Quinn walked with purposeful strides toward the saloon. He hated leaving Albert, but he could do no more. Now it was up to the law. Of course the law, in the form of Sheriff Tuckett, needed watching and a helping hand.
Quinn had other business to attend to on this night. He would learn why the treacherous Ace had come to this valley. The pompous Ace owned his own brand, an ace on the front shoulder of his horse. A brand not easily missed.
Quinn pushed the door open to the familiar surroundings of every saloon this side of the Mississippi. The smell of cheap tobacco smoke filled the air, mixing with the odor of tobacco spittle, whiskey and stale sweat from cowboys. When Quinn leaned on the bar, a man moseyed to his side.
"Buy you a drink?"
"I didn't come to drink."
"The 'ladies' are busy for the moment. A game of cards, perhaps?" Ace offered.
Quinn let his gaze climb the narrow stairs. This would prove easier if Ace thought he knew Quinn's purpose for the evening.
Quinn nodded and followed Ace across the saloon to a table. They each pulled up a chair. Ace set his whiskey on the table, occupying a chair against the wall as he usually did. He shuffled and dealt.
"What's your name?"
"People 'round here call me Quinn." Quinn held a pair of eights. He carefully made his bets, keeping them small for most of an hour, waiting for a hand he could place a large wager on.
"What brings you 'round here?" Quinn asked.
"Business with an old friend."
"Business," Quinn baited. "What kind of business? Ya don't strike me as a cattle rancher."
"No, not cattle, more along the lines of a land grab."
"Most of the land 'round here's homesteaded. I hear there's still land available further up the valley."
"No, what I'm looking at is right here. I'll take three." Ace dealt himself three cards off the top of the deck.
"Not much of a hand there," Quinn observed. Such had continued as the casual conversation for most of the evening. Quinn looked tired and worn and took advantage of his haggard appearance. Under the facade lurked a retired gambler.
"I'll take one." He fanned his hand, revealing the evasive cards before folding them as he had with every hand. "Now why would a gambler, such as yerself, want land here? No big stakes and few good card players to match yer wits against."
"There is one, and that is all I care about."
"And who would that be?"
"Bert Jackson."
A commotion on the upstairs landing drew Quinn's attention. Trish wiggled out from under a cowboy's heavy arm, pushing him toward Zelda.
"Come on, ladies, I cun do ya both." The cowboy's speech slurred with too much whiskey. Trish sidestepped his advances while Zelda led the tipsy cowboy down the stairs.
Quinn pulled his attention back to the game at hand. "Only one pigeon? Doesn't sound to me like much of a challenge."
"Maybe not, but he has something I want."
"Ya said land. A homestead, perhaps?" Quinn shuffled the cards in his hand, just like always.
"Yeah."
"I know Bert, quite well in fact." Quinn used the address that Ace had used. "You could say we're like family. He doesn't gamble these days."
"That's what he said this afternoon," Ace responded. Quinn felt the hackles on the back of his neck rise. Ace had seen and talked to Albert. Had they argued? Had the argument escalated to murder?
"Never seen him in here with cards in his hand. Never seen him in here at all, come to think of it. How ya plannin' to get a homestead?" Quinn kept his expression stoical as he closed his hand to evaluate the bet on the table as well as Ace.
"Haven't decided yet."
"Since he don't gamble no more, assumin' it's his homestead you're wantin', what if I wager his homestead on this very hand?" Quinn asked casually glancing at the cards Ace had dealt him.
"Why would I wager you for something you don't own? You his banker or something?"
Quinn shrugged. "Ask anyone here if I can back up the bet. I think they'll agree that I can answer for Albert Jackson."
"I know the 'ladies' would agree with you." Ace indicated Zelda with an off-handed nod. "For all I know, you paid 'em off this afternoon and probably several other times. Quite the fan club you have with these ladies."
"Actually, I don't." He looked in Zelda's direction. A year or so back, Ace's comment on Quinn's business would have gotten a rise from him. Tonight, he merely nodded at Zelda.
She sashayed across the saloon to sit in the vacant chair next to Quinn.
"What is it you expect me to play against such a bet?"
Quinn shrugged, "Why not stake the same? You win, I leave and take the old boy, Bert with me. I win, ya leave and never…" Quinn's expression intensified, knowing Albert hated Quinn's 'Old Boy' nickname, but he also knew Ace's kind. Apparently, he had a great fondness for the homestead that spanned the river. "…Never look back at this 'ere pretty little homestead of his."
Ace glanced at his cards.
"Is it a bet?" Quinn carefully coddled his words in boredom.
Ace looked around the saloon. "You, bartender, can this man here speak in Bert Jackson's stead?"
Pierre finished pouring a whiskey before answering. "Quinn has been able to answer for Albert for as long as I've known them."
Ace looked back at Quinn, "All right, I'll see your bet for the homestead. All of it."
Quinn thought about it, finding the offer more than he had wanted to gamble. If he lost Albert's place, he could give his own to Lucinda, including the house he had built. He would clear out, maybe taking Trish with him. His enthusiasm for the bet faltered, his expression growing anxious, before the practiced poise of the gambler settled on him once more.
"I'll see you. Deal the last card, no more uppin' the ante."
Ace nodded as he flipped Quinn's last card across the table.
"It's a bet." He didn't bother looking at his last card. Instead, he moved straight into the showdown, a full house. A wickedly sure smile spread over Ace's face as he spread his hand on the table. "I think that beats any hand you've had all night."
Quinn nodded, feeling every eye in the saloon on him. Zelda held her breath, her lips tightly pursed. A different situation and Quinn would have smiled, letting out a snicker at her expense.
"Y'are right. It does… except this one." He placed his cards, one at a time on the table. He began with the last one Ace had so casually flipped across the table: the ten of hearts. No one spoke, waiting for the next cards. Quinn placed his cards on the table one at a time. His deliberate calm endured the silence, muzzling those who watched: the Jack of hearts, the Queen of hearts, and the King of hearts.
"That's only four cards," Ace stated.
"I only got an Ace left." Quinn placed another heart on the table.
Ace sat back in his chair. "Guess I'm not supposed to ever have that homestead. Good play."
"I've two things to ask of ya, Ace."
"What would that be?"
"Why were ya at Albert's smithy this afternoon?"
"You didn't come here to play poker, did you?" Ace's tone sounded cool and a bit challenging.
"Answer the question." Quinn leaned forward and released the strap on his knife.
Recognition spread across Ace's features.
"I should have known you wouldn't be far away. How you been, Bowie?" Ace drawled.
Quinn's voice remained level. He ignored Ace's question. "Albert walked out of that Denver saloon with the deed to these two adjoining quarter sections fair an' square. They're special, just like ya said. Right sweet with the river runnin' through the middle. Ya know, ya weren't the only one not knowin' Bert and I was brothers. I didn't horn in on that game. As I recall, ya asked for a full game. It ain't my fault ya didn't read his tells right. I knew he had a good hand an' I diverted ya with my bets." Quinn chuckled but kept his expression stoical. Ace had proven himself a vain man on that night, both in his personal appearance and in his card playing. He ha
d raised the bet higher in an effort to get Quinn and Albert to fold. Neither of them had and when Quinn called 'Ace's' bluff, Albert had laid down the flush, taking the rich pot, including the deeds. "Ya shouldn't have threatened him back then or now."
Ace shook his head. "Didn't recognize you without the ragged beard of a mountain man. That there scruff don't even come close."
"Ya gonna tell me why ya were at the livery?"
"Don't pull that knife, Bowie. I know how you carve and don't care to be your next statue." Ace had his hands in the air and moved his chair back from the poker table 'til his chair touched the wall. "I was simply there to invite Bert to a friendly game of cards."
"Is that all?" Quinn pulled the knife from its scabbard and turned it back and forth. Light glinted off the razor sharp edge.
Ace profaned, "What's this all about?" His tone had lost its smooth coolness.
"Let's just say Albert has played his last hand. He lost."
"Who beat him?" Ace's voice regained some of its smoothness.
"Don't know—yet. You, maybe?"
"I swear on my mother's grave. I had nothing to do with it."
"Swear on the piece of land ya just lost-- again." Quinn growled.
"I swear, Bowie. I never pulled a gun--"
"He wasn't shot."
The formerly unnoticed quiet of the saloon had developed into deathly ominous silence. Quinn's hand flashed, the nimble reflex almost imperceptible. The blade turned in the air.
Thunk.
The knife stuck in the wall behind Ace, a slight vibration of the blade’s handle the only proof of it having moved with such deathly speed. Ace hadn't flinched; if he had, he might have worn a red necktie instead of the black double string tie at his neck.
"Knowin' how ya hate blood, I believe ya, Ace."
"You said two things, Bowie. What would the other be?" Ace swallowed, his voice shaky.
"See to it that ya never come back for what ya lost-- twice." Quinn stood and walked around the table to retrieve his knife.
Ace nodded his agreement to Quinn's request.
Quinn strode out of the saloon wearing a confident air, yet his mind seethed. How could it come to this? It had happened years ago, but Ace had arrived here this morning and Albert was dead. He wasn't at all sure he believed Ace. How could he find out if Ace had killed Albert? If he had, would revenge prove more satisfying than waiting for the sheriff or the hanging? The question would wait. If Ace had come looking for revenge, he would want the fruits it produced as well. He would have to cross Quinn to get them.
Chapter 23
The Talisman - Crisscross Page 30