Louisiana Laydown (2 page)

“This is just excellent news, Mr. Fargo,” Waterstone said. “My employers will be most pleased and so will the sheriff, though I expect that he was hoping to cash in on the reward of two hundred and fifty dollars himself.”

Fargo narrowed his eyes at the man. “What did you say?” he asked, his voice like steel.

“I . . . I said the sheriff was probably hoping to cash in on the reward himself.”

“I heard that part,” Fargo said. “I’m more interested in the amount. Did you say two hundred fifty?”

Waterstone nodded. “Yes, yes,” he said. “It’s all right here on the poster.” He picked up the flyer and waved it in the air.

“Mister, you may think I’m nothing but an illiterate bounty hunter, but you better get your figures right in a hurry. The reward posted by your company was two thousand five hundred dollars, and if you don’t have it, then I’m afraid I’ll just have to let poor Billy here go.” Fargo’s voice was calm, but his hand dropped smoothly to the butt of the Colt. “Or I’ll have to take it out of you the hard way. Which do you prefer?”

Waterstone paled and quickly grabbed at the flyer, then made a show of looking it over. “Right you are, Mr. Fargo,” he said. “My mistake. It
is
two thousand five hundred. There’s no need for threats! The M&StL stands by its promises. Is a company draft acceptable?” He began rummaging through his desk.

Billy laughed. “Fargo, looks like you did a lot of work for damn little pay. You should’ve accepted my offer.”

“Shut up, Billy,” Fargo said, giving the rope a yank. He turned his attention back to Waterstone. “Cash,” he said to the fat man. “I can wait while you run to the bank.”

“I . . . Mr. Fargo, I will have to have the funds wired from Minneapolis. Our operating account here isn’t large enough to cover that kind of expense.” Waterstone raised his hands. “Please—you’ll get your money. It should only take a couple of days at the most.”

Fargo scowled at the man. “You know, Mr. Waterstone, when I found Billy here he had a sizable amount of money on him. Money he took from your trains. He even offered me a cut to just let him go.” He gave another yank on the rope. “Guess you were right, Billy. Let’s go divvy it up.”

He turned and started out of the office, while behind him Waterstone let out a yelp. “Please, Mr. Fargo. One day! That’s all it will take is one day. I swear.”

Fargo looked back at the man. “All right,” he said. “One day. I’ll even let the sheriff take Billy into custody. But when I come back tomorrow afternoon . . . I expect to be paid. Every penny. If I’m not, things are going to get downright ugly for you. Understood?”

Waterstone nodded. “Yes, sir, Mr. Fargo. You’ll get every penny tomorrow afternoon.”

Fargo nodded and said, “I better.” He turned back to Billy. “Let’s go, boy. We’ll wait for the sheriff outside.”

“You’re a fool, Fargo,” Billy said. “You ain’t going to see one dime.”

Fargo laughed. “I wouldn’t worry on it too much if I were you, Billy. I’ll get what I’m due for the work I’ve done—I always get paid what I’m due.”

Billy looked at the hardened features of the man before him, then said, “I bet you do. But sooner or later, everyone gets shorted; everyone lays down.”

“Not me,” Fargo said, yanking him onto the boardwalk to await the sheriff. “Not ever.”

The next afternoon, Waterstone had come through with the money and Fargo had gotten himself some clean clothes, a shave, and a haircut. He’d also taken the time to buy himself a fine steak dinner with a good whiskey and a clean bed to sleep in that night.

He almost felt like a new man—and he didn’t want that feeling to end.

There was no pressing reason for him to get back out on the trail, and St. Louis was filled to bursting with people talking about New Orleans and how decadent it had become. Luxurious brothels, expensive gambling, horse racing, duels, and more occurred on a nearly continual basis. For that reason, Fargo decided it might be an interesting place to visit.

Maybe he’d do well gambling and increase the size of his poke and maybe not, but either way, it was someplace new and if he didn’t like it, he could always move on. In fact, Fargo knew that eventually he
would
move on—that was his nature—but in the meantime, he had enough money to see at least a glimpse of how the rich city folk lived.

He led the Ovaro down to the docks of the Mississippi River where he booked passage for himself and the horse to New Orleans aboard a riverboat. The ship was good-sized and boasted private cabins and a fine saloon, complete with a fully stocked bar and humidor. Once he’d secured his horse and put his belongings away, Fargo headed for the dining room to wait for the boat to leave in the evening.

He wanted another good meal and perhaps a game of cards before calling it a night.

The waitress—a red-haired wench who clearly had more cleavage than sense, but a nice smile and a firm rear end—took his order and hinted that more services might be available after the boat closed down for the evening.

Fargo grinned and told her he’d keep it in mind, then sipped his whiskey while he waited for his dinner: pot roast with new potatoes, carrots, and cornbread, and apple pie for dessert. For a man who’d lived most of his life on trail rations or worse, it was a damn fine meal and he enjoyed it thoroughly before strolling toward the saloon to see if he could find a good game of poker that would hold his interest.

The main saloon and gambling room was a stark contrast to its cargo hold. Appointed in leather and dark green hues, it encouraged privacy at most of its tables, while the center of the room was dominated by card tables, well lit and attended by serving girls who kept the booze flowing freely.

Fargo wandered around the room, content to watch for a bit until he found a table he liked. Eventually, a seat opened as one man folded his cards in disgust and walked away. “Not my night,” he said as he passed by. “Maybe your luck will be better.”

“I hope so,” Fargo said, sitting down.

The dealer eyed his plain clothing. “The buy in for this table is one hundred dollars, sir,” he said. “Perhaps there are other tables that would be more to your liking.”

Resisting the urge to punch the pompous ass in the face, Fargo pulled the money out of his vest. “I’m in,” he said, keeping his voice even. “And you’d do better not to judge a book by its cover.”

“Yes, sir,” the dealer said, taking the money and quickly handing Fargo his chips. He glanced around the table once more and added, “The game is five-card draw, nothing wild. Ante is five dollars, no top bet.”

Fargo flicked a five-dollar chip forward and studied the other five players as they anted up. Most of the men were nondescript, but there was one who caught his attention immediately. Immaculately dressed and groomed, he appeared to be a city gentleman, with long sideburns and dark brown hair streaked liberally with gray. His suit was pressed and neat, his tie properly done up.
He could be a professional
, Fargo thought.

The dealer pushed out the first set of cards and Fargo glanced at his—a pair of eights, an ace of clubs, and junk.

“Bets, gentlemen?” the dealer said.

Fargo checked first, waiting to see what the other players—especially the potential professional—would do.

Three players folded in a row, then the next one, an old man, said, “I’m in for ten,” and put the chips on the table.

The well-dressed man called quietly, placing his chips on the table.

“Mr.—?” the dealer asked.

“Fargo,” he replied. “Skye Fargo.” He looked once more at the other two players and nodded. “I’m in.” He added his own chips to the growing pile.

There was already more money on the table than most cowpunchers would see in six months of work and even though he was flush at the moment, Fargo briefly thought about all the times he hadn’t been and wondered if he’d be better off saving his poke for a rainy day than spending it on gambling and booze. Then he grinned to himself.
Better to live well while I can. Hard days will come whether I’m flush or not
.

“Cards, gentlemen?” the dealer asked.

“I’ll take two,” Fargo said, keeping his eights and his ace. The dealer spun the cards out.

“Three,” the old man said, taking his cards.

“I’ll stand pat,” the well-dressed man said.

The dealer nodded. “Yes, sir, Mr. Parker.” He looked at Fargo. “Your bet, sir?”

Fargo wondered if the man was bluffing or had simply been dealt a strong hand. “Check,” Fargo said.

“Sir?” the dealer asked the old man.

Watching him, Fargo noticed that the old man’s hands were holding his cards tightly, twisting his wrist almost inward.
He’s going to bet
, Fargo thought.

“Twenty-five,” he said, sliding the chips forward.

It was almost impossible to see, but Fargo had spent many years relying on his instincts and his ability to see what others could not. The
old man
was the professional—a professional cheat. He slipped a card out of his sleeve with one hand, even as he moved his chips forward, using them as a minor distraction.

“I’ll see your twenty-five,” Mr. Parker said, “and raise you twenty-five.” He put his chips forward.

More than anything, Fargo hated a cheat. Poker was a game of skill and chance, but no one had a chance if someone at the table was cheating. Still, other than his own eyes—and he was brand-new at the table—he had no proof.

“Interesting,” he said. “It’s fifty to me, right?”

“Yes, sir,” the dealer said.

Fargo leaned forward, watching the old man intently. People who were flush didn’t usually cheat. People who were desperate did. “Let’s make it,” he said, reaching into his vest, “five hundred dollars.” He put the cash on the table.

The old man stared at him, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “That’s a lot of money, mister,” he said.

Fargo nodded. “It is,” he agreed. “Call, raise, or fold.”

“You’re bluffing,” he said. “I’ll allow you to retract the bet. You can’t afford to lose that much money.”

Fargo grinned. “Maybe,” he said. “But I haven’t looked at my draw cards yet. And I don’t bet unless I’m sure of winning.”

His hands trembling, the old man counted his chips. “I can call to . . . one hundred seventy-five,” he said. “It’s all I’ve got left.”

“Fine,” Fargo said. “Make the call.”

The old man slid the last of his chips forward, and, once again, took a card from his sleeve.
He must have half a deck up there
, Fargo thought.
He’s loaded now.

The man called Parker sat up a little straighter and glanced at Fargo. “You aren’t what you appear to be,” he said. “That’s a very large bet for a man who hasn’t seen his draw cards. Are you trying to force a laydown, sir?”

“No,” Fargo said. “But I’m going to make an example of our friend here in just a moment.” He gestured at the pile of chips. “Your bet, Mr. Parker,” he said.

Parker looked at him intently, then shrugged. “Poker is as much about the players as the cards,” he said. “I have a feeling about you.” He laid his cards down. “Fold.”

“Smart,” Fargo said.

“Gentlemen, your cards please,” the dealer said.

Fargo showed his pair of eights and his ace.

The cheat grinned and laid down his three jacks and two queens. “Full house, Mr. Fargo,” he said. “Let’s see your other cards.”

Fargo shook his head. “I’d rather see the rest of yours first,” he said, lowering his hand down to his Colt.

“I’ve shown all of mine,” the old man said.

“Not those,” Fargo replied. “I mean the ones in your sleeve.”

“You’re accusing me of cheating!” he cried, leaping to his feet. “How dare you!”

“Easy,” Fargo said, pointing with his left hand. “Mr. Parker, take a look at the tip of his left sleeve. I believe that this gentleman’s luck has just run out.”

Parker leaned forward, then suddenly seized the man’s arm, yanking out several cards in a flurry. “You are a cheat!” he said.

The old man whipped his right arm forward, a small derringer appearing as if by magic. The room went silent. “Back off, Parker,” he said. “At this range, even a derringer can kill you.”

Fargo slipped the Colt free of its holster, keeping it pointed beneath the table at the old man. “Put down the peashooter, mister,” he said. “Put it down and walk away, or they’re going to carry you out of here on a slab.”

The old man lunged forward, pointing the little gun at Parker’s head. “Shut up, Fargo. I’m getting out of here.” He shoved at his hostage. “Get going.”

“Hold it, mister,” Fargo snapped. “Don’t make it worse than it already is.”

He noted that for a man in a life-threatening situation, Parker seemed calm.
Time for another gamble
, he thought.

The old man turned back to snarl something more and Fargo shouted, “Move, Parker!”

Parker lunged out of the way, and Fargo cut loose with the Colt. The slugs took the old man in the knees, and he screamed as he fell.

Fargo jumped to his feet and aimed the Colt at the prone man, who was moaning and clutching at his legs. He put a boot down on the derringer. “See there,” Fargo said, after the shouting had died down. “I guess the kid was right. Sooner or later, everyone lays down. Guess it was your turn.”

Parker got to his feet and nodded at Fargo. “You saved my life, sir,” he said. “The least I can do is buy you a drink.”

“Why not?” Fargo asked, picking up his draw cards, then tossing them down in disgust. “That hand was terrible anyway.”

As Fargo and Parker gathered up their scattered chips, two stewards came and physically hauled the wailing card cheat up on deck to await the sheriff, who had already been summoned.

Reloading the Colt, Fargo said, “Let’s take a seat over there.” He gestured toward a small table near the bar.

“Agreed,” Parker said, then turned and led the way.