No one in this area had that option.
He went back to his room to change into the new clothing he’d purchased earlier in the afternoon. The loose makings of a plan were now firmly set in his mind and some of it meant looking a particular part. Though Fargo didn’t consider himself an actor by any means, he knew that in some situations how a man looked was almost as important as what he might do.
In his room, now cleaned but still smelling faintly of gunpowder, he dressed in black denim jeans and a matching black shirt with bone buttons. He slipped on a new pair of boots, also black, that weren’t fit for riding a horse for any distance, but had high enough sides that they could easily hide his boot knives. A paisley-patterned vest in a blue so dark it might as well have been black, completed the clothing portion of his outfit, and he topped it off with a new hat he had no intention of keeping when he left the city.
There were towns on the frontier where this kind of hat would get a man called all kinds of names and lead to fights, but here, it would likely fit right in. It was solid black, too, and made of rich felt. It had a gambler’s crown and a wide brim that would serve to hide his eyes. The hatband was woven leather braids interspersed with what the merchant claimed were genuine alligator teeth. They certainly looked real enough, anyway.
Finally, Fargo strapped on a new gun belt—another item he planned on getting rid of as soon as he could. This one was a double-holster rig with midthigh tie-downs, and he placed his well-worn Colt in the righthand side and a new one in the left—the same model, but in much better shape than his trusted companion. His own gun had seen many years of hard use, but he wouldn’t trade it for much of anything.
It had saved his life too many times and Fargo saw no reason to switch, despite the constant advertisements of better weapons he saw whenever he passed through a town of any size.
He took a long look in the mirror and saw that he had achieved the effect he was going for. Parker had hired him to keep a poker game fair and Beares had hired him to protect Hattie during the game, but what both men were going to see when they looked at him tonight was a gentleman gambler and gunfighter, more than ready for trouble.
The person in the mirror bore no small resemblance to a man he’d met only once, in a small gambling saloon in Georgia. The man’s name had been John Holliday, a dentist by trade, but when he sat at the card table, even someone of Fargo’s background realized that they were sitting with a very, very dangerous man.
Fargo didn’t know where John Holliday was now, probably still practicing dentistry somewhere, but he did remember something he’d said while they played cards late one night. “There are only three truths at a card table, Mr. Fargo. The money truth, the card truth, and the people truth. Money, sir, is nothing more than some scribbles of ink on paper. So are cards, for that matter. I play people, Mr. Fargo, which is why I am so very good at this game.”
Fargo fully intended to take John Holliday’s words to heart.
Tonight, he would play the people.
And hold on to the hope that he’d get out alive.
Sunset came and went, and Fargo left his room to grab some dinner, then went out to walk the streets one more time. As though the citizens were animals and could sense impending danger, Basin Street had grown extraordinarily quiet. The saloons and gaming parlors and brothels had very few patrons and most of the people he saw were the same men who had been in the street earlier in the day.
After circling the block, Fargo crossed the street and went up the stone steps into the Blue Emporium. The game was scheduled to start in an hour. Hattie Hamilton was sitting in one of the parlor rooms by herself, while in the other, several of the girls laughed and giggled with men from out of town.
Hattie saw him come in and raised a hand in greeting. Fargo had reached one conclusion about all of the events that had led up to this point: the center of them was Hattie Hamilton.
“Why, Mr. Fargo,” she said, rising to meet him. “I had no idea that beneath the plain clothes of a frontiersman, such a fine gentleman existed.”
Summoning his coldest voice, Fargo said, “In my experience, Miss Hamilton, being a gentleman has damn little to do with your clothing.”
Taken a bit aback, she retreated a step, caught herself, then turned to the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Bourbon,” Fargo said. He moved over to the bar, and watched as she poured him a stiff shot from one of the decanters. He took it and tasted a sip. It was warm and smooth and very fine, not unlike a good woman. “This is excellent.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Do you require anything else before the game begins?”
“One of those cigars, if you wouldn’t mind,” Fargo said, gesturing to the humidor behind the bar. “It’s going to be a long night.”
“I imagine so,” she said. “Do you expect trouble?”
“I always expect trouble, Miss Hamilton,” he replied. “It’s one of the reasons I’m still alive after all these years.”
“One of them?” she asked, handing him a house-rolled Cuban that smelled almost as good as it would smoke. “What are the others?”
Fargo slipped the cigar into his vest pocket, saving it for later. Then he took another sip of the bourbon, savoring its burn. “There are lots of them,” he said, “but beyond expecting trouble, there’s one thing that’s made the difference.”
“Oh?” she asked.
Remembering the cold grin of John Holliday, Fargo did his best to mimic it and he was pleased at the reaction on her face. “I don’t mind killing people,” he said, his voice quiet. “In fact, if it means staying alive, I’ll kill anyone or anything that crosses my path.”
“I . . . I see,” she said, trying to recover. “It’s good, then, that you will be protecting me tonight, should trouble happen.”
Fargo cocked his head in the direction of the doors. “With as many gunmen as I saw outside, I’d be very surprised if a whole bunch of folks didn’t end up dead tonight,” he said. “Let’s hope the right ones make it to the undertakers.”
“I’ll escort you downstairs,” she said, moving from behind the bar and heading for the entryway. “Who would be the right ones?” she asked, leading the way down the steps.
Fargo laughed softly. “There are a lot of players in this game, Miss Hamilton,” he said. “For your sake, the right ones better be the ones you’ve been sleeping with. If they aren’t, you’re going to be out of business—the dead way—before sunrise.”
He was surprised when she laughed, too. “Why, Mr. Fargo, what in the world makes you think I’m not sleeping with all of them?”
11
Hattie left him in the poker room, which he had to himself for the time being. She said little else to him, indicating that he could help himself to anything from the bar, and that she would return when all the players were assembled. Fargo nodded his thanks and took a stroll around the room, looking for anything that might help someone cheat or gain some advantage during the game.
He found nothing, and after checking to ensure that the six wooden crates of chips had been counted out equally, he finished off his bourbon, put the glass down on the bar, and took a seat. Fargo had learned patience the hard way, and he knew that tonight his would be tested to its limits.