by Ralph Cotton
‘‘Yeah, I’m ready when you are,’’ said Lindley.
Clay put away his concern for Emma Vertrees and patted his hands gently down on the parts of the Remington, getting a feel for their location. ‘‘Somebody say ‘go,’ ’’ he said bluntly, his hands going back to the tabletop, relaxed yet poised.
Barnes grinned. ‘‘Just like that? You don’t want them to say ‘get ready, get set’ first?’’
‘‘If you need them to, they can,’’ Clay said respectfully.
‘‘No, I don’t need for them to. I’m ready.’’ The smile had left Lindley’s face as he heard Rupert and Barnes stifle a laugh. With his eyes fixed on the blind man’s face, Lindley said, ‘‘Barnes, say ‘go’ for us.’’
Barnes stalled. ‘‘It don’t seem natural, just saying ‘go,’ without no warning or nothing else.’’
‘‘Just say it, dang it to hell!’’ Lindley growled at him. ‘‘Let’s get this over with.’’
‘‘All right,’’ said Barnes. A tense silence loomed for a second, until he said loudly, ‘‘Go!’’
Clay’s black hands worked deftly, almost in a blur, snatching piece after piece of the Remington from the tabletop and fitting them into place. Across from him Hank Lindley did the same. He worked fast, but not fast enough. Before his Colt had been half assembled, he heard the spin of the big Remington’s cylinder and heard Rupert say in awe, ‘‘Damn! He’s done!’’
Lindley let the cylinder to his Colt fall back onto the tabletop in defeat. He stared at the Remington looming before him in Clay’s hand and said, ‘‘This is rigged. Nobody is that fast putting a gun together.’’
‘‘Rigged? Rigged how?’’ Rupert asked. ‘‘You seen it with your own eyes. How could you rig something like this?’’
‘‘I don’t know, but it’s rigged, I’m telling you.’’ As Lindley spoke, Clay heard the rustle of his shirtsleeve and the slightest jingle of coins as he reached over, picked up the five dollars in bills and coins and set the money over in front of him. ‘‘But I’ve never crawfished on a bet,’’ Lindley added in disgust.
Relieved, Clay touched the money lightly with his fingertips, counting without giving the appearance of counting. ‘‘How close did you get?’’ he asked quietly. ‘‘I never heard your cylinder click.’’
‘‘Not very danged close.’’ Rupert laughed. He rubbed his finger and thumb together toward Lindley, reminding him of the dollar bet he’d made. His laughter cut short as Lindley snatched a dollar from his shirt pocket and tossed it at him.
‘‘Never mind how close I got,’’ Lindley said grudgingly. ‘‘I’ll be coming back. I’m going to try you again.’’
‘‘I’m always here and you’re always welcome,’’ Clay said respectfully. This was what many of them said after he’d won their money. I’m coming back . . . But they never did.
He sat silently as Lindley finished assembling his Colt and the three cowboys mounted their horses and rode away toward the dirt street. When the dust had settled and he could no longer feel the gritty dryness of it in his nostrils, Clay stood up, shoved the Remington down into his waist behind his shirttail and picked up the tall hickory walking stick leaning against the table.
‘‘Come on out here, Little Dog,’’ he said to a growth of weeds and debris on the other side of the alley. ‘‘Take me on over to the woman’s fence. We best ought to see about her.’’