Vengeance Road (13 page)

“Let the lady play,” he says to Jesse. “I think you might have a problem if you don't.” He puts his hand on the grip of his pistol. Behind him, and stretched through the room, a few others stand taller, shove off the wall, toss their jackets and coats open to show off their pieces. I look 'em over quick, counting five—six with the man right before us.

And just like that, we know where they're standing. Every last Rider 'cept Rose himself. Assuming he's already seated, playing cards. The saloon's too full of patrons to see the tables in the back. And I certainly can't sweep faces for one matching Rose's description without drawing suspicion.

Jesse holds a forefinger an inch from my nose. “A few hands, and that's it. Soon as you's lost a couple dollars, I want what I came for.”

Even though it's part of our plan, my cheeks go hot at what his words imply. He don't see it, thankfully. He's already stalking off toward the bar.

It's a mighty regal one—all solid, shining oak. Instead of a mirror behind it, there's only more wood, but it's engraved with a roaring tiger and towering bears. The ceiling of the saloon is lofted, making the place feel too open. The upstairs rooms share a hallway that overlooks the tables. There's a bunch of girls up there now, leaning on the banister, shawls dangling and skin gleaming by the light of oil lamps.

“Lemme show you to an open table, miss,” the Rider says. He touches my elbow, and for a moment I think real hard 'bout the satisfaction I'd get from drawing the pistol from beneath my dress and shooting him through the heart. But I force my face calm and let him lead me toward the game.

As we move away from the doors the stench of days-old sweat hits. It ain't regal folk in here, not no matter what the craftsmanship of the bar lets on. Tobacco smoke wafts in clouds between the shoulders of men from all walks of life—businessmen and farmers and miners and more. The only thing I don't see is any type of law, and that'd be useful on a night like this.

My boot toe catches on something and I go tumbling forward, jerked to a halt only 'cus the Rider's still holding my elbow. If it weren't for him, I'd've fallen flat on my face. Damn dress.

He turns and kicks what tripped me—an Apache girl on all fours scrubbing the floorboards. She hisses as his boot connects with her gut.

“
Clean
the floors,” he snaps. “Don't trip people walking on 'em. Goddamn injun.”

She mutters something in her language that I'm sure ain't kind. The Rider seems to think the same, 'cus he kicks her again. Men snigger throughout the saloon. Funny how folks here treat me like a lady—questionable honor and all—but don't give two hoots 'bout the Apache.

The man winds up a third time but I step a leg out at the last second, so his boot hits my shin 'stead of the girl.

“I reckon she'll scrub better if you ain't kicking her,” I says.

He grumbles something but motions for me to follow. I catch the girl's eye as I pass by—confused and suspicious. I don't know why I did it. I wouldn't expect an ounce of kindness from an Apache if I was to fall into their hands and I reckon she don't expect much from us, neither. I walk on, trying not to cringe at my flaring leg. I bet it's already bruising. That's the last time I help an Indian who don't even thank me.

Ahead, the game table's waiting. Will's already made hisself comfortable, stretched out and chewing dip. He was aiming to scout out Rose and settle in next to him. If he didn't, the whole plan's shot.

I search Will's eyes, looking for a sign as to which man's Rose. Before Will can do nothing, the man to his left glances up and, as his face appears from beneath the brim of his hat, time freezes. My boots root into the floorboards. I forget how to walk.

'Cus it's him. It's Waylan Rose.

The scar cuts his cheek in two, starting below his eye and carving a path down to the outer edge of his lip. It's a pale, pocked line on an otherwise leather-tanned face. He's wearing a long black coat over a blood-red shirt, and his dark hair hangs to his chin just like mine. He's older than I expect. Or maybe desert plains and a life of killing's just weathered his skin. There's a smile on his lips, appearing between the stubble covering his jaw, but what kills me most is his eyes. They're lively. Bright. Shining like he ain't got a care in the world. As blue and cheerful as a cloudless summer sky.

How can a man who's done so much evil have eyes the color of heaven? They should be dark and soiled. They should be rotten.

I force myself to keep moving, and by the time I reach the only open seat—directly 'cross from him—I's found my tongue again.

“This seat taken?”

Rose pulls a smoke from his coat. His gaze trailing over me feels like a knife. “How's a soiled dove come to be skilled at poker? Don't you gals have other games to play?” His voice matches his scar—scratchy and rough.

“I ain't never said I was skilled. Just that I know how to play and want to try my luck. But I's picked up enough here and there, if you must know.”

“Hopefully from good teachers.”

“I reckon we'll see,” I says.

Waylan Rose lights his smoke and shakes out the match. “I reckon we will.” Then he exhales in my direction, grinning so sly, my blood slows. “By all means, sit down, doll. The only thing more fun than stealing from men is stealing from women.”

I pull out the chair, thankful the length of Evelyn's gown's hiding my unsteady knees.

The cards get cut. Chips are passed out. The first hand is dealt.

It ain't a large group playing—just me, Rose, Will, and three other men, one of which is the clerk from Hancock's. He's sitting on Rose's left and don't seem to recognize me now that I'm dressed like a girl. After a couple hands, it's obvious he bets bold too often. The men flanking me, however, are quiet and cautious players, and that suits me just fine. I only got one player to worry 'bout.

As planned, I make sure to lose a few hands early so no one sees me as a threat. I bet big on a poor hand. I fold on a hand that's actually good. I win one but leave it at that. I don't want no tell, and if I act rash and random, there ain't a way for the other players to get a read on my habits. Pa'd stressed that when teaching me how to play poker one winter. The long nights were filled with cards that season, and rifle cartridges that served as betting chips. I never thought knowing the game would be a skill I'd need, but I's thankful for it now.

Rose keeps his face blank, but his eyes twitch round the table like a hawk's. Watching the deals and the folds, flickering over the players' features, dancing over the chips. He thumbs his, which are stacked neat and precise.

As the game continues the Apache girl makes rounds, refilling whiskey glasses and emptying out ashtrays. The Rider who escorted me to the table is now standing 'gainst the bar, but every time the Apache slips behind it he spits dip at her back. When he ain't tormenting her, he's staring at our table. I can feel the eyes of the other Riders on us too. From all through the saloon, they're watching. Between them and Rose, this ain't gonna be breezy. Not that I ever thought it would be. But still.

Maybe a dozen hands in, the man to my left bets real big. He ain't done nothing of note yet, so I reckon he's got something good. I stay in till after the trade, just to throw people off. Then when he raises, I fold. Everyone does but Rose, who raises more. The guy to my left counts his chips, deliberating.

“Friend, you don't wanna test me on this hand,” Rose says.

The man beside me looks at his five cards, then the pot, then his cards. Finally, he shoves all he's got left into the center of the table.

“All in,” he says.

Rose's brows rise in amusement. He takes a long drag on his smoke. Taps it 'gainst the ashtray one, two, three times. Exhales. Then he counts out what he needs to match the bet and slides the chips forward.

The man to my left flips his cards, grinning. He's got a full house. Three queens and two aces. It's a damn good hand.

“Ain't that a shame,” Rose says.

He exhales slow and turns his hand over. Another full house—also a pair of aces, but with three kings.

“Sorry, partner,” Rose says.

As Rose scoops up the pot, the losing man jumps to his feet and draws his gun. Somehow—even though Rose is bent over gathering his winnings—he manages to straighten, square, draw, and fire first.

Rose's mark flies back, toppling a chair, and is dead before he hits the floor.

The saloon goes stark silent. The last key plucked on the corner piano hangs in the air. The girls in the loft hush.

Everyone's staring, even the men at our table. The Hancock's clerk's mouth is frozen in a tiny O.

“I hate sore losers,” Rose announces. He flicks his coat open and holsters his six-shooter, but not before I spot the grip of a second pistol on his hip. Shiny and pale. Engraved with a pattern I'd know anywhere.

The bastard is carrying my father's pistol like he owns it. Like he didn't steal my father's life and journal and even the contents of his belt.

Alls I can do is stare at my dwindling pile of chips, fearing our plan is bust. Rose were a faster shot than even Jesse. I don't know how he did it, and even if everything unfolds like we got planned, I can't see anyone else in this saloon wanting to take a shot at him after he just unloaded on that other fella so fast.

But I also can't run. Not after that last hand. It's Will's turn to deal, and all those aces and kings and queens are in plain view on the table. This is our chance. We couldn't've asked for better luck or timing.

Will gathers up the cards, and he's so nonchalant 'bout it, you'd never guess he was counting 'em, stuffing the deck with purpose, setting up the deal.

The Apache girl comes back to refill drinks. It causes a nice distraction, making Will's deal a bit easier. Still, Rose's got his eyes sharp on the deck, and scared he's gonna spot a plant, I start talking.

“What brings you to Phoenix, sir?”

He takes a sip of his whiskey. “What makes you think I'm from elsewhere?”

“It's just I never seen you round here,” I says, hoping it's a strong enough answer.

Rose eyes me a long moment, then says, “A job.”

“And yet yer gambling, not working.”

He sets his glass down hard. “Have we met before?” Rose cocks his head sideways, and I'm reminded of a coyote 'bout to pounce. “You look familiar.”

I swear my heart's pounding loud enough for the other players to hear. Does he see Pa in my features? Are my eyes his?

“I been working in Phoenix most of my life,” I says, “so I doubt it.”

“Maybe in Prescott?” Rose takes Pa's pistol from his holster and lays her down on the table so I can see her in all her glory. My eyes lock on it. I can't stop staring. I swallow and force myself to look back at Rose. He's gotta recognize me. Or suspect. He knows something he shouldn't, or he wouldn't've brought Pa's gun into view.

“Prescott?” I says. “What's in Prescott?”

“Nothing, I guess.” He tosses his blind in, nonchalant, and the man to his right follows suit. Will finishes the deal and I scoop up my cards.

I take a deep breath and force myself to focus.

Will's done me good. I got two aces, two kings, and a three. If Will's done the deal right through and through, Waylan's got the other two bullets.

I itch my collarbone with my left hand—our signal—and Jesse moves away from the bar.

Everyone calls, and when the bet turns to me I raise a hefty sum. Will folds. Rose sees me, as does Hancock's clerk and the man to my right.

I push my three toward Will, face-down. Waylan also trades a single card. I don't care what the others do, so I don't even bother making note.

Will deals out the trades. My three becomes a four.

Not that it matters . . . Jesse's coming.

“All right, that's quite enough of this,” he says, bearing down on the table.

“I got a good hand.”

“I don't care if you got a royal flush,” Jesse argues. “Let's go. A man shot and dead! Who knows what else to come. I let you play and all you's done is lose my money.”

“I won one hand.”

“I don't care. It's my turn now.” He grabs me by the wrist of my card hand and hauls me to my feet. With a yank I'm facing him, our chests pressed together with nothing but the cards squished between us. His face is so close, I can smell the tobacco on his breath.

“Yer making a scene,” I says, yanking 'gainst his grip. In the fake struggle he slips a card from his sleeve and into my fanned five, swapping it with the one on the far edge—the four. Right where I promised I'd hold the card I didn't want. Now I's got a hand that'll best Rose, but he's still got one good enough that he thinks he can win. He ain't gonna fold.

“There won't be a scene if you just come like yer told,” Jesse snarls, tugging me harder.

“I ain't going nowhere. I can win this.”

“Listen, I already paid for you and I'm sick of waiting. If you don't come now, I swear to God I will—”

A weapon cocks.

Jesse steps away from me. We both look to Rose. He's sitting there calm as ever, his elbow resting on the table with his pistol aimed at Jesse.

“She already bet and has to play out the hand. Let her go.”

Jesse drops my arm in disgust. I make a show of fixing my shawl and looking frazzled.

Rose motions toward the bar with his pistol. “Head back to the bar.”

“Yer gonna pay for this later,” Jesse says, pointing a finger at me. Then he sulks off.

Rose keeps his gun aimed at Jesse's back. “Should I shoot him for you?”

“No!” I says, prolly too forcefully.

Rose just shrugs and holsters his weapon. “It's yer funeral.”