The Gamble (I) (27 page)

She couldn’t believe his willful blindness. “Oh, Scott, do you really believe that?”

“My father never hung around a saloon in his life. That’s because his wife knew how t’ please him at home.”

“Your father lived on a plantation. There were probably no saloons for miles around.”

He bristled visibly. His eyes hardened to black marble. “And just how do you know so much?”

“The girls told me long ago. The point is, there
were
no saloons, so your father acted as provider and stayed at home, which is where more men should stay.”

Scott snorted disgustedly. “You’ve been hangin’ around those fanatics too long, Agatha. You’re gettin’ t’ sound just like ‘em.”

“The truth hurts, doesn’t it, Scott? Yet you know it as well as I do—alcohol is addictive and debilitating. It impoverishes entire families by destroying a man’s ability to work, and it turns gentlemen into brutes.”

Scott’s scowl deepened. “What’s worse is you’re beginnin’ to believe all those generalizations.” He pointed a finger at her nose. “And that’s just what they are! Half o’ you women are kneelin’ at every swingin’ door in town singin’ your damned self-righteous songs and you don’t even have cause.”

“What about Annie Macintosh, with two cracked ribs and a black eye? Does she have cause?”

“Annie’s a different story. Not every man who has a glass o’ whiskey is like Macintosh.”

“And what about Alvis Collinson, who gambles away shoe money and grocery money and lets his own son sleep in a bed crawling with lice?”

Scott’s teeth clenched. His jaw took on a stubborn jut.
“You really don’t fight fair, do y’?”

“What do you think is fair? To take Willy to the Cowboys’ Rest once every month or so to assuage your guilt?”

“My guilt!” Scott’s face darkened, his fist tightened on the broom handle, and his head jutted forward. “I don’t have any guilt! I’m runnin’ a business down there, tryin’ to keep eight people alive!”

“I know. And I appreciate what you’re doing for all of them. But don’t you ever have doubts about the men you serve all that liquor to? About the families who desperately need the money they lose at your gambling tables?”

His expression turned smug. “It doesn’t keep me awake nights, no. If they couldn’t get whiskey from me, they’d get it somewhere else. Ratify that amendment and the saloons’ll close—sure enough—but Yancy Sales’ll be sellin’ the same stuff I’m sellin’, only he’ll call it bitters, and every lawmaker in the country’ll be in there buyin’ it and claimin’ it’s for
medicinal
purposes.”

“That may be. But if prohibition straightens up even one father like Alvis Collinson, it will have been worth the fight.”

“Then go, Agatha!” He flapped one hand toward the depot. “Go t’ the governor’s shindig! Have afternoon tea in his rose garden!” He stomped across the room and slammed the broom into her hands. “Only don’t expect me t’ come runnin’ t’ save you the next time a fed-up saloon owner ransacks your bedroom!”

He stormed to the door and slammed it so hard she cringed. The new knob worked perfectly; the door closed and stayed closed, but she stared at it through a film of tears. She lowered herself to a chair and dropped her forehead to her hands. Her heart ached and her chest hurt. The familial closeness of last night had been shattered by her own choice. Yet it wasn’t her choice at all. She felt torn and confused and grieved that she was falling in love with the wrong man—heaven help her, with the whole wrong “family.” But one did not always choose—she was learning—for whom one cared. Sometimes life made that choice. But it was what one did with that choice after it was made that brought happiness or grief.

* * *

The day hadn’t gone Collinson’s way. In the morning a wild fat-bellied cow had mashed his leg against the fence before he could draw it out of the way. In the afternoon the kid showed up with feathers stuck on his shirt and admitted he’d been hanging around that interfering hat builder again—helping her clean house, no less. And tonight his luck had soured.

Eight hands in a row he’d lost, while the duded-up cowpoke beside him beat the house on the last three pots. Even Doc, with his muddled-up brain, had managed to win two out of the last six.

Loretto had it in for him, just like the rest of them around the saloon, and Collinson had a feeling he was pulling face cards out of his sleeve somehow.
Smart-aleck punk!
Collinson thought.
Half a year ago he was still pissin’ in his bed, an’ now he sits gussied up in a fancy black jacket and string tie, double-dealin’ them that he used t’ call friends.

Collinson counted his money. He had enough for two more hands, and if he didn’t win he’d be busted flat. He downed another shot of whiskey and nervously backhanded his mouth, then turned to nudge Doc’s elbow.

“’Ey, ya got a spare cigar, Doc?”

“Doc” Adkins was no doc at all, but a self-proclaimed veterinarian who traveled around the country “pulling” calves and “worming” hogs by mixing wood ashes and turpentine with their feed. His business hadn’t been too lively since he’d fed tincture of opium to one of Sam Brewster’s sows, putting her to sleep permanently instead of curing her enteritis.

Some said Doc Adkins made a habit of sampling his own tincture of opium, which accounted for the distant expression in his yellow eyes and his torpid reaction to life in general.

But he was likable, nevertheless, and a faithful friend to the wretch Collinson. Doc found a cigar now and handed it to his drinking buddy. Lighting it, the florid-faced Collinson studied the dealer.

Loretto shuffled so slickly the cards hardly bent. He
arched them in the opposite direction and they fell into line as if by magic.

“So your ma ain’t too happy ‘bout you dealin’ cards here,” Collinson remarked.

“I’m twenty-one,” Loretto responded flatly.

“He’s twenty-one.” Collinson nudged Doc’s arm with his cigar hand. “Ya hear that, Doc? Got hisself a moustache an’ everythin’.” Collinson chuckled derisively and glanced at the blond swatch beneath Dan’s handsome nose. “Looks like a patch of durum the grasshoppers found tasty, don’t it?”

Dan had sensed undercurrents building all night. Collinson was spoiling for a fight, and Dan had his orders. He squared the deck and raised two fingers to Jack at the bar, who immediately poured two double shots of whiskey. Jack nodded to Scotty, who caught the signal and turned from his conversation with a cowpoke to bring over the shot glasses.

“You gentlemen mind if I sit in for a few hands?” he inquired with practiced indifference.

“Why, shore.” The young Texan beside Collinson looked relieved as Gandy caught a nearby chair with a boot and slid it up to the table.

“Your drink, Dan.” Scotty stretched to place one shot glass before the dealer, then set the other at his own elbow.

“What’s the game?” he inquired, reaching into his ticket pocket and extracting some bills.

“Blackjack,” replied Loretto. “Who’s in?”

Collinson shoved his next-to-last dollar into the center of the table.

Loretto smacked the deck down on his left and Collinson watched to make sure all hands stayed on top of the table during the cut. The punk was good, but he’d make a slip sooner or later, and when he did, Collinson would be watching. Meanwhile, he could be as cool as a frog on a lily pad.

While the first two rounds were dealt, he struck up a seemingly idle conversation with the cowpoke. “What they call ya, boy?”

“Who, me?”

Collinson nodded and squinted through his own cigar smoke.

“Slip.” The boy swallowed. “Slip McQuaid.”

Collinson checked his down cards—a pair of aces. That was more like it. He split them up and noticed the dealer, too, showed an ace along with his down card. Goddamned punk had to get it from up his sleeve—nobody could be that lucky that often—but it riled Collinson that he wasn’t able to catch him at it. He wiped his mouth with the edge of a rough finger and pushed his last dollar in to cover the double wager. Loretto hit him twice—a nine and a four.

Collinson’s eyes grew beadier. He shifted his soggy cigar to the opposite side of his mouth, riveting his eyes on the dealer while he spoke to McQuaid. “Hope that ain’t got nothin’ t’ do with how ya play cards. Wouldn’t wanna play with nobody had the reputation for bein’ slippery.” Collinson gave a tight laugh, watching Loretto check his down card without clearing the green baize tabletop.

“N... no, sir. I slipped off a wet saddle when I was first startin’ to ride and busted my collarbone. My pa give me that name.”

“Cards?” Loretto inquired of McQuaid, ignoring Collinson’s innuendo.

Gandy noted the slight shift of Dan’s hips beneath the table as he crossed his left ankle over his right knee, bringing the concealed derringer within reach.

McQuaid took a card and pondered, while Collinson questioned him further. “What outfit ya ridin’ with?”

Gandy refrained from interfering, though Collinson broke a cardinal rule: disturbing McQuaid during play.

“Rockin’ J, outta Galveston.”

“That where ya learned t’ play cards?”

McQuaid tensed but tried not to let it show. “I played some in the bunkhouse with the boys... One more,” he told Loretto, then cursed when he tallied twenty-two.

Gandy waved a palm over his resting cards as a signal that he’d stand pat. His eyes met Collinson’s belligerent stare and he forced each muscle to relax.
Loosen up, Gandy, be ready.

“And where’d you learn, Loretto? I’ll take a hit—over
here.” He knuckled the down four. Loretto upturned a seven. Collinson’s brown teeth worked over the soaked end of his cigar while he considered and sweat broke beneath his arms. “Again.” The king put him over. His temperature went up a notch. The goddamned punk couldn’t be that lucky! Collinson still held twenty in his other set, but he’d been hoping to rake in double on this hand. “Yessir, I recall when Danny, there, was no taller’n an angleworm. Used t’ wear
short
sleeves then.” Collinson squinted pointedly at Dan’s knuckle-length black sleeves. “You ‘member, don’t ya, Doc?”

“I remember,” Doc replied vaguely, though it took him some time to do his recollecting. “Hit me, Danny.”

Loretto deftly whipped a card his way.

Doc took a long time pondering.

“Hurry up!” snapped Collinson. “Don’t see what the hell can take ya so long.”

Again Gandy held his temper. When Collinson blew, he’d blow hard. Meanwhile, Doc finally decided.

“Again,” he mumbled.

With a snap of his wrist, Dan sent another card to its mark.

Doc peered at it myopically, sighed, and folded. “I’m out.”

Collinson’s face turned bloodred. “That leaves me against the house, don’t it? Now just how lucky would a man have t’ be t’ win around here?”

“You got something to say, Alvis, say it.” Dan kept one hand on the table but dropped the other to his thigh.

“Let’s see your cards, boy,” Collinson challenged, biting hard on his cigar.

Dan took another hit with the hand that had never been out of sight, then showed three cards totaling a perfect twenty-one.

“You crooked sons-o’-bitches!” Collinson’s face turned ugly as he produced a knife. “Don’t tell me you ain’t got no cards up your sleeves!”

Gandy rose slowly, each muscle tense, prepared, but his voice came out like slow honey. “I don’t allow fightin’ in here, Collinson, you know that. Now put the knife away.”

Collinson crouched with the blade flashing in his hand. Doc and McQuaid backed off.

“Put it away before somebody gets hurt,” Gandy warned.

Collinson swung toward him. “You, too! I’d be doin’ this town a favor gettin’ rid of both o’ ya! Which one o’ you wants it first?”

“Be sensible and drop it,” Dan said, bringing the gun into sight. “I don’t want to have to shoot you, Alvis. Dammit! I’ve known you all my life.”

“I ain’t droppin’ nothin’ but one o’ you!”

“Four dollars is hardly worth gettin’ shot over,” Gandy cajoled. “Put it away and we’ll have a round on the house.” He began to signal Jack.

“This ain’t just about four dollars, Gandy, an’ you know it. It ain’t enough you bastards take my money with them cards you keep up your sleeves; you turn my own flesh an’ blood against me, too.”

The place had gone silent. Every eye in the room watched warily.

“Go home, Alvis. You’re drunk,” Dan said reasonably, rising to his feet. “I told you, I don’t want to have to shoot you.”

“I ain’t drunk. I’m broke is what I am, ya crooked—”

“Give it t’ me.” Gandy moved in, palm up. “We’ll talk outside.”

“Like hell we will, you fancy, no-good son-of-a-bitch, stealin’ everythin’ I got—”

Alvis drew back his arm and all hell broke loose at once. The knife plunged into Gandy’s upper arm. The derringer exploded and Collinson fell facedown across the round, green tabletop. Customers dove to the floor. The girls screamed. In the sudden silence Gandy grimaced and grabbed his right arm.

“Damn! He got you anyway.” Dan jumped forward to help and Jubilee came running, wild-eyed. But Gandy shrugged them both off and dropped to a chair.

“Check Collinson,” he said quickly.

Dan rolled him over and felt for a pulse. He raised doubtful eyes to Gandy, who sat slumped and panting, still clutching his limp arm.

Dan raised his voice. “Somebody run and get Doc Johnson!” Then he turned to Adkins, who seemed to have come out of his stupor for the first time in years. His face was chalky, his eyes round with fright.

“Doc, get over here,” Dan called. “He can use your help.”

“Me?”

“You’re a veterinarian, aren’t you? See what you can do to keep him alive till Doc Johnson gets here.”

“B... but I—”

“He’s your friend, Adkins!” Dan bellowed impatiently. “For God’s sake, quit sniveling and act like a man!” Then he turned to Scotty and went down on one knee beside him. He glanced up dubiously at Jubilee, swallowed hard, and fixed his eyes on the knife protruding from Gandy’s arm. “What do you want me to do?”

Gandy was fading in and out from the pain. He lifted his head and stared dazedly into Dan’s face. Sweat stood out in beads on his own. “Get... it... out...” he whispered, clutching his right biceps, where blood already had turned his black sleeve shiny.