The Great West Detective Agency by Jackson Lowry Page A

spotted fever, that had been the scariest description of symptoms he had ever heard.
    â€œUsual split?”
    â€œWhatever you can steal is yours, unless I catch you. It’s a slow day, but I don’t want to pass up a single sucker. Keep them in the saloon however you can for tonight’s show.” Lefty walked down the bar to serve another beer to a man dressed in tatters. As he went, he evaluated what he might find under the Emerald City’s floor.
    Lucas went to the faro table, pulled back a tablecloth covering it, and found a deck of cards wedged into a small compartment beneath. He shuffled, then began his spiel to draw the willing victims into his web. Faro was a simple enough game, or so the players thought. A pretty woman dealing, leaning forward over the table in a low-cut dress, gave them their money’s worth even as their wallets were picked clean. Lucas’s appeal had to be different to keep them pressed along the far side of the table as he worked.
    A young cowboy came up and worked at building a cigarette. From his clumsy attempt, he’d either had little practice or he’d had a snootful of whiskey already. Lucas saw the man’s yellowed teeth and realized the cowboy had likely pushed through the door first thing when Lefty opened that morning.
    Such a guess gave him the way to hold the cowboy’s interest.
    â€œYou’re good enough with that smoke to do it on horseback,” Lucas said.
    â€œHave done it while stretched over a horse’s back,” the cowboy allowed.
    â€œThen I’d better tell you how dangerous that might be,” Lucas said. He motioned for the cowboy to lay down a bet. He took a deep breath and remembered what he had learned from the Preacher about spinning a web of words to keep his audience intrigued. Then he began telling his story to keep the cowboy distracted from the cards.
    â€œMy partner got consumption from smoking and upped and died on me last January. Don’t think I’m prone to that.” As if to put his words to the lie, he coughed, then spat, hitting a cuspidor at his feet with reasonable accuracy.
    â€œNot what I mean. You ever hear of Glue Bottom Backus?”
    â€œCan’t say I have. That’s a mighty odd name.”
    He lost another hand but wasn’t budging. Lucas had him hooked.
    â€œHe came by it honestly. Glue Bottom could ride any horse, no matter how the son of a bitch bucked.”
    â€œAin’t never been a horse that can’t be rode, and there ain’t never a rider that can’t be throwed.”
    â€œYou’re wrong about that,” Lucas said. “Once old Glue Bottom plopped down on a saddled horse, no amount of sunfishing or quick spins ever unseated him. He was up in Wyoming on a ranch outside of Cheyenne when he about met his match, though.”
    â€œWhat I said. Any rider can be throwed.”
    â€œGlue Bottom set himself down on this maverick and was bounced about, jerked this way and that,” Lucas said, all the while dealing faro and scooping up the coins the cowboy lost because he paid more attention to the story than his odds. “He thought he was a goner when the belly strap began to groan under the strain of the varmint’s heaving. The leather stretched enough so daylight showed between saddle and the lathered up horse’s back.”
    â€œSure sign Glue Bottom’s name got to change. He might stay with the saddle, but when the cinch loosens—”
    The cowboy clapped his hands together loud enough to draw attention from the more serious gamblers and drinkers. Even Claudette looked up. Lucas shook his head. He didn’t want her to break the spell he wove. Another quick move pulled in sorry bets. The cowboy put down more without even considering how he bet.
    â€œThat’s so,” Lucas said to string him along. “But the effort tuckered out the horse. That maverick settled down and Glue Bottom rode it out of the