Bo and Scratch pushed through the batwings and went inside, they saw that the saloon was doing its usual brisk business. Thirsty cowboys filled most of the places at the bar and occupied all but a few of the tables. A group of men gathered around the birdcage in the corner, calling out lewd comments to the girl on the swing.
Strittmayer had laid down the law where those girls were concerned: The saloon’s bouncers would deal quickly and harshly with any man who so much as set foot inside the cage. He couldn’t stop the comments, though, and the girls who worked the cage soon learned to ignore them and continue to wear a placid smile.
The air was full of the usual saloon smells—whiskey, tobacco, sweat, and piss—and the usual sounds—loud talk, raucous laughter, tinny piano music, the click of a roulette wheel, the whisper of cards being shuffled and dealt. Bo nodded toward the bar and told Scratch, “Go grab a beer.”
“I can handle that job,” Scratch said.
Bo spotted a dealer he knew at one of the baize-covered tables where poker games were going on. The man wore the elaborate waistcoat and frilly shirt of a professional tinhorn. Close acquaintances knew him as Three-Toed Johnny because of an accident with an ax while splitting some firewood one frosty morning. He was an honest dealer, at least most of the time. Bo hadn’t seen him for a couple of years. The last place they had run into each other was Wichita.
The hand was over as Bo came up to the table, and Johnny was raking in the pot. No surprise there. One of the players said in a tone of disgust, “I’m busted. Guess I’m out.” He scraped back his chair and stood up.
Johnny stopped him and held out a chip. “No man leaves my table without enough money for a drink, my friend,” he said.
The man hesitated, then said, “Thanks,” and took the chip. He headed for the bar to cash it in and get that drink.
Bo said, “Some people say that’s what got Bill Hickok killed. He busted Jack McCall at cards, then tossed him a mercy chip like that the day before McCall came back into the Number Ten and shot him.”
Three-Toed Johnny looked up and grinned. “Bo Creel! I didn’t see you come in.”
Bo sort of doubted that. Johnny didn’t miss much.
“It’s good to see you again, amigo,” the gambler went on.
Bo gestured toward the empty chair. “You have room for another player?”
“Most assuredly. Sit down.”
“Wait just a damned minute,” a man on the other side of the table said. He was dressed in an expensive suit, but the big Stetson pushed back on his head, the seamed face of a man who spent most of his life outdoors, and the calluses on his hands all told Bo that he was a cattleman. The suit and the big ring on one of his fingers said he was probably a pretty successful one. So did the arrogant tone of his voice.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Churchill?” Johnny asked. Bo could tell that the gambler was keeping his own voice deceptively mild.
By using the hombre’s name, Johnny had also identified him for Bo. The upset man was Little Ed Churchill, the owner of one of the largest ranches in West Texas. Little Ed wasn’t little at all, but his pa Big Ed had been even bigger, Bo recalled, hence the name.
“This fella’s a friend of yours,” Churchill said as he jerked a hand toward Bo. “You said as much yourself just now.”
“And that’s a problem because…?”
“How do the rest of us know that you and him aren’t about to run some sort of tomfoolery on us?”
Johnny’s eyes hardened. “You mean you’re afraid we’ll cheat you?” he asked, and his soft tone was really deceptive now. Bo knew how angry Johnny was.
Bo wasn’t too happy about being called a cheater himself.
“I’ve seen you play, Fontana,” Churchill said. “You win a lot.”
“It’s my job to win. But I do it by honest means.”
So Johnny was using the last name Fontana now, Bo thought. Johnny had had half a dozen different last names at least. Bo wasn’t sure Johnny even remembered what name he’d been born with.
“To tell you the truth,” Johnny went on, “I don’t need to cheat to beat you, Churchill. All I have to do is take advantage of your natural recklessness.”
One of the other players rested both hands on the table, in plain sight, and said, “I don’t like the way this conversation is going. I came here for a friendly game, gentlemen, not a display of bravado. And certainly not for gunplay.”
“Shut the hell up, Davidson,” Churchill snapped.
The man called Davidson paled and sat up straighter. He was in his thirties, well dressed, with tightly curled brown hair and a mustache that curled up on the tips. As Davidson moved forward a little in his chair, Bo caught a glimpse of a gun holstered in a shoulder rig under the man’s left arm. Despite his town suit, Davidson looked tough enough to use the iron if he had to.
“I can go find another game,” Bo suggested. He didn’t want to sit in on this particular one badly enough to cause a shootout. “I just thought I’d say hello to an old friend.”
“There’s no need for that, Bo,” Johnny said. He gave Churchill a flat, level stare and went on. “Bo Creel is an honest man, and so am I. If you doubt either of those things, Churchill, maybe it’s you who had better find another game.”
“I won’t be stampeded, damn it.” Churchill nodded toward the empty chair. “Sit down, Creel. But remember that I’ll be watching you.” He looked at Johnny. “Both of you.”
“It’s going to be a distinct pleasure taking your money,” Johnny drawled.
“Shut up and deal the cards.”
Johnny shut up and dealt.
CHAPTER 2
Bo wasn’t sure what would have happened if he or Johnny had won the first hand after he sat down. Little Ed Churchill might have been more convinced than ever that he was being cheated.
The man called Davidson was the one who raked in that pot, however. In fact, judging by the way what had been a fairly small pile of chips in front of Davidson when Bo sat down began to grow after that, the man’s luck appeared to have changed for the better.
Davidson won three out of the next five hands, with Bo taking one and Johnny the other. Bo understood now what Johnny meant about Churchill being reckless. The man was a plunger when he had a decent hand and a poor bluffer when he didn’t. Bo wasn’t surprised that Churchill lost a considerable amount of money in a short period of time.
The cattleman’s face was red to start with, and it flushed even more as he continued to lose. Bo felt trouble building. If not for the fact that he and Scratch needed money, he would have just as soon gotten up from the table and walked away.
Scratch ambled over from the bar and stood there watching the game with a mug of beer in his hand. Churchill glanced at him and glared.
“What
