Crossing the Line (2 page)

“What is it?” George asked. “What the hell's got you so distracted?”

Before another ruckus could get going, Clint shoved in some chips. “See your raise and bump it up another twenty.”

It wasn't a big raise to a professional gambler, but was more than enough to make some waves in a pond as small as this one. Jack threw in his cards as if they'd burned his fingers, but George called. Bull was already out and Wendell was next to drop, leaving Clint and George as the last men standing.

“Well?” George asked smugly. “What've you got?”

Clint showed his two pair. “Queens and nines.”

“Three aces!” George announced as he raked in the pot. “Bite down on 'em!”

Clint looked across the room to the faro table to find the pretty dealer shaking her head and shrugging in a manner that practically screamed “I told you so.”

It was well past two in the morning, but Clint's poker game was still going strong. The only one of the players to show any sign of slowing down was Wendell, but that only amounted to a lot of yawning in between hands. Bull always looked half asleep and Jack was drinking enough cheap whiskey to fuel a furnace.

George sat behind a pile of chips bigger than anyone else's at the table, which included a pocket watch and a tarnished pair of cuff links. Clint decided that the other man wasn't so much a good bluffer as he was a smug pain in the ass. He was always an asshole, which made it difficult to tell when he was putting on a show or just being himself.

As far as Clint could tell, George acted like a prick when he had a hand and acted like an even bigger one when he didn't. On the occasions when Clint had beaten him, George acted like a prick because he'd lost. After a few hours of that, it became tough for Clint to tell one level of smugness from another. There was, however, one peculiar element that kept him intrigued. That element was still dealing faro from the other side of the room.

Every so often, Clint would still get either a frown or a smirk from her. Sometimes those expressions were accompanied by a nod or a shake of her head. Sometimes, those were aimed at other players instead of at Clint. It took a while, but he eventually realized when the dealer was looking at him and when she wasn't. Even more importantly, he'd figured out just what all those nods and shakes actually meant.

George threw in a bet, which was called by Bull. Wendell folded, leaving the next decision up to Clint.

Since the faro game across the room was on an upswing, the dealer was preoccupied. Clint called and then waited for his replacement cards to be dealt. In that time, a few faro players bickered about something or other, which allowed the dealer to shift her eyes in Clint's direction.

When he looked at the two cards he'd been dealt to replace the ones he'd tossed, George smirked. Unfortunately, it was one of the same toothy smirks he always showed when he wasn't cussing at someone. “Fifteen dollars,” George grunted as he threw in his chips.

Bull surveyed the table, glanced at his cards, looked around, and then looked at his cards again.

“They ain't changin',” George snapped. Although cowed by the fire in Bull's eyes, George still muttered, “Well they ain't.”

“Fold,” Bull declared. Not only did he lay down his cards, but he also stood up and added, “I'm going home.”

“What?” George asked. “You still got some of my money!”

“I won it.”

“Yeah, and a man should have a chance to win it back!”

“You've had plenty of chances,” Bull declared. He then tipped his hat to the rest of the table and walked away.

Gritting his teeth, George said, “Someone should teach him some proper card table manners.”

“Really?” Clint chuckled as he reached for his chips. From the corner of his eye, he spotted the dealer standing up and leaning forward. While her own players were content to gaze down the front of her dress, she was gazing across at him and shaking her head.

As much as Clint wanted to keep George from pulling in another pot right then and there, he laid down his cards.

“You fold?” George asked.

Clint nodded. “That's right.”

“You can't fold.”

“Why not?”

“The man wants to fold, let him fold,” Jack grumbled.

“What about you, old man?” George asked. “In or out?”

“I suppose I'm out.”

George nodded solemnly as he pulled in the pot and snarled, “Best hand I get all night and there ain't nobody with the balls to play the hand with me.”

“Eh, go stuff yerself,” the older man grumbled as he dealt the next hand.

Betting commenced, which George bumped up to a slightly higher level than normal. Clint stayed in the game after answering a few modest raises. After pitching one card to fill a straight, he only got a six to pair the one he'd been originally dealt.

“Twenty-five,” George announced as he shoved in some money.

The faro dealer was watching the game intently and she displayed a wide smile that was obviously intended for Clint. Not one to disappoint a lady, Clint put in a twenty dollar raise.

“Too rich for my blood,” Jack said.

“Raise?” George asked.

“You heard me,” Clint replied.

Putting on another one of his smug grins, George shrugged and shoved in even more money. “Then I suppose I'll have to raise it again. Make it another eighty.”

Clint's instincts told him that George didn't have what it took to bluff away such a generous portion of his stack. The dealer's wide smile, on the other hand, told him he might just have a bad read on the man across from him. Reluctantly, Clint pushed in all of his remaining funds to cover the bet.

“You sure you want to do that?” George asked.

“Too late to fix it now.”

“This is a gentleman's game. You can take it back if you made a mistake.”

Now, Clint felt like an idiot for giving George any credit whatsoever. “Since when have you conducted this as a gentleman's game? I've got a pair of sixes.”

Even after Clint showed his hand, George couldn't believe it. “Sixes? You call me with a pair of sixes? What kind of damn fool play is that?”

“Something tells me it's a winning play. Care to prove me wrong?”

“I ain't got nothin' to prove!”

“Sure you do,” Clint said. “Prove you can beat a pair of sixes.”

George didn't show his cards, but he slapped them down with almost enough force to splinter the table. “You're cheatin'.”

“What did you say?”

“How the hell did you know what I had?” Before anyone could answer that question, George twisted around in his seat and turned toward the smiling faro dealer. “It was that black son of a bitch, wasn't it?”

“Huh?”

“That's the same bastard that tried to cheat me at faro. Now he's tryin' to get back at me by helpin' you cheat at poker!”

Clint had to look around a few times before he could figure out what the hell George was talking about. Then, he picked out one black man seated next to the pretty dealer at the end of the faro table, where he handed out winnings and collected markers throughout the game.

“What kind of bullshit are you talking about?” Jack asked.

Nodding furiously, George stood up and reached for the gun at his hip. “I won't be cheated by the same man twice, and I sure as hell won't allow some black son of a bitch to make a fool out of me!”

“Sit down and shut yer trap,” Jack said. “You're makin' a big enough fool outta yourself.”

But Clint knew George wasn't listening to any of that. The time for talk had passed. If Clint didn't do something pretty damn quickly, the black man assisting the tall brunette wouldn't have much time left to draw another breath.

George kicked his chair away and stalked toward the faro table. “You think you can cheat me, boy? Twice?” He had yet to draw his pistol, but his fingers were wrapped around its grip tightly enough to turn his knuckles white.

The black man sitting at the faro table scooted away and looked around for the one who'd set George off. Quickly realizing he was the target for the other man's angry stare, he squared his shoulders to George and extended his arms to either side. “I don't want any trouble.”

“Well, you signed up for plenty of trouble when you decided to swindle me outta my hard-earned money!” Suddenly, George was stopped by a hand that slapped down upon his shoulder.

“He didn't swindle you out of anything, George,” Clint said from directly behind the angry man.

Struggling to break from Clint's grasp, George grunted, “You'll get yours soon enough.”

“If you're angry about how that hand turned out, then take it up with me.” Since he wasn't taken up on that offer right away, Clint spun George around to face him. “Or are you too certain that I'll clean your clock for making that accusation?”

Now that he was looking Clint dead in the eyes, George picked him as his new target. “All right, then. You cheated me outta my money.”

Clint kept a straight face, but had to work hard to keep it that way. Technically speaking, George had a point. Although George obviously didn't know all the details, Clint had gotten what turned out to be an unfair advantage. He hadn't asked for the hints from across the room, but he'd put them to use. “Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Then let's chop the pot and forget the last hand even happened.”

“That ain't good enough.”

“Chopping the pot means we get our money back. What the hell else do you want from me?”

“How about some blood and a few teeth?”

If George hadn't been such a talker, he might have snuck in the first punch. As it was, he gave Clint more than enough warning before he took a swing at his jaw.

Clint saw the punch coming and almost got out of its way. At the last second, he clenched his muscles and forced himself to take it on the chin. Even though he rolled with the punch a bit, he could still feel its impact rattle his back teeth. Rubbing at his jaw, he asked, “Happy now?”

George looked happy, but in a way similar to a hungry dog that was happy to stumble upon some hapless prey. “Mister, I ain't even started yet.”

While Clint was willing to accept a few lumps to pay him back for the little bit of cheating he'd done, he wasn't about to stand there and allow himself to get beaten to a pulp. An asshole like George would surely take full advantage of any situation where he could look like a big man. Fortunately for Clint, this asshole didn't have nearly enough to put Clint down for good.

The second punch was a short uppercut into Clint's stomach. That one landed with a solid thump and was immediately followed by another. Clint turned and brought both arms in close to catch a piece of it. The rest of George's fist was deflected to bounce against Clint's ribs. Undeterred by that glancing blow, George took a wild swing that was intended to take Clint's head off. Instead, Clint stepped away and to the side so George's fist chopped through empty air. Even better than that, George's momentum caused his arm to sail well past Clint's head, leaving his upper body extended at an awkward angle.

Unable to resist such a prime target, Clint delivered a straight right cross that cracked against George's face and sent him staggering into another card table. When a few of the players at that game were knocked away from their seats, Clint thought the fight would spread like wildfire. Those other gamblers didn't join the brawl, but one of them did hand George a half-empty bottle.

“You wanna take the side of some cheatin' darkie?” George snarled. “Then you'll get beat like one!” When George tried to swing his bottle at Clint, he was stopped before his arm could move halfway through the motion.

The black man who'd been sitting at the faro table had stepped forward to grab George's arm. “You aren't gonna beat anyone, George,” he said. “And I already told you before, nobody cheated you when you were at my table.”

“Bullshit.”

Now that George's momentum had been broken, Clint was able to walk right up and grab the bottle from his hand. Rather than use it as any sort of weapon, he placed it upon another table. “You threw your tantrum,” Clint said. “Now let's either get back to our game or part ways like men.”

“I'll part your damn scalp like a man,” George said.

Clint stood his ground as if he didn't have a care in the world. In fact, he used every sense he had to take in his surroundings. As far as he could tell, everyone who was close enough to do anything was standing back to enjoy the show.

At first, Clint thought that George had actually come to his senses. Then, the red-faced gambler snapped his hand down toward the gun at his hip. Clint's gun hand moved in a quick, fluid motion that pulled his modified Colt from its holster and pointed it at George. The move had been so fast that George reacted as if he'd just witnessed a miracle. His eyes grew even wider when the barkeep stomped forward with a sawed-off shotgun in his hands.

“You boys don't put those guns away, I'll be forced to use mine,” the barkeep said. After Clint holstered his Colt, the barkeep added, “All the same, you men had better leave.”

A flicker of fear drifted across George's face as he pondered what could happen once both he and Clint were outside. Rather than let it grow into anything more, Clint raised his hands and said, “I'll be on my way. I'm sure George would like to finish his game.”

Clint walked away from Pace's, knowing several sets of eyes were watching him go. He turned the first corner he could, just so his back wasn't facing those particular windows. Even after he'd gone halfway down the next street, he knew he was being followed.