The Accomplice (16 page)

“And what about this backing?”

“If that was a bluff, nothing will come of it. If there really is someone else behind this, then all we’ll need to do is sit back and wait for the next shoe to drop. Either way, there’s no reason for us to stand out here when all the real fun is inside.”

And just like that, Doc was done with the matter. Although he still had his doubts, Caleb couldn’t argue with Doc’s logic. Judging by the noise coming from inside the Flush, there was more than enough in there to keep him busy for a while.

After stumbling onto Commerce Street, Jim broke into a run and made a straight line for Market. Along the way, he spat out an endless string of obscenities that had as much to do with Caleb Wayfinder as it had to do with the stabbing pain that shot from his wrist all the way up to his shoulder and back down into the pit of his stomach. The hand above his broken wrist had already gone numb, allowing Jim to see straight just long enough to find the St. Charles Saloon.

As one of the more respected saloons in Dallas, the St. Charles was also one of the most fortunate, since it had survived one fire that had claimed the lives of two establishments on the other side of the block. It was also known as a friendly place to gamble, which was more of a testament to Champagne Charlie Austin, who ran the place wearing an ever-present smile on his wide face.

Charlie was known as a good fellow and a straight shooter, which brought a hell of a lot of players to his card tables and tournaments. Charlie was just as likely to buy a man a drink as he was to pour one, and he did his best to greet folks as they walked into his saloon. This night was no exception.

“Hello there,” Charlie said even before he saw who’d kicked open the St. Charles’s front door. Once he got a look at the weary humpback, Charlie rushed forward, grasping the bar rag that hung from his back pocket. “You’re hurt, Jimmy!”

Jim’s first instinct was to slap away Charlie’s helping hand. His next was to grit his teeth and snarl in pain since he did the swatting with his newly broken wrist. “Just get the fuck away from me,” Jim spat. “And get me something to drink.”

Although Charlie didn’t appreciate Jim’s brusque manner, it wasn’t in his nature to return such ugly behavior. Instead, he backed up and went to the bar before he said something he might regret.

The St. Charles was as full as it was on any other night, meaning that nearly every table in the place was playing host to card games of various sizes. Smaller, narrow tables were situated around the edge of the main room, which were reserved for faro. A small stage was currently being used by a dark-haired woman singing along with a moderately talented guitar player.

At one of the faro tables closer to the door, Kyle’s bulbous head poked up when he heard his cousin’s venomous cursing. He then rushed up to the front of the saloon as quickly as his stout legs would carry him.

“What the hell happened to you?” Kyle asked the moment he got a look at Jim.

Snatching the shot of whiskey Charlie handed to him, Jim downed the liquor before replying, “That goddamn Injun jumped me behind his saloon.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“What are you two going on about?”

Both Jim and Kyle jumped a bit since they hadn’t even noticed the other man step up and join their conversation. The new arrival was average in height and build, allowing him to blend into the crowd within the saloon. What made him stick out a bit was the seriousness in his face and a darkness in his eyes, which plenty of gunfighters had worked years to perfect.

“Oh, uh, nothing, Bret,” Kyle stammered.

Jim grabbed his wrist and let out a labored groan as another stab of pain lanced through that side of his body. “Nothing, my ass. My goddamn hand is busted!”

Bret took another step forward to examine Jim’s hand. His bald head sported a few long scars, but nothing to make him look half as ugly as the humpback. A narrow face and bony features were accented by a thin mustache that looked as if it had been sketched under his nose using a pencil and ruler.

“You should see a doctor about that,” Bret said.

“I don’t like doctors.”

“Then quit crying like a woman and tell me what happened.”

Although he immediately regretted his refusal of treatment, Jim stuck by his posturing and proceeded to lay out a quick account of his recent visit to the Busted Flush. “And when I tried to have a word with that Injun, he pulled me over the bar and took me outside to threaten my life.”

“All without merit, I suppose?”

“Yeah, Bret. I was just meaning to talk.”

Bret looked Jim up and down before nodding. “I see you’re not wearing a gun. What about that pig sticker you keep under your shirt?”

“Huh?”

“The knife,” Bret said in a tone of voice that cut just as well as the weapon in question. “What about the knife you’re so fond of carrying?”

“You told us not to go in there with weapons, so—”

Without another word, Bret reached out to grab hold of Jim by the hump on his back. When Jim started to protest, Bret’s other hand flashed out to wrap around Jim’s broken wrist so he could give it a quick squeeze. Whatever Jim was going to do or say was quickly eclipsed by the pain that engulfed him. After the humpback had dropped to one knee, Bret pushed him over and pulled the back of Jim’s shirt up enough to see the empty scabbard tucked under his belt.

“You brought that knife in with you?” Bret asked in a cool, detached voice.

“I didn’t . . . carry any weapon!”

“If that’s the case, the scabbard wouldn’t be here. Where’s the knife?” When he didn’t get an answer as quickly as he would have liked, Bret placed one boot against Jim’s broken wrist and pressed down as if he was mashing out a cigarette. “Where’s the knife, Jim?”

“The Injun took it from me!” Jim squealed.

“Did you pull it when he hauled you out of the Flush?”

“Yeah! I cut him, too, but he got the knife from me!”

“Is that how your hand got busted?”

Tears were welling up in Jim’s eyes, and he hung his head even lower when he saw how many people were turning to get a look at what was going on. “Y ... yeah. That’s how it happened.”

And, just like that, Bret’s boot was no longer pushing down against Jim’s broken bones. In fact, Bret was helping the humpback to his feet and dusting him off. Smiling more to the customers that were looking on, he motioned for Charlie to come closer. “Get this man another drink.”

Leaning in so only Jim and Kyle could hear him, Bret whispered, “You see how much easier things go when you’re straight with me?”

Since he was in too much pain and too embarrassed to speak, Jim merely nodded.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Weeks,” Kyle said.

Bret helped Jim over to the door and even assisted in getting the humpback’s arm draped over his cousin’s shoulders. “You’d better have something more to show for your actions tonight, and I’d better hear about it before we get to the doctor. Otherwise, I’ll make the pain you’re feeling now feel like a fucking siesta.”

“I know you told us not to go over there,” Jim wheezed. “But I couldn’t just—”

“It’s not too far to the doctor’s,” Bret warned.

After sucking in a few breaths and shaking off his cousin’s efforts to help him walk, Jim pulled in his wounded arm and staggered down Main Street alongside Bret and Kyle. “There was a good turnout. Plenty of card games going on.”

“There’s a tournament kicking off,” Bret said. “You need to do better than that.”

Jim’s eyes darted back and forth in their sockets as if he was frantically trying to find salvation in the boardwalk under his feet. Suddenly, his eyes grew wide, and a hopeful smile jumped onto his face. “Doc Holliday was there!”

“Holliday’s been gambling plenty lately. Keep trying.”

“No. Not just gambling. He was dealing faro.”

Reflexively, Bret glanced back in the direction of the Busted Flush. “Is that so?”

“I saw him when I was walking in. Holliday was sitting behind a faro table getting all set up to open for business.”

Bret’s eyes narrowed as he shifted his stare back to the street in front of him. “Now that is interesting. Did he have any part of what happened to you?”

Jim shook his head. “No, it was all that Injun’s doing.”

Although he’d been fairly silent this whole time, Kyle was unable to hold his tongue any longer. “We can’t let this pass, Mr. Weeks. I know we was supposed to steer clear of that place, but we can’t let that Injun think that he can walk all over us like this.”

“Us?” Bret asked with amusement. “The only one that got trampled was Jim, here, and that’s only because he had to go off on his own to talk tough when he should have kept his damn mouth shut. I’ve been working at this for too long to have the likes of you two muck it up now.”

“Yeah, but—”

Weeks silenced Kyle with a quickly upraised hand. “But, since a move’s already been made, there’s no need to let it end there. This didn’t fit into my timetable, but it was something that was to happen eventually.”

The bald man’s brow formed a sharp ridge over his eyes that all but hid them completely from view. What little could be seen made it obvious to anyone with eyes of their own that Weeks was sifting through more than just the ramblings of a humpback and his fat cousin.

“I know I messed up,” Jim sputtered. “But that was only because I was caught by surprise. The next time I go back in there, I can clean that Injun out of that place for good, and we can get that other bartender to fall right in line with us.”

“Tell you what,” Weeks said. “Get that hand patched up, and then we’ll see about letting you go back to that saloon to have a word with Caleb Wayfinder. Maybe this time, you shouldn’t go it alone.”

Jim’s eyes lit up, and he practically started to dance right there in the street. “I know if I take some of the others with me, we won’t have a lick of trouble!”

“Just don’t make a move without letting me know. There are some other preparations that need to be made.”

“Yes, sir. I swear I won’t.”

They approached the darkened storefront rented by one of Dallas’s physicians. It wasn’t the biggest or most respected place in town, but it was closest to the St. Charles, which was all that concerned Bret Weeks. After rapping on the side door long enough to wake the doctor who worked and slept there, Weeks and Kyle left Jim to get his hand seen to and then started retracing their steps down Main.

“I want to go with Jimmy next time,” Kyle said. “He needs someone to watch out for him. I’ll make sure he don’t do anything stupid.”

“What you need to do is look up a friend of mine.”

“Huh? No. If Jim’s going back to break up that saloon, then I want to be there, too.”

“The friend I’m referring to lives a few days’ ride from here,” Weeks went on to say as if Kyle hadn’t said a word in the meantime. “You’ll just head south from town and stay on the road right until the last minute. I’ll be sure to draw you a map so you don’t miss it.”

“But Jim will—”

“Jim will do just fine on his own,” Weeks interrupted. “My boys will be right there with him to keep him in line. Our deal was that you, your cousin, and your uncle all do as I say, or none of you will see a dime. When you came to me, I told you I could make all of you prosperous men. None of that will happen unless you can take orders. You understand me?”

Reluctantly, Kyle nodded.

“Good. Speaking of your uncle, what has he been doing lately?”

Muttering like a pouting child, Kyle replied, “Still digging in the dirt. What little dust he finds just gets pissed away that same night in a poker game. Same as always.”

“Good. Maybe he’ll start pulling his weight before that weight pulls him down.”

The Busted Flush’s poker tournament was usually a large affair and accounted for a good deal of the saloon’s income during the month of March. This March, however, saw a tournament that came and went without much ado. Over the week the tournament was held, Caleb saw marginal profits coming from the poker players themselves. Taking in the entire month as a whole, on the other hand, was another story.

Although the tournament itself was something of a disappointment, Caleb found that he was happier than he had any right to be. April was already looking to be a better mouth for profits, and standing behind that bar while avoiding the dreary office behind it did wonders for his constitution. He felt more alive and in higher spirits than he had in a good, long time. With Hank more than happy to take on the structured schedule that came along with keeping the books in line, he was happier as well. At least, his family was happier since they got to see him at more respectable hours.

Caleb found himself sleeping until noon and staying up until sunrise as the sole custodian of the Busted Flush during its most lucrative part of the night. And although the poker tournament hadn’t panned out too well, the saloon’s profits were slowly climbing to unforeseen heights. The cause of this was its new appreciation for the game of faro.

The first few nights had been slow at Doc’s table. Faro wasn’t exactly anything new to the Busted Flush, but it took a distant second to Caleb’s personal favorite of poker. What few tables that were given to faro usually wound up being used to hold hot dishes or sandwiches meant to entice gamblers to stay put and play a few more hands of five-card draw or seven-card stud.

Once Doc laid out his kit, folks started taking notice. At first, they’d been more curious about the dealer than his game. Caleb didn’t care to keep up with the rumors and gossip that floated through every saloon in every town, but it was hard to ignore the fact that the subject of a good deal of that gossip was the dentist-turned-gambler now working at the Flush.

“Will you look at that?” Caleb mused as Hank made some repairs to one of the beer taps.