargo acknowledged, ‘‘but not good enough.’’ He showed his aces and queens.

Toomey had been about to reach for the pot. Disbelief marked his features—disbelief and something else. For a fleeting instant, anger registered—not the mild anger of a seasoned poker player who knew that losingwas part of the game, but the intense, almost savage anger of someone who had a cherished prize snatched from their grasp.

‘‘I tried to warn you,’’ Fargo said.

Toomey had gone pale and gripped the edge of the table, as if afraid he would fall from his chair. ‘‘I was so sure.’’

Fargo raked in his winnings. He picked up the claim and, without unfolding it, said, ‘‘You need to sign this over to me.’’

‘‘I don’t have anything to write with,’’ Frank Toomey said. ‘‘Perhaps you could stop by my room later. I’m staying at the Puget. Room thirteen.’’ He took his pocket watch from his vest. ‘‘It is almost eight. I can meet you there in, say, an hour.’’

Fargo shrugged. It made no difference to him. ‘‘An hour it is.’’ He stuffed the claim into a pocket and began to stack the chips so they would be easier to count.

One of the lumberjacks nudged the other. ‘‘Come on, Charlie. Let’s belly up to the bar. I still have a few dollars left.’’

Their chairs scraped and they melted into the noisy throng that packed The Cork and Keg. The saloon was always crowded. Situated on the waterfront, it was a favorite haunt of residents, mariners and timbermen alike. The quality of the liquor had a lot to do with its popularity. So did the quality of the doves who mingled with the customers and encouraged them to buy more liquor. All were young, all were pretty, and all wore tight dresses that accented their shapely contours. Small wonder the saloon was also a favorite of Fargo’s.

He was almost done stacking the chips when one of those shapely figures materialized at his elbow. Enticing perfume made his nose tingle. A perfume he recognized. ‘‘Have a seat, Marie. I will be done in a minute.’’

Marie Davenport had curly black hair that fell in gorgeous ringlets past her slender shoulders. Her eyes were almost as black as her hair and gleamed with playful vitality. Her full lips were cherry red, her cheeks high and full, but nowhere near as full as the bosom that swelled her dress near to bursting at the seams. Her cleavage was the envy of every woman in the room. ‘‘Are you finally going to take me to supper as you promised?’’ she asked with a mock pout.

‘‘I told you not to wait,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I told you the game could last half the night.’’

‘‘I am lucky it didn’t, then,’’ Marie said, ‘‘because I am starved.’’ She placed her warm hand on his arm and smiled ever so sweetly. ‘‘The restaurant I want to take you to has the thickest and juiciest steaks in all Seattle.’’

‘‘And costs more than anywhere else, if I know you.’’

Marie’s laugh tinkled on the air. ‘‘Can a girl help it if she has expensive tastes? Nice things do not come cheap.’’

‘‘Steak sure doesn’t,’’ Fargo remarked. Not in Seattle. Timber was the main industry, not beef. The few cows to be had were owned by settlers who refused to part with their sole source of milk and cheese. So cattle for the restaurant trade had to be brought in on ships.

‘‘Nearly everything costs more here,’’ Marie mentioned. ‘‘But I don’t mind. I make good money. And I like it here. I like the climate. I like the people.’’

‘‘You like rain six months of the year?’’ Fargo teased.

‘‘You’re exaggerating. Yes, it rains a lot, but not that much, and no, I don’t mind the rain or the clouds at all. Fact is, there is nothing I find more soothing and relaxing than a rainy day with the raindrops pattering on my roof and me curled up in a blanket. Unless maybe it is a hot bath.’’

‘‘I can think of a third thing.’’ Fargo smirked and stared at her pendulous breasts.

Giggling, Marie responded, ‘‘There is always that. But the relaxation comes after a lot of sweat and effort. A rainy day, a bath, they just are.’’

Fargo glanced up in genuine surprise. ‘‘Is that how you think of it? As sweat and effort?’’

‘‘Oh, no. I was using it as an example. It is fun. The most fun I know.’’ Marie ran a long fingernail over the back of his hand, touching his skin ever so lightly. ‘‘I could not do without it.’’

Fargo made a show of wiping his brow with his sleeve. ‘‘That’s a relief. For a second there you had me worried.’’ He added the last chip to a stack. ‘‘Why don’t you fetch your handbag and fluff your hair while I cash these in? Meet me out front in five minutes.’’

‘‘Make it ten. Women must take their time when they fluff.’’ Grinning, Marie squeezed his hand. ‘‘I can hardly wait for the fun.’’

Neither could Fargo. He was glad to step out in the fresh air. Lights sprinkled the green hills of Seattle like so many land-bound fireflies. It was hard to believe that not quite ten years ago Seattle had been an isolated outpost. Now it was a booming town with bright prospects thanks to the deep bay it bordered and the seagoing vessels that put in there. Stretching, he gazed out over the dark water and heard it lapping at the shore.

Suddenly something sharp pricked the small of his back and a gruff voice growled, ‘‘Don’t move unless we say to, and don’t let out a peep unless we say you can, and you might live out the night.’’