The Loner: Killer Poker

by J. A. Johnstone

  He and Arturo had been hashing out the situation for long minutes, going over everything that had happened since Conrad’s arrival in Denver. Hudson was smart enough to see the possibilities, but he didn’t want to accept them.

  “We’ve seen evidence in the past that the woman was diabolically cunning,” Arturo pointed out. “She left behind assassins in Boston to strike at Mr. Browning, and it’s certainly conceivable that she could have done the same here. There’s also the matter of her cousin Roger, who was deeply involved in her schemes. He was in St. Louis several months ago, not long before Miss Sullivan came to work for you. Perhaps he actually hired her, acting on the late Miss Tarleton’s suggestion.”

  Hudson stopped his pacing and shook his head. “Diabolical is the word for Pamela, all right. The hell that she’s put Conrad through . . . He’s put a good face on it and seems to be in good spirits, but the knowledge that his children are out there somewhere must be tormenting him every hour of the day and night.”

  “Just as Miss Tarleton wanted,” Arturo said softly.

  “Yes.” Hudson took a deep breath and went on in a more business-like tone, “So what are we to make of Miss Sullivan? Is it really possible that she’s a hired killer?”

  “I don’t think we can ignore the possibility. But if she is, she’ll have to bide her time and wait to strike. She can’t get at Mr. Browning while he’s engaged in that poker tournament.”

  “Which gives us some time to investigate and find out one way or the other.” Hudson nodded. “I like that idea. I’ll try to find out more about her background.”

  “And I’ll keep an eye on the lady herself,” Arturo decided. “Perhaps she’ll meet with her confederates, or attempt to recruit some new ones if she no longer has anyone to assist her.” He smiled. “After all, Mr. Browning has disposed of the first three men who tried to kill him since he got here.”

  Hudson grimaced. “You say that like you think there’ll be more.”

  “Don’t you?” Arturo asked in all seriousness.

  As Bat Masterson had promised, after a couple hours a waiter rapped on the door of the room where Conrad was sleeping. Even though he was still tired, the break had refreshed him somewhat. He hauled himself out of the narrow bed. Washing up made him feel even better. By the time he got dressed and returned to the room where the tournament was taking place, he felt ready to go for hours.

  A couple tables were empty as more players took their breaks, including the one where Rance McKinney had been playing. Conrad spotted Masterson, and went over to him. “McKinney didn’t get cleaned out, did he?”

  Masterson shook his head. “No, he’s sleeping. Actually, I think he’s well up on the other players at his table.”

  That was encouraging. Conrad was lagging behind both Bernard Church and Edgar Pennyworth at his table, but he was still well within striking distance.

  Masterson was finally starting to look a little ragged around the edges. Conrad said, “You should probably get some rest yourself, Bat.”

  Masterson nodded. “I intend to. Jack Barton’s going to relieve me in a bit.”

  Conrad was vaguely acquainted with Barton, who had been a gambler, a deputy sheriff, and a Wells Fargo agent. He was a good man, tough and solid. He would keep the game running properly while Masterson was taking a break.

  The other players had emerged from their rooms and drifted back to the table. Conrad joined them, and the game got underway again. The men had cups of coffee next to them to help keep them alert.

  By late afternoon, Hal Roberts had dropped out, heaving a regretful sigh as he stood up and left the table. He mustered up a wish of good luck for the other men and went into the main room.

  That left Conrad, Church, and Pennyworth. Conrad saw the look the other two men exchanged. They regarded each other as their only true competition and probably thought of him as just a rich, idle young man who was taking part in the tournament for the thrill of it.

  Let them believe that, Conrad mused behind a faint smile.

  He continued his calm, steady play. Church and Pennyworth paid little attention to him. He figured each man had decided his best strategy would be to dispose of the other, leaving only Conrad to beat to become the big winner of the first round.

  The pots gradually rose in value. Conrad took one now and then, and the gap between his winnings and those of the other two players began to shrink. Church and Pennyworth didn’t seem to notice.

  Suddenly, Pennyworth made his move. He had drawn Church into betting maybe more than he should have. Church had too much money in the pot to drop out. He wouldn’t have enough chips left to stay up with the other two players in the next hand. It was win or drop out for Church, so the dapper man had no choice but to shove in all the chips he had in front of him. Pennyworth called, and then, almost as an afterthought, so did Conrad.

  “Three kings,” Church said as he laid his cards down.

  Pennyworth gave an avuncular chuckle. “Not quite good enough, my friend. Full house, sevens over treys.” He leaned forward, his chubby hands reaching out to gather his winnings.

  “Just a minute,” Conrad said. “I’m still in this hand.”

  He placed his cards faceup on the table. Church and Pennyworth stared in shock at the three, four, five, six, and seven of clubs.

  “Straight flush,” Church muttered. “You haven’t gotten a hand that good since this game started, Browning.”

  Conrad shrugged. “Then I guess this was a good time for it.”

  He reached out and raked the chips into a pile in front of him.

  Church laughed. “Splendid. To tell you the truth, if I have to be cleaned out, I’d rather it was you who did it instead of this pompous blowhard.” He flicked a hand across the table toward Pennyworth.

  “Pompous blowhard, is it?” the older man said with a scowl. “Let me remind you, I’m still in the game, Bernard. You’re not.”

  Church pushed back his chair. “That’s true.” He grinned at Conrad as he stood up. “Good luck, kid,” he added, inadvertently calling Conrad by the name he had used much of the time during the past two years.

  Pennyworth snorted contemptuously. “A break before we finish this off, Mr. Browning?”

  Conrad nodded. “Fine by me.”

  He stood up and stretched, then took out his pocket watch and flipped it open. Almost eight o’clock in the evening. More than twenty hours had passed since the tournament began, and not a single big winner had emerged yet, although most of the tables were down to two or three players. Table 2, where Rance McKinney was playing, had three men left, including the rancher.

  Conrad hadn’t eaten much during the day. He’d been living mostly on coffee. There would be a chance to eat a good meal and get some real sleep once that round of the tournament was over.

  Pennyworth was older, and the strain was taking a toll on him, too, though, he didn’t show it. He was the same amiable, grandfatherly figure he had been when the game started.

  Bat Masterson had returned to the room a short time earlier, looking considerably refreshed. He strolled over to Conrad. “Down to just two of you, eh?”

  “That’s right.”

  Masterson lowered his voice. “It’s really not fair for me to say this, but watch out for Pennyworth, Conrad. He looks harmless, but he’s a sly old dog. I suppose you’ve figured that out for yourself by now.”

  “I know he’s dangerous,” Conrad said with a nod.

  “I wouldn’t have said anything, but . . . I know this game is about a lot more than money for you, amigo. I want this whole affair to turn out well for you.”

  “Thanks, Bat. I appreciate that.” Conrad poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the table. “I guess we’d better get on with it.”

  He took the coffee back to the table. Pennyworth joined him. With a disarming smile that didn’t disarm Conrad at all, the older man asked, “Are you ready, my young friend?”

  “Ready,” Conrad said.

  Pennyworth ges
tured magnanimously. “The deal is yours, I believe.”

  Conrad shuffled and dealt a hand of standard draw poker, what they had been playing most of the time. He won the hand, but the pot was fairly small. Now that it was only the two of them, maybe Pennyworth planned on playing things close to the vest for a while.

  Since only two of them were left, the importance of each hand was magnified. If either of them got reckless, the game might be over in a hurry.

  During one of the breaks, Conrad noticed that McKinney’s table was down to only two players, the rancher and a burly man with a bald, bullet-shaped head. He didn’t look like he’d be much of a poker player, but obviously he was or he wouldn’t still be in the game. Conrad hoped McKinney would be able to finish him off and move on to the next round.

  Before he and Pennyworth could resume their game, the bald man let out a loud oath and surged to his feet across the table from McKinney. “You son of a bitch!” he yelled as one of his ham-like hands swept up the chair where he’d been sitting. “You cleaned me out!”

  With a roar of rage, he flung the chair straight at McKinney.

  Chapter 16

  McKinney threw his hands up to shield his head from the chair. It crashed into him and knocked him backward in his seat. The bald man lunged across the table at him, making cards and chips fly into the air. Those big paws reached for McKinney’s neck.

  Conrad headed for Table 2 as fast as he could. He had visions of that bald-headed monster snapping McKinney’s neck, making it impossible for the rancher to ever tell anything else he might know about Pamela Tarleton and her schemes.

  As fast as Conrad was, Bat Masterson was equally fast, and he was closer. He reached the table a step ahead of Conrad. The gun in his hand rose and fell in a swift, chopping blow that slammed the weapon against the top of that shiny dome. The man slumped forward, senseless, his weight shaking the table as he landed on it.

  Conrad grabbed the man’s collar and rolled him onto the floor, where he landed with another crash. McKinney was on his feet, and stepped toward the man, looking like he was about to kick him.

  “That’s enough, Rance,” Masterson said sharply. “He’s not going to cause any more trouble.”

  “The bastard like to stove my head in with that chair!” McKinney shouted. “Whatever happens to him, he’s got it coming!”

  Masterson didn’t exactly point his gun at McKinney, but the barrel swung more in the rancher’s general direction. “I said that’s enough.”

  Several of the Palace’s burly waiters had come rushing in at the sound of the commotion. They were behind Masterson ready to step in if needed. Conrad stood shoulder to shoulder with the famous ex-lawman.

  McKinney glowered at all of them and muttered, “Fine. I just never could stand a sore loser, that’s all.” He gave Conrad an especially dark glare, as if what he had just said applied more to Conrad than any of the others.

  That was puzzling, but Conrad didn’t take the time to ponder it.

  The man on the floor groaned and began to stir.

  “Roll him onto his back,” Masterson told a couple waiters.

  When they had done that, Masterson hunkered next to the man and pressed the barrel of the gun he held against the man’s nose. The feel of that cold ring of metal made the man’s eyes widen.

  “Listen to me, Hugo,” Masterson said in a calm, reasonable voice. “In a minute you’re going to get up and leave. You don’t have to apologize, and you don’t have to make any sort of restitution for the trouble you’ve caused. All you have to do is get out of the Palace and don’t ever set foot in here again, at least not while I’m here. Do you understand?”

  Masterson moved the gun enough so the man could jerk his head in a nod.

  “All right.” Masterson stood up and moved back but kept his gun trained on the man.

  Hugo struggled to his feet, shook his head like an old bull, and turned to stumble out.

  Masterson motioned for some of the waiters to follow him. “Make sure he doesn’t cause any more trouble on the way out.”

  With that taken care of, Masterson holstered his gun and turned back to McKinney. “My apologies for the disturbance, Rance. Are you injured? Do you need medical attention?”

  “I’m fine,” McKinney answered in a surly voice. “You should have shot that big ox, Masterson.”

  Bat smiled. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure I could bring him down with anything less than a Greener, and a wounded beast is even more dangerous, you know.” He turned and raised his voice. “Let’s get back to the games, gentlemen.”

  Conrad went over to Table 5, where Edgar Pennyworth was standing and waiting for him. “Nothing like a little action to break up the monotony, eh?” Pennyworth asked with a smile.

  “I don’t think Hugo cared for it,” Conrad said.

  Pennyworth waved a pudgy hand. “Don’t worry about him. I’ve seen him around. Always a troublemaker. If Bat hadn’t stepped in, he might have broken McKinney’s back.”

  That was doubtful, Conrad thought, because if Masterson hadn’t stopped Hugo, he would have. It was odd how he had almost been put in the position of protecting someone he absolutely disliked.

  He and Pennyworth resumed their game. The hands went back and forth, the momentary advantage flowing to one man, then the other. As the evening progressed, Conrad slowly began to accumulate a larger pile of chips. Pennyworth’s jovial smile disappeared. He had thought defeating Conrad wouldn’t pose much of a challenge, but he was steadily being proven wrong.

  Pennyworth began raising more, taking risks like a prizefighter who has grown tired and starts flailing at his opponent. Some of his gambles paid off, but more of them didn’t. He threw in five thousand at a time. Conrad matched it and upped the bet. Pennyworth called, then muttered fiercely under his breath when Conrad’s cards turned out to be better.

  On the next hand, Conrad hesitated. Pennyworth saw that and attacked, not realizing he had just taken the bait Conrad laid out for him. Conrad tossed away a couple cards and drew two more, prepared to fold if necessary. But the cards surprised him and filled the inside straight he was going after. Still, he raised cautiously.

  Sensing that he was about to make a recovery, Pennyworth shoved half of what he had left into the center of the table. He sat back and smiled, obviously expecting Conrad to fold.

  Conrad matched the bet and raised the amount that Pennyworth had left. The older man’s shaggy white brows drew down in a surprised frown. His only choices were to fold, which wouldn’t leave him with enough of a stake to last more than another hand or two, or call.

  Like a true gambler, he called. “Three aces,” he said hesitantly as he laid his cards down, hoping against hope he would somehow emerge victorious.

  “Sorry, Pennyworth.” Conrad placed his straight on the table. Pennyworth stared at it, all the sparkle going out of his pale blue eyes.

  Then he heaved a great sigh. “Ah, well. Can’t win them all, as the old saying goes.” He summoned up a smile. “You played an excellent game, young man.”

  “Thank you.” Conrad gathered in the chips. He was glad Pennyworth was being gracious in defeat. He felt an instinctive liking for the man.

  Pennyworth leaned back in his chair and raised a hand. “Oh, Bat,” he called. “We have a winner.”

  Masterson came over to the table, an expression of disappointment on his face. He thought Pennyworth had won. His expression changed to one of surprise when he saw the pile of chips in front of Conrad.

  “Well done.” He clapped a hand on Conrad’s shoulder, then reached over and shook hands with Pennyworth. “Thank you for playing, Edgar. It’s always nice to have a bit of class in a game. Are you going to be around to watch the next round?”

  “Yes, I believe I will.” Pennyworth nodded to Conrad. “I want to see how this young man does. I suspect his next opponents won’t underestimate him as I did.”

  “Probably not,” Conrad agreed with a smile. He gestured toward the chi
ps. “You’ll take care of these, Bat?”

  “Of course. What are you going to do?”

  Conrad’s muscles creaked as he stood up. He didn’t know what time it was, didn’t know how long he had been playing. But it felt like a week.

  “I think I could use some rest, and then maybe a big meal.”

  “We can handle that,” Masterson assured him. “You can use the room you used before.”

  Conrad nodded. “Thanks.”

  As he started toward the door, he saw Rance McKinney sprawled in one of the armchairs, legs stretched out in front of him, a drink in his hand. Their eyes met for a second, and Conrad saw the cold hatred in the rancher’s gaze. He still didn’t have any idea what had made McKinney feel that way toward him, but he was convinced it didn’t have anything to do with the slight ruckus between the two of them at the Palace several nights earlier.

  No, Conrad realized, McKinney’s attitude toward him had changed at Ellery Hudson’s dinner party, when he had found out who Conrad was.

  The only reason McKinney would have to hate Conrad Browning would be if Pamela had told the rancher about him, he thought. There was no way of knowing what Pamela had told McKinney, but it couldn’t have been anything good.

  More than ever, he wanted to face McKinney over a poker table. He would be betting more than money. He would be betting he could work the truth out of McKinney.

  Arturo didn’t have any training to be a detective, and he wasn’t a frontiersman used to following trails. But he thought he could manage to keep an eye on one young woman.

  However, the job was turning out to be more difficult than he expected. He had waited in the doorway of a building across the street from the offices of Hudson, Burke, and Hardy and watched for Rose Sullivan as people began to emerge from the building at the end of the business day. When she came out, wearing a neat hat on her blond hair, he gave her a chance to get about half a block ahead of him and then fell in behind her, staying on the other side of the street.