Backwoods Bloodbath Read Free Page A

wide-brimmed black hat was tillted low over his eyes so no one could read his expression. He, too, was unpredictable, although slightly less so in that he did not bluff as often as the teller. When he did, it was because he sensed weakness in the others’ hands.
    The teller was about to bet. He took his cigar from his mouth, tapped it on the ashtray, and pushed in fifty dollars.
    “Interesting,” Hale Tilton said, and added fifty of his own.
    It was Fargo’s turn. He had two queens, a king, an eight, and a three. Only a queen and the three were the same suit. It was not a great hand, but it had potential. He debated discarding the king, eight, and three and asking for two cards, then decided to discard only the eight and the three. But first he had to bet.
    Fargo was fairly certain the teller was bluffing. The store clerk had at least a pair of jacks or he would not have opened. Hale Tilton might have a good hand or he might be counting on the draw. Either and all ways, Fargo was not about to bow out with a pair of queens. He added fifty dollars and asked for two cards.
    The player who had folded was dealing. Another townsman, he wore a brown jacket and a bowler, and he could never seem to sit still. He was forever fidgeting. Fargo took it to be because the man had a nervous temperament, but now, as the man flicked cards to the store clerk, Fargo saw something that set his blood to boiling. If there was one thing he could not stand, it was a cheat.
    Hale Tilton, in the act of stacking his chips, froze for an instant with his fingers poised over the table. Then slowly, almost sadly, he lowered his hand and said softly, “Well, well, well.”
    “What’s the matter, Tilton?” the dealer asked with a smirk. “Not getting the cards you need?”
    “Oh, I have no complaints,” the gambler responded. “Not about the cards, anyway. It’s simpletons who get my dander up. They mistakenly think I’m as simple-minded as they are.”
    “Surely you’re not referring to any of us?” the teller demanded, his cigar clenched in a corner of his mouth.
    “Not you, no,” Hale Tilton said. He focused on Fargo. “Do you want to do this or would you rather I did the honors?”
    Fargo had played the gambler a few times before. He did not know Tilton well, but as rumor had it, he was fairly honest, for a cardsharp, and had a reputation as a gent who should not be crossed. “Be my guest,” Fargo said, and leaned back.
    Hale Tilton glanced from the dealer to the store clerk and back again. “It always amazes me when peckerwoods try.”
    “Try what?” the clerk nervously asked.
    “In case you have forgotten, I gamble for a living. From Mississippi riverboats to prairie hovels to log saloons along the Columbia River, I have seen it all, done it all, where cards are involved.”
    The dealer snickered. “Are you bragging or complaining?”
    “I am making a point, Niles,” Hale Tilton said. He pushed his chair back and placed his forearms on the table, and if anyone besides Fargo noticed the slight metallic scrape Tilton’s right wrist made, they did not show it. “I’ve seen trimmed cards, cards with sliced corners, cards with bumps. I’ve seen holdouts of all kinds. Up the sleeve, in vest pockets, in belts. I’ve seen card cheats use special spectacles to read phosphorescent ink on the backs of cards. I’ve seen men use bugs.”
    Fargo had been in a saloon in Kansas when a man was caught using a bug. Made of steel and shaped like a money clip with two sharp ends, the bug was jammed under a table and held cards the bug’s owner palmed until they were needed. The man in Kansas had been fortunate. Instead of stretching his neck, as was customary, the other players tarred and feathered him.
    Niles glowered at the gambler. “There are a thousand and one ways to cheat, Tilton. What of it?”
    “Usually only professionals mark cards and use holdouts,” Hale Tilton remarked. “Amateurs deal from the bottom of the deck or play