The Great West Detective Agency Read Free Page B

running an honest game. Lucas matched any other gambler’s dexterity and ability to deal seconds or pull any card from the deck he wanted, only he never cheated. It was beneath his dignity.
    He pressed his hand against an empty coat pocket. The rancher had even lost in a fair high-card showdown. Lucas regretted not keeping the man’s Peacemaker. It had been a fine shooting iron. As clearly as if he still sat at the table, he played through the hand where he had lost it in a bet against eight dollars and a small leather pouch that might have held gold dust.
    â€œI should have known two pair, jacks and eights, wasn’t good enough,” he chided himself as he came to the end of the alley and looked up and down the deserted street. Even in Denver’s wildest, most notorious sections along Tremont, 4 A.M. proved the boundary of human endurance for gambling, booze, and women.
    â€œHey, you! Stop!”
    In the deserted street at this time of morning he knew better than to loiter. With two men shouting at him and pointing, he reacted instinctively. He walked briskly, then broke out in a run for the doors of the Erstwhile Saloon and Hotel down the street. Lucas skidded to a halt, then shot a look behind him. The two men who had lain in wait outside the Emerald City’s front door were still running for him. Worse, coming out of the Erstwhile Saloon and Hotel were two more men he recognized.
    The rancher and his weasel of a sidekick pushed back their coats to expose six-shooters hanging at their hips. It hadn’t taken the man long at all to get another smoke wagon.
    â€œYou’re going to give it back!” The rancher drew the six-gun and cocked it. In the quiet night it sounded like a massive clockwork ratchet falling onto a cogwheel. “I’ll cut you down if you don’t stop!”
    Lucas lived by his wits and figuring odds. Talking his way out of this predicament didn’t look like an appealing prospect.
    â€œI lost it,” he shouted over his shoulder as he ran south along the side of the Erstwhile.
    All the doors were secured for the night. He might bash in a window and try to enter that way, but the hotel had a reputation of dealing with unwanted guests that afforded him a slimmer chance of survival than avoiding the rancher and his hired hands.
    He darted down a side street, only to find the two who had waited at the saloon were ahead of him. They had taken a side street to cut off his escape. With a deft twist, he changed directions and plunged into deep shadows and large piles of garbage. Lucas dodged the worst of the rotting debris, though he scared away some of the more cowardly rats. Two as large as house cats fixed red eyes on him, bared their fangs, and dared him to take away their early morning repast.
    Vaulting a crate, he hit the pavement on the far side and slipped. Garbage on his boot soles turned every step into one on ice. He skidded about, caught himself, and found another alleyway cleaner than the first. He pressed into a doorway, heart hammering. Forcing himself to breathe in slow, deep drafts settled him somewhat and kept his pursuers from hearing heavy breathing. He reached into his pocket and drew the .22-caliber pistol. Against men hefting .45s, it seemed ineffectual, but the rosewood grips reassured him. A tiny bullet to the head ended a life as surely as a heavy 250-grain hunk of lead through the heart. All he had to do was make every shot count.
    All he had to do. All . . .
    He held his breath and pressed harder against the door when the rancher stopped at the mouth of the alley, looking around frantically.
    â€œDammit, he was here a minute ago. How’d you lose him?”
    â€œHow’d
you
lose him, boss? You was closer than Relf and me.”
    For a moment Lucas thought escape would be easier than he anticipated. The rancher lifted his heavy .45, pointed it at his henchman, and cocked the weapon. The report as it discharged made him