Whiteoak glanced over to his right. Even though Byron hadn’t shared the professor’s company for very long, he could practically hear the professor making a barbed comment about Alan’s supposed upcoming strategy. Thankfully, the words weren’t spoken out loud and the game continued without bloodshed. Before the next hand could be dealt, however, Whiteoak pushed back from the table and stood up.
“Where the hell you going?” Alan snapped.
“Not far, I assure you,” Whiteoak said. “After that last hand, I thought I’d buy a round of drinks for the table. Would anyone care for something else?”
“I’ll take a steak,” Alan said.
“Naturally.” The smile Whiteoak wore was as bright as the polished watch chain crossing his midsection. It lasted all the way until he reached the bar and waved for Robert’s attention.
Stepping up beside him, Byron said, “You ruffled some feathers, I think.”
“Did I?”
“Wasn’t that your intention?”
“My intention was to win.” When the barkeep stepped over to him, Whiteoak said, “I’ll take a round of beers for my table. Also,” he added grudgingly, “one steak.”
“I don’t got any food left. None fit to eat anyway,” the barman said.
“What do you have in the way of meat?”
“Just some scraps that’re mostly fat and gristle,” Robert told him.
Putting on his warm smile, Whiteoak turned to cast a wave at his table. Alan was watching him closely and responded with a curt, upward nod. “That will do fine,” Whiteoak said to the barkeep. “Just throw it over a flame and serve it to the fellow over there with the mean look on his face.”
“If you say so.”
When he looked over at Byron, Whiteoak was greeted by a grin that he might expect if there had been genuine steaks in front of them. “What’s got you so happy?” he asked.
Byron nodded sagely. “You were testing them, weren’t you?”
“Testing them how?”
“To see if they’d get their feathers ruffled. That’s why you made such a strange play on that last hand.”
“What was strange about it?” Whiteoak asked. “Seemed rather straightforward to me. Dell wasn’t going to make the call and Alan was convinced that anyone with functioning eyes and ears would know he had two pair beat. He was so full of himself on that account that any raise would have frightened him off.”
“And what about Owens?”
“He’s a wild one,” Whiteoak said. “But there’s one thing of which I’m absolutely certain.”
“Which is?”
“He’s playing with found money.”
That put a perplexed expression onto Byron’s face. “How do you know that?” he asked.
“He tosses it around like it doesn’t mean a thing.”
“So does any other gambler,” Byron pointed out. “Or at least the ones who are any good at it.”
“Gamblers aren’t there to lose. Even the professional sporting men enjoy their victories and flinch when they lose. They may not show it like some drunken cowboy who lost his earnings, but it shows. You need to know how to look for it. That man back there was killing time and didn’t much care if he lost or not. That means he’s either filthy rich or playing with someone else’s bankroll. I’m putting my bet on the latter.”
“That’s an impressive talent you’ve got.”
Whiteoak perked up a bit. “Really? Which one?”
“Reading people.”
“That’s a skill and one that was very hard to earn.”
“Teach me,” Byron said.
Scowling at him, the professor replied, “I said it’s hard to earn, not learn.”
“So it can’t be taught?”
“Experience, my good man,” Whiteoak said. “I can tell you some of the basics, but it takes experience to figure out the rest. After all, people react to me differently than they would to you.”
“All right, so teach me the basics.”
Impatience cracked Whiteoak’s exterior like mold splitting an old log. “What do you think I’ve been doing?” At that moment, the beers he’d ordered were lined up in front of him. When Robert was done with that, he turned to check on the slab of leftover meat that was already beginning to smoke on a stovetop in the next room.
“Here,” Whiteoak said while taking hold of two mugs and sliding them closer to Byron. “Take these over to the table. Serve Alan and Sammy first.”
“Fine.”
Refusing to let go of the mugs even after Byron took hold of them, Whiteoak said, “This is important. Serve those two first.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re the ones with the most to prove. If you walk over and show preference to anyone else, especially if it’s one of those two and not the other, the man without a drink in front of him will feel slighted and that’s trouble.”
“All this fuss over beer?”
“It’s not just beer,” Whiteoak said. “It’s the point. Also, it’s one of the basics of what I do. Would you like to learn the basics or not?”
“I want to be a good businessman. That’s all.”
“Would your business involve selling anything?”
“Of course,” Byron replied.
“Selling to people?”
Byron didn’t dignify that with a response other than a frown and cocking his head.
“Whether you’re selling tonics, lumber or land, it doesn’t matter,” Whiteoak explained. “You read people and make little adjustments when dealing with them. Want another bit of advice for dealing with someone?”
“Sure.”
Finally, Whiteoak let go of the beer mugs. “When it comes to simple requests, just do what you’re told. It makes things that much smoother.”
“Fine, I’ll serve the drinks. Any other simple requests?”
“Next time it’s only you and me in a hand, I’d appreciate it if you lost to me.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Lose profusely.”
“Why?” Byron asked eagerly.
“I need the extra money.”
It took a moment, but Byron eventually grumbled to himself and walked away. Whiteoak watched him just long enough to make certain the beers were delivered correctly. Once both mugs were set in front of Owens and Alan respectively, he set his sights on the gunman who kept his back against a wall.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Whiteoak threw the gunman off his game in the quickest and easiest way possible. Where the armed man was obviously comfortable watching from afar and glaring with intimidating eyes, he wasn’t as ready to have one of the men in his sights walk directly up to him and sit down as if he’d been invited to supper.
Quick to reclaim his posture, the gunman asked, “Can I do somethin’ for you?”
“You can start by telling me your name. I’m Henry White-oak, by the way. Professor Henry Whiteoak.”
“I know who you are.”
“Then how about you return the favor?”
The gunman said nothing. Instead, he shifted his weight so the holster around his waist was more visible.
Narrowing his eyes, Whiteoak tapped his chin and squinted across the table as though he was gazing into a crystal ball. “You’re Chuck Monroe.”
The gunman was surprised, but did a fairly good job of masking it. “How the hell do you know my name? Have we met before?”
“I saw you in Topeka about a month or so before I came here. You were splitting logs at one of Michael Davis’s lumber camps, I believe.” Snapping his fingers, Whiteoak corrected himself. “And stealing from the till. Or, that was the accusation that was made.”
“Them charges didn’t come to anything,” Monroe said.
“Not from lack of trying. The law in those parts was keen to get their hands on you. Apparently you’ve been known to take part in some very unsavory pastimes.”
“You know a lot, don’t you?”
Whiteoak nodded. “One thing I don’t know is why you’re sitting h
ere watching my card game. If you wanted a seat at that table, all you had to do was ask.”
“You think you know so damn much,” Monroe snarled, “then you should know why I’m sitting here.”
“Having a drink?”
Monroe picked up the glass that had been sitting in front of him and lifted it slightly as if to toast the man sitting across the table.
“Perhaps,” Whiteoak continued, “you’re here to try and spring that bank robber from jail?”
“Any robber that winds up in jail ain’t worth savin’.”
“An excellent point. But not all of those men were captured. Judging by the look in your eyes, I’d say you know that all too well.”
“There ain’t no look in my eyes,” Monroe pointed out.
“Precisely.”
“This right here is why nobody likes you double-talking sidewinders. You flap yer gums and say a fat load of nothin’ along the way.”
“You’re here for Nash, aren’t you?”
“Nash who?”
Whiteoak nodded. “That’s got to be it. Otherwise, you’d be involved in some sort of business, playing cards, keeping company with one of the many feminine distractions around here. Instead, you’re sitting there watching me.”
Monroe chuckled in a most genuine way, leading Whiteoak to a singular conclusion.
“Or,” the professor mused, “you weren’t watching me at all.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re a smart fellow?”
“Why, yes!”
Standing up, Monroe glared down at the professor like an angry storm picking the next spot to send a dose of lightning. “They’d be wrong.”
When Monroe started walking around the table to the saloon’s front door, he found his way was quickly blocked by the well-dressed professor. Anger flashed in the gunman’s eyes in response to the challenge, making it seem much likelier that he would carve a path through Whiteoak than step around him.
“You’re still working for Davis,” Whiteoak deduced. “That’s why you’re here.”
“What’s it to you?”
“I’m not sure yet, but I’m starting to put a few things together.”
Monroe stepped close enough for the scent of his last few drinks to fill the air between them.
“Whatever the job is, it must pay well,” Whiteoak said.
“Some men I’d kill for free,” Monroe told him plainly. “I’m lookin’ at one right now.”
“What did I do to deserve that kind of hostility?”
“I don’t like the look of you and I’ve sent men off of this earth for less.”
“I can be a valuable asset. I’ve cultivated a good amount of respect from folks around here.”
“Then run for mayor. Until then, you’d best step aside before I decide to move you myself.”
Whiteoak held his ground for as long as he dared. It may have only been two seconds, but it was a long couple of seconds by anyone’s measure. Even though he cleared a path for Monroe, the gunman was very deliberate in his effort to knock the professor aside even further as he passed. Whiteoak’s narrow frame nearly toppled over, which gave Monroe no small amount of amusement.
“Keep your distance, medicine man,” Monroe said through his leering smile. “You don’t want me to set my sights on you. Understand?”
“Most certainly, yes. I do.”
“Good.” Monroe turned his back to him and strutted away like a dog that had finished kicking dirt onto the most recent shit it had taken.
Whiteoak looked over to the table where Byron sat with the others. The next hand had already been dealt and Alan Weir was grinning down at his cards. Dell looked nervous as always and Sammy Owens let out a loud belch before slamming down his empty beer mug. The professor checked his watch and nodded to himself on his way over to them.
“I’m turning in,” he said while collecting his chips.
“Sit your ass down,” Alan said. “Give us a chance to win some of our money back.”
“You’ll have plenty of opportunities for that,” Whiteoak assured them. “For now, I must bid you all farewell so that I may retire for the evening.”
“Whatever you say,” Owens said with a backhanded wave. His arm came up and clipped the top of his beer mug without knocking it over. Whiteoak checked his watch again and walked away.
Byron watched him go, but didn’t say anything due to the strength of his cards. The look in his eyes let Whiteoak know that he would definitely have to answer for his quick exit sooner rather than later.
Once outside the saloon, Whiteoak ducked into an alley and took a zigzagging path toward Barbrady’s business district. Cutting across First Street, he peeked at the main walkway whenever he could safely lean out of the shadows. The first time he did so, Whiteoak saw nothing and could only hear the distant knocking of boots against the boardwalk.
He was closer to Trader Avenue when he took another look. There was slightly less light along those streets since most of the buildings were locked up for the night. The sputtering flames of a few untended streetlights barely provided enough illumination for someone to avoid falling off the edge of the boardwalk. The knocking steps Whiteoak was following were steady and strong, leading him toward Second Street.
In the distance, he saw a man strolling alongside the deserted street. The silhouette was vaguely familiar, but Whiteoak wasn’t going to place any bets as to who it might be. He waited for the man to walk past one of the few streetlights on Trader Avenue. It was Chuck Monroe, all right.
Even better, there were more figures walking toward Monroe from the direction of Second Street. By the looks of it, the group meant to meet up at the intersection of Second and Trader Avenue.
Dashing down the next alley, Whiteoak raced behind a few smaller stores so he could wind his way back again. When he reached the mouth of that alley, he couldn’t hear the footsteps anymore. The professor stuck his head out and looked back in the direction from which he’d come. Nobody was there. As he turned to look in the other direction, he heard the scrape of a matchstick against a wall. The flaring of that little flame was less than five paces away from him, causing Whiteoak’s heart to skip a beat.
He wanted to pull his head back into the shadows, but that movement would most likely give away his position. There was always the chance that he’d already been spotted, which meant he should find some cover as quickly as possible. When he heard the crunch of feet against the hard dirt behind him, Whiteoak held his breath. There was still a slim chance that he had yet to be spotted.
“What the hell are you doing?” someone hissed behind him.
Some chances were slimmer than others.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Weighing his options in less than a second, Whiteoak knew he had to make his move quickly before he was put down for good. He turned on the balls of his feet, dropping into a crouch while reaching for the pistol at his side. Whiteoak didn’t have his stance situated well enough to take a shot by the time he faced the man who’d gotten behind him. Fortunately, that man was too petrified to do him any harm. Byron’s empty hands shot up and his eyes grew wide as saucers.
“What are you doing?” Whiteoak hissed.
“I asked first.”
Angrily holstering the .38, Whiteoak grabbed Byron by the front of his shirt and pressed him against a wall. He kept him in place while leaning out to carefully check the street once more. Monroe had already lit his cigarette and was walking toward the corner in the distance.
“I don’t think they saw us,” Whiteoak whispered. “Or heard us. No thanks to you.”
“Who is that? The gunman that was watching us at the Dove Tail?”
“One and the same. Why aren’t you at the game?”
“It’s over,” Byron said. “Owens downed that beer faster than he did the others he’d been swilling all night long and all that liquor caught up to him in a rough way. Wound up tripping over his own feet on his way to the outhouse.”
“What about Weir?”
>
“He was losing.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Both men stopped talking when the sounds of other voices drifted through the air. A conversation was taking place some distance away and when Whiteoak hurried down the alley to cut behind the next couple of buildings, he dragged Byron along with him.
“What’s going on here?” Byron asked while struggling to keep up.
“You keep insisting on tagging along with me wherever I go,” the professor replied as he carefully stretched his body forward to be that much closer to the meeting taking place nearby. “That’s what’s going on.”
They approached the end of the next alley, bringing them even closer to the other men who were conversing nearby. The shadowy figures were huddled in front of a darkened building with an assayer on the first floor and a dentist’s office on the second.
“It’s—” Byron was silenced by a hand that clamped over the lower portion of his face. It took two tries, but he swatted that hand away. “This is exactly what bothers me,” he said in a harsh whisper. “Being watched by a gunman is bad enough, but following that same gunman in the middle of the night is even worse!”
“Will you keep quiet before you get us both killed?”
“If you’re so worried about getting killed,” Byron asked in an admittedly quieter voice, “then what are you doing out here in a dark alley?”
Abandoning the possibility of getting the other man to leave without additional fuss, Whiteoak nodded toward the corner in the distance and asked, “See those men?”
“Yes.”
“One of them is Chuck Monroe, the gunman from the Dove Tail. He did some work for Michael Davis some time ago. Isn’t that one of this town’s Founding Four?”
“He is, but that other fellow isn’t Davis.”
Whiteoak squinted into the darkness splayed in front of him. “Which other fellow?”
“The one in the dark suit with the diamond cufflinks.”
“How can you possibly see the cufflinks from this distance?”
“First of all,” Byron said, “they’re the only things catching any light apart from the shooting irons on their hips. And second, that is George Halstead. He always wears diamond cufflinks.”
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