Wolf Creek (11 page)

Chance had never been a bad player. He
studied his opponents covertly, watching for the little signs most
of them couldn’t help giving, unconscious body language that told
him when to raise and when to fold. Many of the men he’d met today
had trained themselves out of the more obvious tells and kept their
faces expressionless. That just made things more interesting for a
true professional -- and Chance Knight was a professional.

That fellow there, the slick dude with the
emerald tiepin? When he was bluffing, he made it a point to look
you right in the eye, thinking that showed his honesty. And the
burly man with the pinky ring straightened his left leg, shifting
in his seat just slightly, when he had a good hand. Chance
sometimes felt he could have played a game without looking at his
own cards.

He made side bets as well, of course. The
owner of the Lucky Break had put up a chalkboard with the names of
the entrants, and odds were already being offered for each. Not
only who would win, but how far each player might make it before
dropping out. Chance backed a couple of promising long shots and
ignored the chuckles as he bet against the crowd favorite. Gibson
had never come up against Knight before.

He kept away from the hard liquor most of
the players were swilling down, and let the saloon girls fawn over
him without losing his focus on the game. An amateur allowed
himself to get drunk, to feel affronted when every girl in the
house had to run their fingers through Chance’s thick curls and
make much of his puppy-dog eyes. A professional kept icy calm and
used whatever edge presented itself.

And one such edge would be some shut-eye. He
quit early and met Kye at Ma’s Café. “See, I can play poker without
getting into trouble. Why don’t you take the week off, spend some
more time with your brothers and sisters in Ellsworth?”

Kye grimaced. “Them two weeks was enough for
me.”

“I’m not going to be much company. I’ll just
add my night’s winnings to the pot once the bank opens, then hit
the hay.”

“Be a good idea if you let everybody know
your money’s gonna be in that bank. Keep them from trying to roll
you.”

“Already announced, partner. I even got some
new business for the bank by suggesting it. That Breedlove
character that was officially supposed to hold everybody’s winnings
overnight wasn’t too happy about a couple of folks following my
lead and putting it in the bank, but he’ll recover.”

“Too bad that bank don’t know what I know.”
Kye polished off his second plate of steak and eggs and shoved to
his feet. “Reckon I’d best get to the smithy. We’re trying out that
stuff I read about.”

He’d tried to explain said “stuff” before,
but after half an hour of carbon content and tempering (maybe it
had been annealing), Chance’s eyes had glazed over. Kye was on his
own with the blacksmithing. Once he turned toward the smithy,
Chance headed for the bank. The manager, practically rubbing his
hands with glee at the size of the deposit, spent fully ten minutes
bragging about his impregnable safe. He probably thought he was
shielding his actions, but he was a man who spoke with his hands.
Chance memorized the combination out of sheer habit. Most of the
currency in this bank already belonged to him, after all.

A few hours’ sleep and a hot bath did
wonders for his opinion of Wolf Creek. The good citizens of town
were out and about in the early evening, on their way home from
work or out for a meal. Chance smiled and tipped his hat to all and
sundry as he stood beneath the awning of the Imperial. The town
might not hold a candle to San Francisco, but it did have a certain
country charm. Kye arrived, smelling of coal smoke and hot iron,
and they dined at Isabella’s.

“You coming along for a drink or two?”
Chance asked.

Not, as it turned out. Seems Kye and the
blacksmiths had begun some sort of weeklong project requiring
practically round-the-clock nursing. At least it would keep the man
occupied during the tournament. Tonight would see the rabble sorted
from the field. The professionals would be playing close to the
vest at first, making those small wagers that would weed out the
amateurs and build into a sizable bank. The real game would begin
after the would-be players had dropped out of the race.

One dropout was unexpected by everyone in
the game -- including himself. In the middle of the first game of
the night, the outer doors of The Lucky Break flew open.

“He’s dead! Cash Gibson’s been
murdered!”

The room went silent. Every eye turned
toward the door. The self-appointed Paul Revere shoved his way to
the bar, where he doled out just enough information at a time to
produce another round of drinks. Chance heard “stabbed” and
“hotel,” but he kept playing, as did the other gamblers. The rest
of the news would filter through the room quickly enough.

Not as quickly as the huge redhead who
strode into the room before Chance could ante up on his two pair,
though. The man made Kye look small. And the star glinting on his
chest made Chance’s stomach flutter.

“The marshal’ll be needing to hear from
every man jack of you,” the lawman announced, doffing a stovepipe
hat that threatened to brush the ceiling, and sending Chance’s
belly from flutter to churn. “We’ll be seeing you one at a time, so
nobody’s to leave town.”

It was just typical lawman’s paperwork, that
was all. No reason to let himself get worked up. As he raked in the
pot, Chance ignored his belly and pasted on his best
Law-Abiding-Citizen Face. Why, he’d be happy to provide the names
of San Francisco’s finest to the nice deputy. He even gave their
home address, and confessed that they’d deposited a tidy sum into
the bank.

“You don’t think this is some sort of
trick?” he asked, putting a hand to his mouth and widening his
eyes. “Perhaps Devon Day and the Sweetwater Kid are planning to rob
us all while you’re investigating.”

The lawman gave him a disgusted look and
promptly marked him down as a citified dandy, ill-versed in the
ways of the Wild West and probably a drinker of sarsaparilla to
boot. “Those boyos never killed anyone, and they’ve bigger fish to
fry than this town.”

Like a lamb to the slaughter. It only took
the right expression, the appropriate posture and gestures, and
people saw exactly what they expected. He’d been classified, and
few people paid enough attention to change the labels they’d
already assigned.

Chance cut the cards and checked his hand.
Respect for the dead aside, they couldn’t just abandon the
tournament. The gambler across the table, one Silas Banks, might
even give him a bit of a challenge. Flashy, but with some real
skill underneath. He’d brought a lucky charm in the form of a
girlfriend who sat on his lap and cast sultry looks around the
room. And she looked familiar. He studied her between hands. Nearly
as tall as her boyfriend, and slender. Auburn hair and the freckles
to go with it. Bright blue eyes. An unfortunately large nose for a
woman.

He made the connection with a grin. “You’ve
got to be related to Kye Devon.”

The girl stiffened, her eyes darting around
the room as though she expected the man to pop out of a dark
corner. “You know my brother?”

“He’s in town now, as a matter of fact.
We’re at the Imperial.”

Her face paled. “Don’t tell him! They all
think Silas owns a store.”

That would make her Deborah, the one
relative missing from Kye’s recent reunion. He rather believed the
family thought her married as well.

She was right, though: he should keep his
mouth shut. Kye would be horrified to find his little sister inside
of a saloon. The big galoot would spend the next year moping and
bitching, too. Maybe even want to drag the girl out to live with
them, thinking he could “save” her. Chance gave her another hard
look. Call him crazy, but between the face paint, the low-cut
dress, and the glass of whiskey in her hand, he’d say she was a
girl who didn’t want saving.

He passed over one of their business cards.
“Your secret is safe if you promise to write to your brother. He
worries.”

Her eyes flicked over him then, taking in
the suit, the derby hat, the tiepin that had cost more than Slick
Dude’s emerald. Her brow furrowed. “You must be a really good poker
player, Mr. Knight.”

Oops -- time to work the situation before
she thought about borrowing money. He shot her a conspiratorial
wink. “A good gambler, my dear, must look the part whether he has
the funds or not.”

Working a fellow con artist was harder than
handling the usual mark, so he ramped up the charm and bent to kiss
her hand. That startled a giggle from the girl, and he held her
fingers just a bit longer than expected, let her have a flash of
the Big-Eyes. “If you want to avoid your brother, I suggest you
avoid the local restaurants, although we would love your
company.”

That wasn’t much to her liking. The food at
their boarding house must be less than stellar. Chance felt no
sympathy – the girl could always tell the truth.

The poker game split up in the early morning
as the amateurs broke their banks and faded out, dropping the
tables below the number needed for a hand. That was the first round
of battle. Chance collected on quite a number of side bets,
including several hundred from the cowboys who’d been certain their
friend could beat the pants off “the little dude.” He joined his
partner for breakfast and then got a good sleep.

The big Irish deputy waited in the lobby
when he woke.

Nothing to worry about, though. Just
routine. Sucking in a deep breath, he shoved his hands into his
pockets to hide their trembling and put on his best Blameless Dandy
Face before joining the man. It took longer than he’d thought it
would, compiling a list of his activities and everyone he
remembered from the poker games. After an entire page full of
notes, Deputy O’Connor released Chance, not without another
skeptical glance at his suit.

Though his brain said the encounter with the
law was finished, Chance’s stomach still churned enough to put him
off his dinner. Once his partner headed back to the blacksmith’s
for the evening, he strolled on over to the game. Deborah met him
just inside the doorway. Chance didn’t like the expression on her
face.

“You’re better than Silas,” she said softly.
Her big blue eyes were wide, and she had that pouty-lipped look
that some women got when they thought they were clouding your
judgment with their wiles. “He doesn’t know it yet, but you are. So
here’s what we’re going to have to do.”

Chance put up a hand. “First, ‘we’ aren’t
doing anything. I don’t even know you people. Second, Silas is a
big boy. And third, I need a drink.”

Deborah heaved a sigh that would have done a
ten-year-old proud, but she tagged along as he made his way to the
bar and ordered a whiskey. After a bit of convincing, the bartender
brought out the good bottle. That firmed up Chance’s knees, and he
pulled the girl into a corner.

“I don’t think I’m going to like whatever
you’ve got up your sleeve, but go ahead and talk.” He leaned
against the wall, crossed his arms, and hiked an eyebrow.
Nonchalance was an art form.

She frowned. “Silas and I are going into
business once he wins. I’m going to buy a saloon and he’s going to
run the tables.”

“An admirable goal, but I fail to see my
role in it. You just said I’m a better player.”

“That’s where my plan comes in. We’re going
to let you take out most of the others, then you’re going to lose
to Silas.”

Chance couldn’t stop the laugh that burst
from him. “My dear, you are sadly mistaken. If I do manage to ‘take
out’ my competition, I am certainly not going to lie down and let
your man walk over me.”

She leaned in, her eyes narrow and hard. “I
think you are. I think you’d better, if you don’t want me to start
talking.”

His mind ramped up to high gear. What could
the girl possibly know? Time to pretend his heart hadn’t leaped to
jackrabbit speed. He flashed a grin. “You think I care if you tell
everyone you’re my partner’s sister?”

Deborah ran a finger along his shirtfront,
toying with the buttons. Beneath her heavy perfume, she’d not
bathed in a few days. “I saw my brother today, walking past the
boarding house. He looks a lot different with that mustache.”

She put her lips to his ear. “I been
thinking all day about it. How his name is Devon. How tall he’s
gotten ... and you’re really short. I’ll bet a mustache changes how
you look, too. I’ll bet you look a lot older. I’ll bet --”

His throat went dry, despite the whiskey
he’d downed. He put a hand on her waist and pushed her to arm’s
length. “I’ll bet you’d look a lot different in a respectable
dress.”

“You don’t want me to start talking, mister.
You’re supposed to be the brains of the outfit. You’d best figure
it out quick.”

That wasn’t true. Kye had plenty of brains.
His talents lay along less devious lines than Chance’s, that was
all. It was Kye who put the plans into action, saw that everything
worked out the way Chance had envisioned. Without Kye’s
practicality, there would be no Devon Day or Sweetwater Kid.

And Kye’s sister had just slapped her cards
down onto the table.

He retrieved his smile and turned up the
charm. “I can see you think you know who we are, although I
wouldn’t call us an ‘outfit.’ Anyone who’s done any business with
us can tell you that Chance Knight and Kye Devon --”

“I’m not talking about them two.” She
stepped close again. “I’m talking about them what took out the bank
in Kansas City.”

Shoving her away, Chance slipped around and
strode for a table. He spoke in a soft voice, for her ears only,
but as firmly as he’d ever spoken. “I don’t have time to play games
with you. If any blackmailing’s going to be done, it’s going to be
me telling your brother where you’ve really been these past few
years.”