“Clean the floors,” he snaps. “Don’t trip people walking on ’em. Goddamn injun.”
She mutters something in her language that I’m sure ain’t kind. The Rider seems to think the same, ’cus he kicks her again. Men snigger throughout the saloon. Funny how folks here treat me like a lady—questionable honor and all—but don’t give two hoots ’bout the Apache.
The man winds up a third time but I step a leg out at the last second, so his boot hits my shin ’stead of the girl.
“I reckon she’ll scrub better if you ain’t kicking her,” I says.
He grumbles something but motions for me to follow. I catch the girl’s eye as I pass by—confused and suspicious. I don’t know why I did it. I wouldn’t expect an ounce of kindness from an Apache if I was to fall into their hands and I reckon she don’t expect much from us, neither. I walk on, trying not to cringe at my flaring leg. I bet it’s already bruising. That’s the last time I help an Indian who don’t even thank me.
Ahead, the game table’s waiting. Will’s already made hisself comfortable, stretched out and chewing dip. He was aiming to scout out Rose and settle in next to him. If he didn’t, the whole plan’s shot.
I search Will’s eyes, looking for a sign as to which man’s Rose. Before Will can do nothing, the man to his left glances up and, as his face appears from beneath the brim of his hat, time freezes. My boots root into the floorboards. I forget how to walk.
’Cus it’s him. It’s Waylan Rose.
The scar cuts his cheek in two, starting below his eye and carving a path down to the outer edge of his lip. It’s a pale, pocked line on an otherwise leather-tanned face. He’s wearing a long black coat over a blood-red shirt, and his dark hair hangs to his chin just like mine. He’s older than I expect. Or maybe desert plains and a life of killing’s just weathered his skin. There’s a smile on his lips, appearing between the stubble covering his jaw, but what kills me most is his eyes. They’re lively. Bright. Shining like he ain’t got a care in the world. As blue and cheerful as a cloudless summer sky.
How can a man who’s done so much evil have eyes the color of heaven? They should be dark and soiled. They should be rotten.
I force myself to keep moving, and by the time I reach the only open seat—directly ’cross from him—I’s found my tongue again.
“This seat taken?”
Rose pulls a smoke from his coat. His gaze trailing over me feels like a knife. “How’s a soiled dove come to be skilled at poker? Don’t you gals have other games to play?” His voice matches his scar—scratchy and rough.
“I ain’t never said I was skilled. Just that I know how to play and want to try my luck. But I’s picked up enough here and there, if you must know.”
“Hopefully from good teachers.”
“I reckon we’ll see,” I says.
Waylan Rose lights his smoke and shakes out the match. “I reckon we will.” Then he exhales in my direction, grinning so sly, my blood slows. “By all means, sit down, doll. The only thing more fun than stealing from men is stealing from women.”
I pull out the chair, thankful the length of Evelyn’s gown’s hiding my unsteady knees.
The cards get cut. Chips are passed out. The first hand is dealt.
It ain’t a large group playing—just me, Rose, Will, and three other men, one of which is the clerk from Hancock’s. He’s sitting on Rose’s left and don’t seem to recognize me now that I’m dressed like a girl. After a couple hands, it’s obvious he bets bold too often. The men flanking me, however, are quiet and cautious players, and that suits me just fine. I only got one player to worry ’bout.
As planned, I make sure to lose a few hands early so no one sees me as a threat. I bet big on a poor hand. I fold on a hand that’s actually good. I win one but leave it at that. I don’t want no tell, and if I act rash and random, there ain’t a way for the other players to get a read on my habits. Pa’d stressed that when teaching me how to play poker one winter. The long nights were filled with cards that season, and rifle cartridges that served as betting chips. I never thought knowing the game would be a skill I’d need, but I’s thankful for it now.
Rose keeps his face blank, but his eyes twitch round the table like a hawk’s. Watching the deals and the folds, flickering over the players’ features, dancing over the chips. He thumbs his, which are stacked neat and precise.
As the game continues the Apache girl makes rounds, refilling whiskey glasses and emptying out ashtrays. The Rider who escorted me to the table is now standing ’gainst the bar, but every time the Apache slips behind it he spits dip at her back. When he ain’t tormenting her, he’s staring at our table. I can feel the eyes of the other Riders on us too. From all through the saloon, they’re watching. Between them and Rose, this ain’t gonna be breezy. Not that I ever thought it would be. But still.
Maybe a dozen hands in, the man to my left bets real big. He ain’t done nothing of note yet, so I reckon he’s got something good. I stay in till after the trade, just to throw people off. Then when he raises, I fold. Everyone does but Rose, who raises more. The guy to my left counts his chips, deliberating.
“Friend, you don’t wanna test me on this hand,” Rose says.
The man beside me looks at his five cards, then the pot, then his cards. Finally, he shoves all he’s got left into the center of the table.
“All in,” he says.
Rose’s brows rise in amusement. He takes a long drag on his smoke. Taps it ’gainst the ashtray one, two, three times. Exhales. Then he counts out what he needs to match the bet and slides the chips forward.
The man to my left flips his cards, grinning. He’s got a full house. Three queens and two aces. It’s a damn good hand.
“Ain’t that a shame,” Rose says.
He exhales slow and turns his hand over. Another full house—also a pair of aces, but with three kings.
“Sorry, partner,” Rose says.
As Rose scoops up the pot, the losing man jumps to his feet and draws his gun. Somehow—even though Rose is bent over gathering his winnings—he manages to straighten, square, draw, and fire first.
Rose’s mark flies back, toppling a chair, and is dead before he hits the floor.
The saloon goes stark silent. The last key plucked on the corner piano hangs in the air. The girls in the loft hush.
Everyone’s staring, even the men at our table. The Hancock’s clerk’s mouth is frozen in a tiny O.
“I hate sore losers,” Rose announces. He flicks his coat open and holsters his six-shooter, but not before I spot the grip of a second pistol on his hip. Shiny and pale. Engraved with a pattern I’d know anywhere.
The bastard is carrying my father’s pistol like he owns it. Like he didn’t steal my father’s life and journal and even the contents of his belt.