Ride the Panther Read Free

clubs, the seven and ten of hearts. It was a bust hand in any book, as bad a hand as he’d been dealt since sitting down at the table. Jesse glanced at the man on his left, a stocky good-natured lawyer who could not seem to stop yawning.
    “Let’s make this interesting. According to Stockwood, we’ll be in Kansas City within the hour. I need a shave before we dock,” Jesse said, and promptly took the assortment of coins and currency in front of him and added them to the pot.
    “I’ll see your fifty and bump it up another two hundred and fifty.” Jesse placed his five cards facedown on the table in front of him, like a gauntlet hurled down in invitation to a duel. The raise took the gambler by surprise. He wiped a hand across his mouth, then rubbed his eyes, and studied his opponent.
    The eldest son of Ben McQueen was a handsome young officer who at the age of twenty-two had earned his captain’s rank. His eyes were dark, the color of old leaves become black with decay. His black hair was an unruly forest of curls. In his boots he stood no taller than five foot ten, but size had little to do with his presence. Even in repose, he possessed a catlike grace, relaxed in his chair yet ready to spring. He’d grown a black mustache since the Vicksburg campaign, throughout which he’d played an integral part as both Union spy and officer assigned to General Sherman’s staff. But those months of danger and bloodshed lay behind him. As for what lay ahead, only time and a certain Major Peter Abbot awaiting him in Kansas City would tell. Jesse glanced at the two men who remained in the game. His features were as flat and expressionless as an unmarked grave. The ability to disguise his intentions had saved his life on more than one occasion.
    “A man would be a damn fool to cross that bridge,” the lawyer said, and tucked what remained of his cash inside his coat pocket. He rose from the table, nodded to the dozen or so spectators circling the table at a respectful distance. Clem had taken a healthy share of their money over the past three days. More than one man wanted to see the gambler get his comeuppance.
    Enos Clem ran his long fingers through his brown hair and rubbed the back of his neck. He studied the officer across the table from him and then lowered his gaze to the money on the table. Sweat ran a trail along the side of his pasty white features. Tiny veins, like spiderwebs across his cheeks, reddened.
    “You’re running a bluff, Captain McQueen,” the gambler muttered, sliding his thumb over the three eights he held. He had tried to draw to a full house and failed. He had expected the lawyer to fold, but the Yankee captain was proving far more stubborn. For the past hour, Clem had sensed “lady luck” was turning her back on him. He should have quit hours ago but, damn it, the lure of easy money had bound him to the table as if he had been chained to his chair. As for McQueen’s cards, Clem wasn’t nearly as confident as he sounded. The more he considered it, the less likely it seemed the officer was bluffing. No, the Yankee’s hand would just about clean the gambler out. And if he lost, then he was down to stake money, the few bills he kept tucked away inside his boot. He had figured to buy the last pot, but the tables had turned and he didn’t like it. The snickering among the spectators didn’t help matters. Sure, they’d like to see him lose it all, to throw away every last dollar. Well, Enos Clem knew when to fold, and he was not about to give his fellow passengers the satisfaction of watching him leave with empty pockets.
    The steam whistle sounded three blasts to alert the passengers that Kansas City was in sight. Belowdecks the reassuring rumble of the steam engines and the throbbing revolution of the paddle wheel at the stern of the boat plunged the Western Belle upriver to its destination.
    “The hell with it,” Clem said, and tossed his cards onto the money in the center of the table.
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