“My heavens, what’d they do?”
“What any civilized men would. They strung the old bastard up from a tree in his yard. Heard tell, that devil never stopped cussing till the rope jerked tight. Word is them red-headed boys of his rode up a while later, saw their daddy dangling and rode off without even cutting him down. Left him there for the crows. Ain’t no one been out to the place since.” Cephus stared bleary-eyed at Tracker. “If I was you I’d stay clear too. Folks claim the place’s haunted and won’t go near it.” He smacked his lips. “But what I done told you is sure worth another drink, ‘eh, mister?”
Tracker slipped his untouched beer over to him, and feeling generous, ordered another premium whiskey.
“What happened to the rest of the family?” he asked. “His wife?”
“Well, she run off one night. Least ways that’s what Saul said. A few folks think it’s mighty suspicious. I mean why would she do that? Weren’t nobody gonna invite her to go with him, and where would she go? Ain’t got no family she ever talked about. Could have something to do with the girl. Sally Mae got herself in a family way, then died when it was time for the tyke to be born. Some say her momma blamed herself. Others say her poppa blamed her ma and took it out on her. I’ve heard claims that if you dig up the girl’s grave over yonder, you’ll find her momma with her.”
“A terrible tragedy,” Tracker opined.
Peg-leg brought the next installment of conversation enhancer.
“And the sons?”
“Another tragedy,” Cephus declared as he gulped half the newly arrived glass’s contents. “What you might call a i-ron-ic turn of events.”
Over the course of the next hour and several more shots, Cephus told Tracker about Clay Thomson getting Sally Mae pregnant. Sally Mae dying in childbirth. Rufus swearing vengeance on Clay, then finding and killing him during the war.
“Where’d you hear all this?’ Tracker asked casually.
“Here and there. Rufus come back not long ago and told his younger brother Floyd all about it. Right proud he was too.”
“And the irony?” Tracker asked.
It took a moment for the semi-inebriated raconteur to figure out what the question was. “Oh, the i-ron-ic part. Well, seems Rufus and Floyd was riding one day with a couple of friends out by Cedar Creek when Clay’s older brother, Buck—he’s Dr. Thomson now—was passing through. Guess he recognized Rufus, cause he opened fire on him without warning. When the smoke cleared, Floyd and the friend was dead, and Dr. Thomson and his friends was gone.”
Cephus grinned, well pleased with his tale. “The hand of God, some folks ‘round here say. Divine justice, you might call it. Rufus killed Thomson’s brother. Now Thomson’s killed Rufus’s brother.”
“So the feud’s over.”
“Not to hear Rufus talk about it. Buck Thomson killed Floyd, he tells people. Now Rufus has taken over Floyd’s gang and is gonna kill him.”
“Very i-ron-ic indeed,” Tracker agreed, carefully pronouncing each syllable, so there’d be no misunderstanding.
The old codger downed his next drink in one gulp, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and staggered back to his seat at the bar.
Tracker was sitting quietly at the table, observing the scene, trying to decide if there was any more information to be gleaned, when a small man of perhaps two-score years stepped up to the side of the table.
“You just gonna sit there and take up space, Mister Dusky Nancy-boy?”
Tracker considered his options. He’d walked away from a fight or two, but this particular creature didn’t deserve leniency.
“Actually, my dear man, I’ve come to get your money.”
The other man stepped back and placed his hand under his coat, clearly prepared to draw a weapon.
“I happened to observe you playing cards at that table over yonder. You appeared to be quite adept at it, seeing as how you won all the pots.” Tracker had also noticed him cheating.
“You want to play cards, Nancy?”
“My name is Lucky. Luckier than you, I think.”
The other man laughed uproariously. “Take my money, huh?” He addressed the men at the surrounding tables. “You fellows want to watch me strip this coon naked?”
Several titters went up until Tracker turned his full glare on them.
“May I have your name, sir?” he asked.
“Call me Lefty.”
“Well, Lefty, shall we commence? Mr. Bartender,” he called out to Peg-leg, “would you have a fresh deck of cards available?”
“Sure thing.”
A moment later Peg-leg came thumping from around the long bar and offered him an unopened deck. Tracker exchanged it for another silver dollar. Again there was the display of picket-fence teeth, and the one-legged man retreated happily behind his bar.
They cut for dealer. Lefty drew a nine. Tracker showed an eight.
“Oh my,” he exclaimed, “I’m off to a poor start.”
“Come the finish you’ll be even poorer, Mr. Dusky Nancy-boy.”
“The game?” Tracker asked.
“Five-card stud. How does that sound?”
“Mmm. Poetic.”
Lefty raised his brows, apparently unsure what the word meant.
Tracker showed no reaction to the continued insults he received over the next half dozen hands. In an honest game the cocky little man might have broken even, but this wasn’t an honest game. Tracker had observed him palming several cards and had increased his bets in an apparent attempt to recoup his losses, but he continued to lose.
“I thought you were lucky, Nancy,” Lefty taunted as he dealt another round and slipped himself another ace.
“I once knew a man who palmed his cards and lost the hand.”
“What . . . What are you saying?” Lefty’s eyes narrowed in his first display of wariness.
“Only that it must be time for my luck to change.”
“How about double or nothing?”
Tracker grinned and reached inside his coat. Lefty immediately shoved back his chair with a screech.
“My cash reserve,” Tracker explained with a cheery grin. He removed a money pouch and plopped it down on the wooden table. “Winner take all. Agreed?”
The other man snickered. “Okay, Mr. Dusky Nancy-boy. It’s gonna be a pleasure to take your money.”
Smiling, Tracker muttered. “Beware the hand that reaches out.”
“Hey, Lefty. Maybe you ought to call Mr. Nancy-boy, Fancy-words,” a man suggested, drawing laughter from the crowd that had gathered to watch.
“Deal the cards,” Tracker said in a voice that was deeper than before, but which nobody seemed to notice, least of all the cheat sitting across from him.
Lefty dealt the cards, the first one down, three up. Once again he palmed a card. Tracker had a pair of jacks showing, a three face up, one down. His opponent had a pair of tens and an ace showing.
He dealt Tracker’s fifth card down and was preparing to draw his own. Tracker’s right hand flew into and out of his coat. In a lightning move he impaled the man’s hand to the table with a stiletto.
Before the fraud had a chance to blink, Tracker reached under his pinioned paw and withdrew the ace of spades. A gasp went up from the onlookers just as Lefty let out a scream of agony.
“You’re the second man of my acquaintance who palmed a card and lost the hand.”
His face white with shock, his shoulders writhing stiffly in pain, Lefty stared dumbfounded at his assailant.
Calmly holding the knife in place, Tracker yanked the card sharp’s bloody palm through the blade, slicing it deftly into two parts. The resulting scream was even more piercing than the first one. A gasp of horrified disbelief erupted from the circle of onlookers as they all took a simultaneous step backward.