Red River Showdown (11 page)

Tossing a natural flush was the same as asking him to toss a pet over the side of a cliff.

Pitching the straight flush he'd filled in after drawing one card would have been harder than cutting off his own arm.

Finally, Clint swallowed his gambling instincts and folded after glancing toward his cards without actually looking at them. “I need to get some fresh air,” he said.

“What?” Barry asked. “Why?”

“I just want to get up and stretch my legs.”

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Maybe I'll come with you. I got a few things I'd like to discuss.”

Clint had no clue what could be on Barry's mind, but he didn't want to find out. Before he was roped into an entire conversation about it, he waved the man off and waited for his next hand to be dealt. This time, he smirked and only asked for one card after raising the bet. When he got his card, Clint raised again.

“I think I got you now,” Barry said.

“Can you beat a flush?” Clint asked.

“Aw shit.”

Clint laid down his cards and started to reach for the chips. Before he could touch one of them, his hand was grabbed by a cold, iron grip.

“Not so fast,” Jones snapped as he pulled Clint's hand away from the pot. “That's not a flush.”

“What are you talking about? That's a ten-high club flush.”

“That ten isn't a club. It's a spade.”

Clint squinted down at the cards and then glared up at Barry. “You see what happened? I wanted to stretch my legs, you made me stay and now look!”

Barry winced and gave a halfhearted shrug.

“You mind if I get up and take my stretch now?” Clint snarled.

“Nope,” Barry replied.

“Alone?”

“Be my guest.”

Clint walked out of the room looking every bit as frustrated as he felt. It seemed that winning as much as he did had had its disadvantages after all. The players either wanted to get their money back or keep their eye on him to make sure he wasn't cheating. Either way, they sure as hell didn't want to let him go. After Clint's display, however, the table was more than willing to give him some time to himself.

The moment he stepped outside into the night air, Clint felt better. The cool breeze felt like a splash of water on his face, and the sounds of the river were a welcome relief from the noise that filled the inside of the
Misty Morning
's poker room.

Since there wasn't anyone else wandering the deck, Clint made a straight line for the door that led down into the section where the sleeping cabins were located. As soon as he got to the bottom of the stairs, Clint could tell he wasn't going to be alone in the hallway. A few voices drifted to his ears, and stopped at the sound of Clint's first step.

It was too late to think he might get in without being noticed.

In fact, the longer the voices stayed quiet, the more uncomfortable Clint felt.

When he heard the first steps heading toward the stairs, Clint felt completely exposed.

The top of the stairs wasn't lit, so Clint was standing in the middle of thick shadows. The door behind him was closed, and he kept it that way by holding one hand on the knob. Just before he caught sight of feet in the hallway at the base of the narrow staircase, Clint threw open the door and stomped outside.

As soon as he was clear of the stairs, Clint eased up on his footing so his boots didn't slam so hard against the deck. There was a door leading into the riverboat's dining area and saloon, which was on the same level as the deck he was on. Clint entered the saloon and hurried toward the thickest cluster of people he could find.

Behind him, Clint heard the saloon door open again. He didn't even glance over his shoulder. Instead, Clint kept a casual smile on his face as he brushed past several gamblers trying to talk to some very attractive ladies, and kept moving toward the door at the opposite end of the room. It was only a matter of seconds before Clint reached it, but he felt as if he'd run a mile to get there.

Clint eased that door open just enough for him to slip through. Once outside, he ran around the corner to wind up at the door leading back down to the private cabins. There was a man wearing a gun belt standing with his back to Clint, looking around the first corner that Clint had turned to get to the saloon. Now that he'd gotten around and behind that man, Clint moved quickly and quietly to the smaller door leading to the first hallway.

Walking down those same stairs this time around, Clint's head was spinning. He'd basically run in a wide circle, but had gone through so many doors that they all seemed to blend together. This time, there were no voices in the hallway. Clint couldn't see very far past the bottom of the steep stairs, so he headed down them prepared for anything.

There was one man standing at the door marked by a number five. He was already looking toward the stairs with his hand on his holstered gun.

Before the armed man could say anything, Clint anxiously asked, “Are you the one who might be able to help those other two?”

“What other two?”

“The ones who just ran up those stairs. They told me to tell the other one to get up there and help them with—”

Clint didn't even need to finish his lie before the gunman bolted past him and charged up the stairs. Not wanting to waste a second of the time he'd bought for himself, Clint took the maid's key from his pocket and unlocked the door to room number five.

The room actually wasn't much bigger than Clint's. Although the cot appeared to be a bit more comfortable, the only other difference was the table situated against one wall. Clint headed over to that table and took a look at the solitaire layout that was there.

He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, so Clint just started rummaging. Part of him felt a little bad about going through someone else's things, especially since he wasn't completely sure they belonged to the man he was after. Since it didn't seem like there was going to be much to find anyway, Clint sifted through what was there and hoped for the best.

Unfortunately, his luck wasn't holding up there as well as it had been in the poker room. There was no knife lying out for him to find, another bloody piece of clothing or anything else that might possibly be of any help. Even if the things he found did belong to the man with the knife, none of them would do him any good.

That's when Clint stopped and reminded himself of what he was after in the first place. He needed something to tell him why someone would go to such lengths to stow away aboard the
Misty Morning
, where they might have gone once they were on board, and who that person might be. If he found something to tie the man to attacking Clint, that would be even better.

Clint's heart pounded faster and faster as if he could feel the gunmen coming back from being distracted. He had even less time available if he wanted to walk out of that room rather than fight his way out. With no better ideas coming to him, Clint dropped to his hands and knees to get a closer look at the floor.

As he shuffled toward the cot, Clint's right hand slapped against a flat piece of paper mostly hidden beneath the bed. At first, he thought it was an invitation similar to the one he'd gotten. His hopes soared, since an invitation like his would have a name on it.

The envelope turned out to be the wrong size to contain an invitation. It was also empty. There was, however, some writing in one corner of the back of the envelope. Clint held it closer so he could read the scribbled letters in the room's dim light: DCRM1—that was all that was written on the envelope. Since there wasn't anything else there and the floor was otherwise clean, Clint got up and started walking toward the door. He stopped when he spotted something on the table that caught his attention. Along with the cards spread out in a solitaire game layout, there were other decks of cards on the edge of the table. But what had caught Clint's eye wasn't the cards. The glint of metal coming from beneath one of the decks interested him even more.

Lifting that deck, Clint recognized the small tool beneath it as a set of shears used to trim the edges of cards so the dealer could manipulate who got what. If there were shears in the room, that meant the person in that room was a card cheat. It also meant the odds were very good that trimming edges of cards wasn't that person's only method of getting his results.

Clint picked up the deck and examined the backs of the cards. For the most part, they bore standard patterns that could be found on any cards. Since he had some idea of what to look for, Clint soon picked out a few marks here and there that didn't belong.

Whoever had marked the cards was smart. The marks were difficult to spot and might have gone unnoticed if Clint wasn't certain they'd be there. Even though he did spot them, the marks weren't in any particular pattern to make them easy to read. That was a trick used by more sophisticated cheats, since they had to memorize an entire alphabet of code rather than a simple pattern of marks in certain spots telling number or suit.

Even marks within suits were different, which would have made the deck more trouble than it was worth to most cheats. This one, however, didn't mind memorizing fifty-two disconnected markings. It also meant he had to be awfully good at substituting his deck in the middle of a game. As Clint was about to put the cards back where he'd found them, he realized something else: The marks on the back were exactly like the ones used in the
Misty Morning
's poker room.

Not close.

Not very close.

Exactly the same.

And since those cards were using a fairly distinctive pattern, that meant whoever had marked those cards had somehow gotten enough time to do so after boarding, or already knew what that pattern would be.

All of these bits of information settled into Clint's head as he straightened up and covered any signs that he'd been there. They weren't exactly the definitive clues he'd been hoping for, but he certainly knew a lot more now than when he'd come in.

There was still plenty more that he didn't know, but that would have to remain a mystery for the time being. What concerned Clint more was getting out of that room before he was either discovered or trapped in by all those armed men.

Taking a quick look under the door, Clint didn't see any feet on the other side. He opened the door, took another quick look, and then stepped into the hall.

That one step brought his heart right to the top of his throat. If someone was waiting out there for him, they would have a possibly fatal advantage. Even if there was someone close to the upstairs door, they would see Clint leaving the room with more than enough time to do something about it.

Clint was just quick enough to avoid a fight and heard the door at the top of the stairs swinging open as soon as he pulled the room's door shut behind him. He dashed down the hall and turned the first corner he found. Behind him, Clint could hear heavy steps as the gunmen took their positions by the room door and talked about who'd been the one to lose sight of Clint in the saloon.

“Is there a problem, sir?”

Clint twitched at the sound of the voice, but recognized it. He turned around and realized he was standing in the entrance to what appeared to be a small kitchen. Filling up most of the doorway leading to the kitchen, Arvin waited for an answer to his question.

“Hello, Arvin,” Clint said.

“Hello. Is there a problem?”

“Yeah. I'm a bit lost.”

“That depends on where you're trying to go.”

“I'd like to get back to the poker room, but I'd rather not head down that hallway again. Some of those men with the guns followed me into the saloon like they were going to steal my money.”

Arvin's brow furrowed and he slowly shook his head. “I highly doubt that, sir.”

“Well, if it's all the same to you, I'd appreciate another way up. I kind of already made some accusations and they didn't take it too kindly.”

“Ah. I see. This kitchen serves food to these rooms as well as the saloon. I hope you don't mind showing your face there again, because that's your only alternative.”

“Thanks, Arvin,” Clint said as he followed the man with the salt-and-pepper hair. “You pulled my fat from the fire again.”

“That's . . . nice, sir.”

When Clint got back to the main poker room, he noticed a slight difference at the tables. They were still mostly full, but very few of them seemed familiar. Granted, Clint hadn't memorized every last face, but he'd been sitting there long enough to get a feel for the tables around him. Now that he got closer, he realized even his table wasn't the same.

Elsa was the only one in her original spot, and she'd attracted a fresh batch of admirers. When she saw Clint approaching the table, she gave a few quick farewells and got up to meet Clint before he got there.

“Where did everyone go?” Clint asked.

“All the big games have moved to the smaller rooms,” she replied.

“I guess that's not a big surprise.”

“No, but you might want to consider staying in here anyway,” Elsa told him with a crafty smirk.

“Why?”

“Because these new players are either too rich to care about losing a few hands or too stupid to know how to avoid it.”

“I appreciate the thought, but I think I'd rather up my game instead of wringing someone else dry.”

“Isn't wringing the other players dry the point of poker?”

Clint paused for a second and then shrugged. “I guess so, but it's more fun to play for higher stakes. Besides, I was getting used to the game we'd already started.”