Tunstall glanced at the way the Kid wore his pistol, low on his hip. “You any good with that six-shooter?”
The Kid grinned and shrugged. “Pretty fair. I usually hit what I’m aimin’ at, if that’s what you mean.”
Dick Brewer growled through a voice that sounded as if he had eaten broken glass for breakfast, “You have any problem aiming it at other men?”
“Not enough so’s you can tell it. Why? That part of the job?”
Tunstall laughed. “The way things are going, it’s more than likely.”
He turned his attention to Falcon. “You looking for work, too, Falcon?”
Falcon shook his head. “Not at the present time. I’m on my way to Fort Sumner. I hear there’s a saloon there I might be able to buy an interest in.”
“Oh, you mean Beaver Smith’s place, The Drinking Hole?”
Falcon nodded. “John Chisum told me he might be interested in making a deal, if the price were right.”
“It’s a prosperous establishment. Gets a lot of trade from both the soldiers stationed at the fort, and from the surrounding ranches. Of course, old Beaver is getting along in years. He might be willing to take in a partner.”
Dick Brewer and Charlie Bowdre stood up. “Sittin’ here and jawin’ ain’t gettin’ those cattle took care of, Mr. Tunstall. We’d better get on back to the ranch.”
Tunstall nodded at the Kid. “Take Mr. Bonney with you and get him some clean clothes and set him up in the bunkhouse. Show him around and fill him in on what our situation is, so he’ll know what we need.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Kid shook hands with Tunstall, then turned to leave. He grinned and touched the brim of his hat. “See ya’ around, Falcon. I like to turn a card or two on occasion, so I’ll look up your place on my day off. I still owe you for the meal.”
“So long, Kid. You take it easy, you hear?”
After they left, Tunstall said, “You in a hurry, Falcon, or have you got time for some coffee?”
“Always time for cafecito, John,” he said, and pulled out a chair. He just couldn’t bring himself to keep calling someone his own age or younger mister any more.
Tunstall took a pot off the stove, poured a cup for Falcon, and freshened his own. While Tunstall was preparing their drinks, Falcon took the chance to study McSween. He was a typical western lawyer, with slicked back hair, a slight paunch that strained the front of his vest and bulged over his belt, and a face with a weak chin and expression that told Falcon he wouldn’t be a man he’d want to depend on in a fight. He looked to be the type to cut and run at the first opportunity.
Tunstall, on the other hand, seemed to Falcon to have steely-eyed determination written all over him. His green eyes and fair skin and accent marked him as a man from a long way off, but he had a quiet strength, and Falcon bet he was a born leader whose men would go through fire for him if he asked.
“If you don’t mind my saying it, John, it appears to me you’re more interested in hiring guns than punchers,” Falcon asked.
Tunstall nodded. “Yes, unfortunately that is the case. We’re on the verge of a range war here, Falcon.”
“Over what? There seems to be plenty of water and feeding ground to go around.”
“There are two Irishmen, J.J. Dolan and John Riley, who are behind most of the trouble—”
When Tunstall mentioned the names, McSween scowled and muttered, “Bastards!” under his breath.
“These chaps own the large general store at the other end of town—used to be called La Placita before they bought it from Lawrence Murphey,” Tunstall continued, ignoring the interruption. “Now they hold a virtual monopoly of the county’s trade. In addition, they have close ties to influential territorial officials in the capital at Santa Fe, known as the Santa Fe Ring. Their bloody friends there have given them complete control of all government contracts for supplying beef to army posts and Indian reservations.”
Falcon tasted his coffee, then said, “These two must have a sizable spread to be able to sell that much beef to the government.”
Tunstall gave a bitter smile. “Not a bloody head. They buy every bit of the meat they sell from the other ranchers around here, at rock bottom prices, and then sell it to their friends in Santa Fe at a huge profit, which they then spread around to buy more power in the capital.”
“Buy it, hell!” McSween interrupted, his face turning beet red, starting to wheeze. “Get their friend Jesse Evans and his gang to steal most of it, by my reckoning.”
Tunstall shook a finger at McSween. “Now, take it easy, Alex. You know we can’t prove that, and besides, you know when you get angry your asthma starts to act up.”
“I can see how that would not make the cattlemen around here very happy,” Falcon said.
“And, to add insult to injury, until I opened my store they were able to charge whatever they wanted to the ranchers for their supplies. The owners weren’t able to complain, or they’d be cut off from buying from La Placita. They pretty much had things their own way in Lincoln County and the surrounding Pecos Valley until I decided to make a change.”
“Oh?”
“John Chisum and I saw no reason why mere merchants, with little or no experience in cattle raising, should have a corner on the government contracts, or why we ranchers who owned vast herds should not deal directly with the government as beef suppliers. So, John and I hired Alex McSween here, a jolly good lawyer, and we organized a number of the smaller ranchers and farmers who were unable to get credit from La Placita, to go up against Dolan and Riley. I opened this store, and we began to try to get some of the contracts directly. John Chisum and Alex and I also opened a bank to help our cattlemen friends who need it.”
“I can see where that would cause some hard feelings from the Dolan and Riley factions.”
Tunstall nodded. “It certainly has. By spreading our own money around Santa Fe, we’ve been able to make some inroads into their business, and have gotten a few contracts of our own. The problem is they have Lincoln pretty much sewed up, and they control Sheriff Brady and his cronies lock, stock, and barrel. Falcon, it’s a powder keg, just waiting to explode.”
“So that’s why you’re hiring men who are handy with pistols as cowhands?”
“Yes. I’m afraid that sooner or later the whole matter will be decided by who has the greater firepower.”
Falcon finished his coffee and stood. “Well, thanks for the drink, and good luck to you and Mr. Chisum. I know from things my father told me that he’s a good man.”
Tunstall rose and shook Falcon’s hand. “He’s one of the best, as was your father, to hear him tell it. Good luck, Falcon. When you come back to Lincoln, consider my house yours for as long as you need it.”
McSween didn’t stand, but tipped his hat. “See you around, Falcon.”
“You can bet on it, Alex.”
As Falcon walked out to his horse, he wondered just what kind of snake’s nest he and the Kid were getting into.
“One thing,” he muttered, “it sure as hell won’t be boring around here.”
Six
Falcon enjoyed the ride from Lincoln to Fort Sumner and took his time, letting Diablo find his own pace on the winding mountain trail. The fall air was crisp and clean, smelling of sage and cactus blossoms and pine needles from the trees that dotted the mountainsides. He could see milling herds of cattle off in the distance, and several small ranch houses were scattered across the countryside.
Along the small river that flanked the trail, some farmer had planted trees in thick orchards, and their limbs were heavy with fruit.
When Falcon arrived in Fort Sumner he found a cow town like many of the hundreds in the West. Small, without an abundance of citizens, it served the purpose of being a watering hole for cowboys from nearby ranches and soldiers from the adjacent garrison at the fort. There were more saloons and eating establishments than houses, and very few children could be seen playing in the dusty streets.
It
was just what Falcon was looking for, a place where thirsty punchers and soldiers came to raise a little hell and spend hard-earned dollars learning the intricacies of poker and faro. He would be more than willing to teach them, and earn a few dollars for himself in the bargain.
After he got Diablo rubbed and fed and bedded down at the livery stable, he registered at the town’s only hotel. Paying the desk clerk fifty cents for a hot bath, he cleaned up and changed into a fresh shirt and pants, had his coat and hat brushed clean by the Chinese attendant, and made his way on foot to The Drinking Hole saloon to appraise the situation.
Though it was early in the evening, the place was almost full. Along one side of the room was a long bar, backed by a seven-foot mirror and a painting of a reclining nude woman swathed in red silk sheets that didn’t manage to cover much of her body. There were several kegs of beer, and a row of various brands of liquor, mainly bourbon and rye.
There were eight tables scattered across the room, and all had poker games going, with sweating, drunken cowboys and soldiers laughing and joking among themselves as they spent in one night what it had taken them thirty days to earn. In a far corner was a faro table, surrounded by a crowd of men “riding the tiger”—betting against the next card to come out of the box with the painting of a tiger on it.
Falcon felt right at home. Gambling was his favorite way to make money, and it was his favorite pastime. He never tired of the thrill of pitting his wits against men who thought winning at poker was a matter of luck instead of skill. And calling a bet with his last gold coin, knowing if he lost he wouldn’t eat, was the kind of pressure he lived for.
He walked to the bar, squeezed in between two punchers, and ordered a whiskey. When it came he turned and leaned back against the bar as he drank, observing the room and its occupants. Picking the right game to enter was as important as drawing the right cards. He didn’t play with men who looked as if they couldn’t afford to lose. He wanted the kind of high stakes game only the prosperous could give him.
At one of the tables there were two men who were, like Falcon, wearing suit coats and white shirts, and two others who were wearing jeans and leather vests but were too old to be punchers—probably local ranchers out to get away from their wives and children for an evening of fun and games. Falcon figured the suits were professional gamblers or merchants or bankers, men who could well afford to play his type of game.
He drained his drink, got a refill, and ambled over to stand watching the play at the table he’d picked out. After a moment, one of the rancher types looked up, studied him for a moment, and said, “Care to sit in, friend?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Falcon replied, pulling out a chair and taking a seat. “Playing five card stud?”
The man nodded, “Ten dollar ante, pot limit on bets. Too rich for your blood?”
“Suits me,” Falcon said, and pulled a stack of greenbacks from his coat pocket.
One of the suits stared at the roll of money, glanced at the other man wearing a suit and raised his eyebrows, a slight grin curling his lips. Falcon kept his face straight, noticing everything that went on at the table. One of the secrets of his success as a gambler was his ability to read other players, and he knew from the start the two to watch out for were the men wearing suits, though over the years he had found that most of the really good card players acted as if they didn’t know the difference between a straight and a flush.
The man who invited him to sit down introduced the other players.
“My name’s Ben Johnson,” the rancher said. Then he inclined his head to the man on his left, also wearing ranch clothes. “That’s Johnny Albright, and those two are Louis Longacre and Marcus Cahill.”
Falcon nodded, “I’m Falcon MacCallister.”
Ben riffled the cards, waited for the antes to be put in the pot at the center of the table, then began to deal.
“You new in town, Falcon?” he asked as he passed out the cards.
“Just got in today.”
“Are you here on business, or pleasure?” asked Louis Longacre.
When Falcon raised his eyebrows at the question, Ben grunted, a smile on his sun-weathered face. “Louis ain’t being nosy, Falcon, he’s the town banker. He’s always hoping someone will come into town and buy up some of the mortgages he’s holding paper on.”
“Sure,” Louis said, “no offense meant.”
“None taken,” Falcon replied. “As a matter of fact, it’s a little of both. I’m looking to possibly invest some money here in Fort Sumner, maybe do a little business. As to the pleasure, that depends on how the cards fall in the next few hours.”
Ben and Louis laughed, but Johnny Albright just scowled, staring at his cards. “Ben, just shut up and deal the damned cards. This ain’t no ladies’ society social. Let’s play poker.”
Falcon glanced at the pile of chips and money in front of Johnny. It was considerably smaller than the others’. It was always the losers who wanted to hurry the game along, often so they could lose their money even faster. He settled back in his chair and watched the others as the game progressed.
He was in no hurry. It would take him a couple of hours to figure out the other player’s “tells”—the little unconscious motions and mannerisms most players make that can tell an experienced poker player how good their hand is, and whether they’re bluffing or betting against strength.
Soon, Falcon learned that Louis Longacre owned the Fort Sumner bank and was a partner of Marcus Cahill in several other businesses in town, including the hotel and the livery stable. Ben Johnson and Johnny Albright were both ranchers, as he had figured, and owned two of the largest spreads east of town.
Of the group at the table, Louis and Marcus were better than average players, Ben was average, and Johnny was terrible.
Falcon played conservatively, betting only when he had a good hand, folding with anything less than a sure winner, while he learned the habits of his opponents.
He noticed that Louis picked at the corner of his moustache when he was bluffing or betting on a weak hand, while Marcus licked his lips and leaned slightly forward in his chair when he was on a bluff.
Ben had few tells, but tended not to push his advantage when he had good cards, rarely bluffed with any conviction, and folded several winning hands when pressed. He obviously played for the fun of the game, and not to make or lose any important amounts of money.
Johnny Albright, on the other hand, did everything badly. He sweated and blinked rapidly and nervously when he tried to bluff, and became boisterous and jubilant when he had a good hand, thus letting the others know they should bail out without letting Johnny make anything.
Falcon, for his part, played to stay about even, throwing in some winning hands so as not to make too good an impression on the other men. If he was going to be playing here for any length of time, he didn’t want them to think he was a card sharp, or it would be hard to find men to play with him. The hardest thing about making a living at gambling was to let your opponents think you had won by luck, not skill. That way, they would keep coming back for more, hoping your luck would change.
It was a role Falcon had perfected over the years. He would take a little from each player at the table, letting each win a few big pots from him, but staying always a little ahead of the game. At the end of the night, most times, he won more than he lost and would leave the game richer than when he entered it.
It was well after midnight when Falcon stifled a yawn, figuring it was about time to call it a night. He was two hundred and fifty dollars ahead, Ben and Marcus were about even, and Louis had won over six hundred dollars, most of it from Johnny Albright.
Johnny didn’t seem to mind overly much, other than cussing his luck and the damned cards that just wouldn’t fall his way. Falcon noticed Marcus and Louis glancing at each other with tiny, tight smiles on their faces, and realized this was probably a weekly occurrence, with Johnny losing and the others winning. He hoped the man had a profitable ranch, because
his poker playing was costing him plenty.
Falcon came fully awake when a man at an adjacent table shouted and jumped to his feet, knocking his chair over as he clawed for his pistol.
“You lyin’ son of a bitch,” he screamed drunkenly, his bleary, bloodshot eyes staring across the table.
He was a young soldier in uniform, and swayed unsteadily on his feet as he aimed the Colt army revolver at another player at his table, who sat with large eyes and raised hands.
“You been cheatin’ me all night, Billy Bob, an’ I’m gonna drill you fer it!”
“I ain’t neither been cheatin’ you, Joey,” the terrified puncher said. “You’re just a lousy poker player, that’s all.”
In one fluid motion, Falcon stood up, drawing his Colt and bringing it down on top of the kid’s head so fast no one in the room could follow the movement.
The young man dropped like a stone, unconscious but unhurt, and then everyone was talking and moving at once.
“Goddamn, did you see that feller draw?” one of the players at the next table said to the man next to him.
“Damn, he moved quicker than a rattler,” another said to no one in particular.
Falcon bent over the soldier, checked his head to make sure he was all right, then asked one of his soldier friends to take him out to the base and have the army doctor take a look at him.
A short, stubby man wearing a bright red plaid shirt, yellow suspenders, and sporting a full, bushy beard waddled over to the table. He looked at Falcon and stuck out his hand.
“Howdy, pardner. I’m Beaver Smith. I own this place, and I owe you a drink fer preventin’ that young buck from killin’ somebody.”
Falcon took the hand and introduced himself. “Just let me collect my money and I’ll take you up on that drink, Mr. Smith.”
“Oh hell, son, just call me Beaver like everybody else.”
Falcon shook hands all around at his table. “I enjoyed the evening, gents. I’d like to do it again sometime.”
The others nodded, and Johnny Albright said, “Yeah, and maybe next time you won’t be so lucky with them cards, Falcon.”
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