Glen pulled out a chair without waiting for an answer. If they minded, he would get back up, but no one said anything so he pulled himself up to the table. Middle of a hand, they went around.
It was good that they did, he thought. Gave him time to figure out who was playing, and how they played. He recognized a few faces. Traveling sort of folk, he guessed.
Lee Bridges, who told too many stories about his time prospecting out in California. He was the first, he claims, to have hit on the gold rush out there. If he had, then he wouldn't be at the tables.
Others he didn't know by name, but he'd seen them before. Over the years he got to know a lot of the folks who were out around the scene. An empty chair sat with a still-burning cigarette hanging off the edge. A sure-enough sign that whoever it was, he was coming back.
The cards came out, one at a time. None for the empty seat. Glen looked at his cards and grimaced. Nothing worth keeping. Might as well have dealt himself a new hand entirely.
When the betting started, he kept it slow. Lee was already working the table, anyways. They'd have to split the profits, but then again, Glen had never tried to show off. That was the key to winning—letting them think it was luck. That any minute, they'd turn it around.
Nothing flashy, never take a guy's last dollar, and always let the hand develop first. It helped to make folks think that he was just playing by ear. If Lee recognized him, it was only as another traveler. At least, that was what he hoped.
He kept the ace and drew four new cards. Still nothing. When the betting came around he tossed the cards back into the pile. Not worth losing any more money than he'd already bet. He could use a drink. There was something about sitting at the card table with a beer that made him seem relaxed, as if he were just playing to blow off some steam. That was what he hoped to look like, anyway.
He stood up, said he'd just be a minute, and headed to the bar. Asked to have a drink sent over to the table. After waiting a half a second to see if the bartender was listening, and still not entirely sure he would get his drink, he went back. They were just shuffling the cards for the next hand.
As he slid back into his seat, Glen checked the empty chair. A man had slipped into it. He had the cigarette between his teeth, and he was already talking animatedly about the Mexican women he'd been to bed with lately to the man next to him, who seemed not to hear it. It was Bill Howell, sure as the day he was born.
Glen frowned. What was he doing back in Wyoming? He had made it sound like he was heading south, down to Texas. That had only been a couple weeks back. He could have made it, maybe, before he came back. But only barely. Unless he'd just been going down to make a delivery, there was no way he'd be back already.
He tried to decide whether or not it would be smart to call him out. After all, the man was a scoundrel, and a fool, but more than that, he squelched on debts. Experience had already shown that Bill had no money, never mind any of the other things he'd done.
"Bill," he said finally. "Bill Howell!"
"Oh, hey, it's you," Bill said. His voice showed surprise. "How's the ranch going for you? Back to cards already?"
"It's going fine, I'm just here to blow off some steam." He paused a moment, trying to decide how deep into this he wanted to get himself. He should have left it well enough alone, but Glen never was good at making smart decisions. "Bill, you got money to cover your bets this time? I seem to recall back in Denver—"
Bill cut him off. As well he should, from the looks the others around the table had started to give the man. Glen might have felt bad if it were someone else.
"Yeah, I got money."
"Enough?"
"Plenty."
Glen thought that he could have backed off, but he didn't. "Show it to me."
Bill raised his eyebrows. He didn't like being called out, but he shouldn't have. Glen wasn't doing it for his amusement, or to win the man's friendship. Instead of answering with his words, though, he lifted up one hip, pulled out a billfold, and opened it up.
There wasn't time to count, but from the fanned out money in front of him, it looked like Bill had the better part of a thousand dollars in his pocket.
There were men out there who could make that kind of money in an afternoon, with the right crowds and some start-up money. There were men back east, making that kind of money every day.
But Bill Howell wasn't that good, and he wasn't that smart. And that meant that wherever he'd gotten that money, Glen thought, unable to keep his displeasure off his face, he wasn't going to like finding out.
Twenty
Cole and Grace were good children, and they were able to deal with a lot, but all the excitement this morning had them in a bad mood. It wasn't that Catherine couldn't understand why they were complaining, but her worries about Ada were overwhelming. So even though she understood, she was fighting the desire to snap at them.
Then she was feeling bad about it.
"I know your foot hurt, baby, but we just need to go into town, okay?"
Grace reached up, wanting her mother to carry her. Catherine wanted to, too. If she could have carried all of them, she would. But with Ada slipping in and out of consciousness… her arms were simply too full. So instead, she satisfied herself with a sad smile at her.
"Mommy needs you to be strong for her, okay?" She bent down and pressed a kiss into the girl's forehead. "Can you do that?"