Cal whipped around so quickly his hat fell off, leaving Cordelia to gather the bills he’d dropped. In the instant it had taken him to turn, he’d grabbed his revolver off the table and unholstered a second, smaller gun from his belt. He had both pointed at Winslow Houndstooth with the hammers cocked back by the time his hat hit the ground.
“Now, Calhoun, that’s no way to greet an old partner.” Houndstooth strode toward Cal, plucking his bourbon from the table and sampling the bouquet deeply before taking a long, slow sip. Behind him, Cordelia slipped out of the room. “Oh. That’s very fine, indeed. You still have excellent taste.”
“You here for me, Houndstooth?” Cal growled. “If you think I’ll go quiet, think again.” He shifted his toothpick back and forth in his mouth.
Houndstooth laughed. “Nothing like that, Cal, my old friend! I’m here to work with you again. Partners. Just like old times. Just like back on the ranch.” Houndstooth flicked open a long, thin stiletto blade and twirled it between his fingers like a baton. “You remember the ranch, don’t you, Cal? The one you worked on, right up until it burned to the ground on the same night you ran off to work on the Harriet? A fine coincidence, that.”
Cal started to edge toward the door. Houndstooth stepped swiftly between him and the exit. “Love the—is it a moustache you’re working on? We really must catch up, Calhoun, old chap. I’ve been wanting to have a chat with you for some time now.”
A cough sounded from the door. They both turned, and the air in the room went cold. Hovering in the doorway was a sleek little stoat of a man, his pencil moustache slicked across the top of his lip like a drunk draped across a chaise longue. His seersucker suit was fitted to him so impeccably that Houndstooth’s breath caught for a moment in his throat.
“Gentlemen. I trust you’re both familiar with the rules of my casinos.” The man’s voice was smoother than the bourbon his bartender poured for high rollers.
“Mr. Travers,” Houndstooth said. “I wasn’t going to hurt my old friend Cal, here. Just showing him my new knife.”
“And a fine knife it is,” Travers responded, inclining his head. “It would be such a shame if it were to get wet. And your pistols, Mr. Hotchkiss—I don’t imagine they stand up well to submersion?”
Cal and Houndstooth stared at each other for a long moment. The boat creaked as they watched each other. Travers cleared his throat, and they both lowered their weapons.
“Very good. Now, I’m sure you gentlemen would like to have a civilized discussion over drinks at the bar? On the house.” He waved an arm toward the door. The two men hesitated, neither wanting to walk in front of the other—but after a beat, Houndstooth put his grey hat on, tipping it to Travers.
“I’ll be waiting for you with a whiskey, Calhoun, old friend. We’ve got business to discuss.”
He walked out without a backwards glance. Cal made to follow, but Travers put out a hand before Cal got to the door. Cal stopped before Travers so much as touched him.
“Now, what precisely do you suppose he’s doing here?” Travers murmured, his voice as silky as a snake’s belly sliding over a bed of marsh grass.
“I got no damn idea,” Cal growled. Travers considered him for a long, silent minute. “I said I don’t know,” Cal said, his eyes flicking away from Travers’. “And whatever it is you’re thinking you’ll ask me to do about it, I ain’t doin’.”
In just three unhurried steps, Travers crossed the room and was behind the chair near the window, where Cal had been sitting. He stooped, looking like a heron that had spotted a fish. When he straightened, he was holding three playing cards. He held them up where Cal could see them. Cal’s face didn’t so much as twitch. Travers dropped the cards onto the felt of the table and spread them out with the manicured tip of his index finger.
“Three Queens. Were these insurance against losing, or did they come in handy at some point while you were fleecing my customers?”
Cal shook his head as his lips went white. Travers held up a quelling finger.
“Shhh, no, don’t try to lie to me, Mr. Hotchkiss. You were cheating. You were stealing from me. Oh, yes, I know, you weren’t stealing my money, Mr. Hotchkiss—but you’ve tarnished my name. You’ve put my reputation into question, and you’ve made me look foolish.” His voice hadn’t risen above a murmur, but it dripped with menace. He whipped the silk pocket square from his jacket and, turning to the open window, laid it across the broad sill. “You realize that this is your second warning?”
Cal nodded.
“And you realize, don’t you, that there will not be a third warning?”
Cal nodded again.
“Let’s just be sure, why don’t we? It always pays to be thorough. Come here.”
Cal shook his head again, unable to form words. His face had turned a peculiar shade of grey. Travers gestured with one elegant hand, then unbuttoned his cuffs and began to roll up his sleeves.
“Come now, Mr. Hotchkiss. Cal. Let’s not waste time. Your friend is waiting, after all.” He finished rolling up his sleeves, then checked to make sure they were of equal lengths. That done, he snapped his fingers. Cordelia entered, holding a domed silver tray. She did not look at Cal as she passed by. She set the tray on the gaming table near where Travers stood, where he could reach it without moving away from the window.
“Thank you, Cordelia, darling.” Travers smiled at her with warm eyes. She smiled back, tentative. He nodded to the door, still smiling, and she left, ignoring Cal’s desperate attempt to catch her eye on her way out. After she’d disappeared from sight, two massive men stepped in from the hall—Travers’ security. They turned away from the room, so their backs filled the doorway. Cal let out a strangled sound like an aborted whimper.
“Mr. Hotchkiss,” Travers said. “I don’t have all day. Do not make me ask you again.”
Cal crossed the room with slow steps. Sweat beaded on his brow as he watched the covered tray. The only sounds in the little gaming room were his shaky breathing, the creak of the steamboat wheel, and the lapping of the Harriet.
Travers uncovered the little silver tray. There, on top of a folded maroon napkin, lay a gleaming, curved hunting knife—Cal’s hunting knife, taken from his room on the boat. It had been cleaned and honed since he had seen it last. The edge of the blade was so fine that his eyes couldn’t quite rest on it.
Travers picked up the cards from the felt-topped table and laid them down in a neat row on the square of silk he’d laid across the windowsill. He rested the tip of one manicured index finger on the center card.
“Are these your Queens, Mr. Hotchkiss?”