Unbroken Hearts (27 page)

Chapter 25

    
The rancher trio stomped into the dim
saloon, a jangling spur chorus amidst raucous laughter. They ambled over the
slanted graying wood floor, to a table at the cool far end of the narrow room,
close to the back door.
 

   
A round of whiskeys was ordered, but not one of the men raised shot
glass to lips. The blue-eyed young one produced a deck of cards. Each man
reached into his pocket and laid a hefty wad of banknotes on the table.

    
It was late afternoon, early for most
gamblers, but if other customers thought it odd they just glanced, shrugged,
and turned back to stare into their drinks.

    
The young man shuffled and held the stack
to his ear, rifling as if to count each card in the deck. The group loudly
discussed a betting limit, and each man threw his ante down.

    
The sky-eyed devil dealt with blinding
speed. Each card hit the table with a click as they were laid facedown in front
of the other men. Silence reigned as they studied their cards and each other.
If anyone had watched them closely they might have seen the occasionally
blinking of their eyes.

    
After a couple of hands Ansel Crane came
weaving down the stairs, his thick fingers fumbling against the buttons of his
pants. A sweaty shine crossed his brow and a flush rode across his ruddy
cheeks.

    
Brassy-haired Liz stepped lightly behind
him.

    
Crane was shorter than most, with bulldog
features and graying hair, a protruding belly, and, when he opened his mouth to
grin, dark spots that marked missing teeth. He moved toward the door, where
Benton was standing with a glass in his hand.

    
"Can I buy you a drink mister? You
look like you could use it," Benton said amicably.

    
Crane lifted his worn hat and scratched
his head. "I 'pect I could."

    
Benton guided him up to the bar and waved
the bartender over. "I ain't seen you around before today," he said
to Crane.

    
"I ain't from around here."
Crane planted his elbows on the bar. "I come to collect a debt. Won't be
here long."

    
"If I collected what's owed me, why
I'd join the ballyhoo yonder," Benton crowed. He waved his hand toward the
back of the room.

     
Crane was roped on the first toss.
"Don't say?"

    
Benton's eyes gleamed and he lowered his
voice. "See the dark one? No, not the dealer -- the one sittin' on his
right. He owns the biggest ranch these parts, the Mineral Creek. Got a heap of
money, too. He comes in here pert near every day, and double damned if he don't
always lose a chunk to some lucky bastard. Word is he lost his sweetheart, the
love o' his life they say, and the poor sot don't care much about worldly
things no mores." He drew a sidelong look at Crane. The man wobbled on his
barstool. "Heck, I'd win a pretty piece, and I plan to, just as soon as I
come into money." Benton sighed heavily and stared at a row of bottles
behind the bar.

    
Crane stole a glance at the gamblers. He
hadn't played since he'd left home, and he was itching with the fever.
 

   
Whiskey Liz and another gal hovered around the players. Crane stared at
Liz, now standing behind the one Benton had identified as the
"loser", while the younger cowboy shuffled the cards.

    
Crane watched as the man called and raised
twice. When it came time to show their cards he had nothing. Not even a pair,
just a pathetic jack high.
 

    
The urge bit harder. Crane watched the older
man, seated next to the loser rancher, happily raking a pile of bills to his
corner of the table, barely able to contain his glee at winning the easy money.
Ansel Crane decided the ranch owner was a fool. He wanted some of the easy
action.

   
The dealer was shuffling. Crane ambled over.

   
"Can I git in?"

    
Roy's eyes flickered up as worked over the
deck.
 

    
"It'll cost you, but we ain't been
playing long."

    
Crane pulled a roll of bills from his
pocket.
 

    
"I reckon I can cover it cowboys."
His fat jowls wagged.

    
The other men glanced up at the stranger.
He wore one six shooter holstered on his right side. Reminded of Sarah's
unspeakable hurt, Cal tightened his jaw.

    
"OK with you boys if he joins
us?" Roy scanned the other players.

    
"Suits me," replied Cal.

    
Crane smiled smugly and pulled a chair up
between Cal and Ned, in the space intentionally left open for him. As was the
custom where he came from, he introduced himself. "Ansel. Ansel Crane."

    
Roy nodded. "I'm Roy. And that's Ned
Kingman to your right. Cal Easton on your south." He shuffled with steady
hands, rearranging the cards as he worked.
 
"Five card draw. Ante up. Mr. Crane. Give up twenty
dollars."
 

    
Crane's foul breath hissed through the
holes in his teeth as he rolled off the notes and tossed them onto the table.
He won on his first hand but then began a long losing streak.
 

    
The sun crept down. It turned out Crane
was thicker than a mudslide. In his liquor-loosened state Crane should have
recognized the cheating. Roy couldn't have been more obvious about his bottom
dealing. And the cowboys blinked their code. But Crane just looked at them and
rubbed his gray eyes, commenting on how the plains dust must be a problem for
them, too.

    
Cal had seen prairie chickens with more
for brains than Mr. Crane. They'd take his money, but forcing Crane to draw was
quickly becoming a lost cause. Most of the customers recognized the cheating,
and they were backing away and preparing to run for the exits before the
shooting started.

    
Less than an hour later Crane was flat
broke. He couldn't believe it. The "heartbroken" rancher had suddenly
donned a poker face and learned how to play the game. And the one called Roy
turned out to be a master at bluffing. Whenever Crane had a good hand, someone
else somehow bettered him.

   
But like an avalanche picking up speed as it travels down the mountain,
Crane hadn't been able to control himself after the losses started.
 

    
In the end he threw up his hands in disgust.
It was always like this. He knew he'd suffer the next morning from the dreaded
gambler's hangover.

    
"I'm busted boys. I lost $400,"
he slobbered, and his swag-belly jiggled as he pushed away from the table.

    
Cal growled. "Darn cryin'
shame."
 

    
He reached into a pocket and pulled out a
stack of gold coins. Just as he finished placing them on the table, Roy
carefully pulled a small sack of gold nuggets from his boot. Then Ned produced
the deed to a gold claim.

    
"It's time to play a hand for the
high stakes," announced Cal with a smirk. "Darn shameful you're
broke, Crane. Better luck next time."

    
Ansel Crane looked longingly at the booty
spread between the men. He sat back down and planted his elbows stubbornly on
the table.

    
"Well . . . there's one thing I have
. . . .not right here, o' course."

     
The men turned their heads and gazed
at him expectantly.

    
"What might it be?" Cal held his
breath. His hands remained steady, but his chair creaked as he shifted
uncomfortably.

    
Crane wiped beads of sweat from his brow
with the back of his puffy hand.
 

    
"A lady. Real pretty filly. Trots as
Sarah Anders. She owes me $350. Well leastways her guardian owes me that. But I
come to find he's dead. Our deal was I can take her 'stead of the money."
He licked sweat from his upper lip. "I'll bet her. She's worth a heap more
than $350, mind -- worth as much as anything you men have there." He
motioned to the spread on the table with a sweep of his meaty hand. "An'
she never been touched by a man, lessen you count the dead uncle slapping her
up a bit. Ole Orv used to say, 'Ansel, she don't get all fussy, and she don't
cry none. She'll make you a fine good woman.'"

    
Cal's eyes narrowed and his neck reddened.

    
Crane rambled on, oblivious to the angry
reaction his words caused.
 

   
"She's 'sposed to be around this territory, least last I heard from
her. Mights you know something?" He raised thick eyebrows and quickly
scanned their faces.

    
Cal checked a raging torrent beneath the
surface.

    
"Yeah, she comes to town now and
again. Seen her at the general store once." He frowned and shuffled his
feet under the table. "She's pretty all right . . . you got yourself a
bet."

    
Roy feigned an uncertain expression.
"Well, I'll go along with it but I don't much like it. And I don't put
stock in that about her not being touched."
 
He flashed a grin. "I heard a man by the name of Cal, I
mean Carl Weston had—"

   
"Fine by me," Ned interrupted. "Good women are scarcer 'n
hens teeth."

    
"Hmmm, that's settled then." Roy
shuffled the deck, surreptitiously arranging the cards.

    
If not for the blood pounding in his ears
the silence in the saloon would have made Cal wonder if he'd gone deaf.
 
Customers who hadn't left when they saw
the cheating stampeded out the swinging doors when the gold hit the table. High
stakes and bottom dealing were lethal, and the risk of getting caught in the
crossfire was a high price to pay to see the game. As they deserted none bothered
to tell Crane that the Easton brothers, with their steady eyes and flawless
coordination, drew faster than lightning and always hit their chosen targets.

    
Roy commenced dealing the cards, hoping
he'd stacked the deck properly. When he finished he set aside the pile. The men
picked up their fates.

   
Cal saw Crane's eyes widen slightly. So the man thought he had a good
hand.
 

    
Ned opened the bidding. Crane called with
five dollars he scrounged from the surprise 'last chance' fund he suddenly found
inside his boot, and Cal decided to simply call.

    
Ned ordered up one card, and Crane took
two. At the signal from Roy, Cal asked for three cards. Roy took one card
himself and swept the discards to the bottom of the deck.
     

     
Ned began the betting again with a
five-dollar note. Crane and Cal simply called, and Roy, anxious to get to the
showdown, threw in his cards.

    
"Time to tell," announced Cal.

    
Ned tossed his cards face-up on the table.
"Two pair. Queens and eights."

    
Crane looked excited and eagerly eyed the
pot and he showed.

    
"Three aces. Ya' beat that?" He
grinned toothlessly at Cal.

    
Cal lazily flipped his cards, one at a
time to gave Roy's hand time to move under the table and nudge his gun up in
its holster.

  
 
"Nine. Ten. Jack. Queen. King.
 
Straight flush," he called.
 

    
All hearts. Blood ran across the
table.