“What kind of attitude is that for the undersheriff to have?”
“It is the same attitude the sheriff has, and I never hear him complain.”
George Hinkle chortled. “And therein is the secret of a long and contented life. Never do today what you can put off until tomorrow. And never, ever get all worked up over trifles.”
“Coffin Varnish isn’t a trifle.”
The sheriff sighed and bent to his reading. “There is a task I would like you to do some night soon.”
“Oh?”
“We have had a report that a strange man has been seen hanging around the schoolhouse. A couple of parents saw him. I want you to go over there and keep a watch.”
“On the schoolmarm?” Seamus laughed. “Have you ever seen a more homely female in all your born days?”
“She isn’t a beauty, I will grant you that,” Hinkle said. “But she is our schoolmarm, and if some shenanigans are going on, we need to know about it before it becomes common knowledge.”
“Wonderful,” Seamus said. “When do you want me to spy on her?”
“Some night soon.”
“I will get around to it,” Seamus said. “But what man would take up with her when there are so many prettier to be had? You couldn’t pay me to ask her out.”
“Now, now,” Sheriff Hinkle said. “She might be a peach of a girl for all you know.”
“Have you seen her? Have you talked to her? It wouldn’t surprise me if she wears a chastity belt.”
Hinkle laughed. “Yes, I have talked to her, and yes, she strikes me as the sort of woman who would rather be burned alive than let a man touch her. But stranger things have happened than her having a beau, and if she has found one I would like to know about it so I can smooth ruffled feathers. Again, it is not urgent. Get back to me if you learn anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Look at the bright side. At least I am not asking you to ride to Coffin Varnish again.”
“The next time you should go. Maybe you will have more influence with them than I did. But watch out for the mayor’s wife. She is the power behind the throne, and big enough to break you over her knee.”
“Why, Seamus. Did she intimidate you?”
“Intimidate, nothing. If she were a man I would not have let her talk to me the way she did. She is one of those women who wears the britches and flaunts it.”
“Well, soon you can forget about her and Coffin Varnish and their crazy scheme.”
“That suits me just fine.”
The sun was at its zenith when the card game got under way at the Long Branch. Aces Weaver took part, but then Aces was always at the Long Branch. His friends liked to joke that the tall drink of water lived there. Aces was a gambler but not a very good one, which was why he plied his trade in a cow town like Dodge and not on a riverboat plying the mighty Mississippi.
The second player was Joe Gentile. He worked as a clerk at Wright, Beverly and Company, the premier general store in all of Dodge. It was his day off and he had a few extra dollars, so he elected to sit in, in the hope of acquiring a few more.
On Gentile’s left sat Paunch Stevens. He dabbled in real estate. To look at him, with his big belly and bald pate, he would not be deemed of any account. But Paunch also had a temper, and a Smith & Wesson he was not shy about producing when his temper was aroused. When he sat down at the table, Aces and Joe Gentile glanced at one another but did not say anything.
The last player to take a chair was William Everett Caine. He owned a freighting company and possessed more money than sense. His nickname was Club. He had a clubfoot, and limped, and was sensitive about having it brought to his attention, which was why he wore a Webley revolver in a holster next to his belt buckle for a cross draw. The Webley was an English model with a bird’s-beak butt and walnut grips. It was not as common as Colts and Remingtons and Smith & Wessons, and many thought it looked downright strange. But no one mentioned that to Club Caine. He was English, and sensitive about that, too.
The game had been under way about an hour when the trouble started. Paunch Stevens slapped his cards down on the table and growled, “You win again, you damn Brit.”
“I will thank you not to take that tone with me,” Club said.
“What does that make now?” Paunch grumbled. “Five hands in a row? Hell, if I had your luck, I would give up selling property and gamble for a living, like Aces, here.”
“In some games luck is better than others,” Club said.
Paunch made a sound reminiscent of the snort of an agitated bull, then declared, “Especially when a player improves his luck any way he can. Watch how you deal the next time it is your turn.”
The other players froze.
“Are you implying I cheat?” Club Caine asked in a deceptively mild manner.
Aces Weaver forced a laugh. “He’s not saying any such thing, Club. The cards won’t come his way, is all, and he’s fit to be tied. We’ve all had days like that.”
“Just so he is not implying I cheat,” Club replied. “I will not have my reputation tarnished by the likes of him or anyone else.”
“What do you mean by the likes of me?” Paunch Stevens asked. “I take that as a slur.”
“Take it however you like so long as you make it clear you were not suggesting I cheat.”
Paunch Stevens had been drinking since the game began, drinking heavily. He tilted the glass to his thick lips to drain it, let out a sigh, and then said so politely and matter-of-factly that it was a full ten seconds before the import sank in, “I will do and say as I damn well please, you lime-sucking son of a bitch.”
Aces Weaver saw Club Caine redden and sought to avert a catastrophe by exclaiming, “Don’t take him serious, Club! He has been sucking a bottle down since he came in.”
Paunch did not help any by immediately saying, “I am nowhere near drunk, thank you very much.”
“You bloody bastard,” Club said.
Joe Gentile thrust both hands out, blurting, “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Let’s not forget this is a friendly game. No slinging insults, if you please.”
“Tell that to him,” Club said stiffly.
“I will insult who I want,” Paunch asserted.
Aces Weaver was sweating profusely. He had been in too many saloons when revolvers were resorted to, and he had witnessed too many bystanders take stray lead due to escalating wars of words. Again he tried to defuse the situation by turning to Paunch. “What’s gotten into you? You have never acted this way before.”
“Maybe I don’t like Brits. Did you ever think of that?”
“Tell him the truth,” Club Caine said.
“What truth?” From Joe Gentile.
“This isn’t about cards. This isn’t about where I am from,” Club said. “It is about Harriet Fly.”
“Oh Lord,” Aces said.
Joe Gentile pushed his bowler back on his thatch of curly brown hair. “Who?”
Aces answered him. “Harriet Fly. She works over to the Birdcage. The tall redhead with hair down to her knees.”
“The one who was on Bat Masterson’s arm for a while?” Joe Gentile said. “And took up with Six-Toed Pete after Masterson moved on to greener pastures?”
“That’s the one,” Aces said.
“What does she have to do with our card game?”
Club Caine placed his hand on the edge of the table close to the Webley revolver in the holster next to his belt buckle. “I can tell you. You see, the popsie in question gave Pete the brush-off. Paunch tried to move in, but Harriet did not want anything to do with him. He was most persistent. It got so bad, she told him to sod off or she would go to the marshal.”