The Long Trail Home by Stephen A. Bly Page B

gold lower teeth with his squared off fingernail. “You and me can break a few ponies, then.”
    â€œHave you talked to Rocklin yet?”
    â€œNope. He’s in that big poker game in the corner. The bartender assured me that they don’t want to be disturbed. But if we don’t talk to him soon, he’ll be broke. Those other three are using a marked deck, and they’re fleecin’ him.”
    Sam squinted his eyes. “How can you see through the smoke?”
    â€œTrust me.”
    â€œWell, let’s change the deck.” With Kiowa still leaning his back against the bar, Sam turned to see the man with the one-sleeve suit coat.
    â€œI see you decided to visit my establishment after all,” the proprietor greeted. “I been ponderin’ it, and I could sell you that lot for one hundred cash dollars.”
    Fortune laid the carbine on the bar, barrel pointed at the man’s midsection. “No thanks, Mr. Dillerd. I’d like a cup of coffee and new deck of cards.”
    The man rapped his fingers on the bar, all except the stubby ones that had been cut off at the last knuckle. “The coffee’s a nickel a cup, and I cain’t supply cards for solitaire.”
    Sam nodded toward the gamblers across the room. “You’ll give me the coffee for free, and the cards are for that game in the corner.”
    Dillerd stiffened. “They got a deck.”
    Sam rested his hand on the receiver of the carbine. “That deck’s marked. We don’t aim to see Mr. Rocklin get cheated out of his money.”
    â€œYou cain’t threaten me with that Sharps,” Dillerd huffed.
    â€œThis gun?” Sam cocked the hammer back, leaving the barrel pointed at the trembling saloon owner. “I wouldn’t think of threatenin’ you. No, you’ll give me the coffee and the deck of cards, because you owe me.”
    Dillerd didn’t take his eyes off Fortune’s trigger finger. “What do you mean, I owe you?”
    â€œI had to stand out there in the street and listen to you lie about how Piney got hurt. Why would a man lie like that, Dillerd? Only because he was coverin’ up for a friend . . . or for himself. Maybe you’re one of ’em that kicked her in the head.”
    Kiowa spun around, his unsheathed knife in his right hand. “He did what?”
    â€œNo, no . . . boys . . . I didn’t have anything to do with that. None of us did. It was two drifters. They’ve been gone for months.”
    Sam surveyed the room. “Then why did you lie to me?”
    â€œLook, if all us merchants tell newcomers that women aren’t safe and that they get beat up, what will that do for business? Besides, that wrestlin’ story don’t hurt Piney none. It gives her a little fame and makes folks relax; that’s all. Just a fib to make things easier to handle for ever’one.”
    â€œDo you believe him?” Kiowa asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” Sam replied. “Ever’ time I’ve talked to this man, he’s lied to me.”
    Dillerd backed up until glasses rattled on the shelf behind him. “Boys, I’m tellin’ the truth.”
    â€œI’d believe you a whole lot more if I had a free cup of coffee and new deck of blueback cards,” Sam insisted.
    Dillerd scurried into the back room and brought out a steaming black mug and a new box of cards.
    â€œThank you, Mr. Dillerd,” Fortune said. “I do believe your story.”
    â€œWhich one?” Kiowa chided.
    â€œWell, all of ’em, I reckon.” Fortune glanced into the corner. “Come on, ‘pride of the Kiowa nation,’ let’s see if you can read those marks.” They strolled over to the poker table.
    Three feet from their destination, Rocklin, his back to the wall, glanced up. “This is a closed game, boys.”
    Fortune held his coffee cup out in front of him with one hand and scratched his