Doc looked back at him as if they were discussing which wine would most compliment their next meal. “I didn’t make the bets in there. I wasn’t even in the hand. You’re the one who got in over his head.”
As Weeks moved his hand closer to his gun, the men who had clustered around him did the same. “You gave me the signal. You knew it was time to make the move, and you fucked me! You even had the . . .” Weeks had to take a moment to force himself to breathe before he could continue. “. . . had the gall to show me the card you knew I was supposed to get.”
Doc’s eyes shifted around to all the gunmen who were staring at him with murderous intent in their eyes. Dismissing those men, their guns, and the lethal fire in their eyes, Doc shrugged and said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you could be referring to.”
Weeks had had enough. He was so enraged that he didn’t even think to go for his pistol. Instead, he reached out to take hold of the very source of his anger by clenching both fists around the front of Doc’s jacket. Nearly pulling Doc off his feet, Weeks glared straight into Doc’s face and hollered, “You were supposed to deal me the winning hand, goddammit! That was the deal! You fucked this up on purpose, and don’t try to tell me otherwise!”
The circle of gunmen was closing in around Doc and Weeks, although even they knew better than to intrude upon their boss’s tirade.
“We set up the signals,” Weeks fumed. “You gave the nod. I raised the bet. I’m supposed to be the owner of that Injun’s shit hole saloon right now! Instead, you decided to piss all over the plan, and for what?”
Doc’s face was unreadable. The flash of anger that had shown when Weeks grabbed him had passed. Instead, there was just enough of a smile on his face to keep Weeks’s own rage burning brightly.
After letting out another breath, Weeks pulled back just a little bit before letting go of Doc’s coat. He looked around at his men and nodded at the way they stood there, waiting for the order to pounce. “You want to die. Is that it, Holliday? You’re sick of hacking up your lungs every day, and you want me to put you out of your misery?”
“That’s not a nice thing to say,” Doc replied in a tone of voice that fell just short of singsong.
“I just can’t figure any other reason why you’d pitch our deal. You’re not the sharpest dealer just yet, but a child could have pulled off picking out that spade and tossing it my way. Now, you don’t have your stake money, and you’re a few minutes away from the most painful death my boys here can come up with.” Leaning in, Weeks added, “To be honest, some of these boys are downright depraved. Whatever pain your coughing fits give you won’t be nothing compared to what they’re thinking about right now.”
Behind Weeks, Caleb tried to walk out of the saloon but was stopped by the gunman standing there. Plenty of other folks were starting to work their way in closer to get a look at what was going on.
“I changed my mind,” Doc said. “That’s all.”
“Stupid move. I’ll still get my hands on that saloon. Either that, or I’ll just make it disappear.”
Doc smirked and stood up straight enough to look down his nose at Weeks. “Since you lost one saloon tonight, I’d suggest you make the best of the ones you’ve got left.”
“That’s right,” Caleb shouted from the doorway. “This here is my place now, and I want you and all of your hired guns to get away from it!”
Whatever calm Weeks had regained went right out the window when he heard that. “You are dead! I still own enough of this town to see to that!”
“I don’t think so, Bret.”
Those last words came from outside of the circle formed by Weeks’s gunmen. When they heard it, those men turned and slapped their hands onto their holsters in preparation for the worst. Sheriff Hopper walked right up to them without the slightest hint of worry on his face. He might have had fewer deputies with him than Weeks had gunmen, but those deputies already had their weapons drawn.
“What’s going on here?” Weeks asked.
“Looks to me like you just confessed to cheating in front of the one lawman who’s not on your side,” Doc said. “Stupid move.”
“You got no cause to harass me or my men, Sheriff,” Weeks said.
Sheriff Hopper planted his feet and allowed a friendly smile to drift onto his face. “Well, now there’s where you’re wrong. I may not approve of the way Dr. Holliday’s been handling himself lately, but he seemed awfully convinced that he could get you to trip up.”
“This was all just talk. It doesn’t mean shit.”
Turning to Doc, Sheriff Hopper asked, “Will you testify to Mr. Weeks here approaching you to help him in a scheme to cheat Mr. Wayfinder out of his saloon?”
“Seeing as how I’ll be visiting the courtbouse anyway, I think that can be arranged. I can even tell all about how Mr. Weeks tried to get every other player at the game in his pocket as well.”
“I’ll need another witness to testify to that,” the sheriff announced “Someone not on the payroll of Mr. Weeks or Mr. Wayfinder.”
“That would be me,” Steve Wright said as he stepped out onto the boardwalk.
Caleb glanced over at Steve and saw that the gambler was holding up even better than he could have hoped.
“But they were all cheating!” Weeks fumed.
“Can you prove it?”
“Sure I can.”
“Then you’ll have your chance,” Sheriff Hopper replied. “You’ll have your day in court. Until then, you’ll have to come along with us.”
With that, the deputies fanned out to hold Weeks’s men at gunpoint. The gunmen parted like the Red Sea, allowing the sheriff a clear view of their boss.
“What?” Weeks grunted.
“Don’t you read the papers, Bret?” Doc asked. “This town doesn’t cater to card cheats anymore. Don’t feel too badly, though. The cot in my cell wasn’t too bad.”
Holding his hands up so a deputy could relieve him of his pistol, Weeks locked his eyes on Doc and snarled, “You just signed your own death warrant, Holliday. I’ll be out of that cell before breakfast, and then you’ll wish you just stuck to the deal.”
“Hold that thought,” Hopper said as he took Weeks by the collar and dragged him away from the gunmen. “I’m sure the judge will want to hear all about that deal of yours.”
“This doesn’t change anything,” Weeks said. “Thompson’s Varieties still belongs to me. It can’t change hands if that game was crooked. Isn’t that right, Sheriff?”
“If Dr. Holliday dealt those cards fairly, then those bets stand,” the lawman replied. “Will anyone here testify that they had another deal with Holliday to see that the saloon changed hands?”
Apart from a few nervous coughs or clearing of their throats, nobody standing around made a sound.
“Check the cards!” Weeks suddenly said with a wide grin. “The cards are trimmed so Doc could find the spade I needed! Would that be proof enough to show that Injun don’t have an honest claim to my saloon?”
“Sure it would.” The sheriff nodded to one of his men and said, “Go have a look at them cards. Why don’t you turn out your pockets as well, Holiday?”
Doc emptied his pockets as the deputy disappeared into Thompson’s. By the time Doc was finished, the younger lawman was already stepping back out onto the street.
“I don’t see anything here to be worried about,” Hopper said after patting Doc down. “What about those cards?”
“These were the ones on the table,” the deputy said as he handed over a deck. “I couldn’t find any marks on them.”
The sheriff ran his fingers along all sides of the deck. “Feels nice and even to me,” Hopper said with a grin.
“That’s impossible!” Weeks growled. Obviously not too concerned with paying the minor fine that accompanied playing with a crooked deck, he examined the cards himself. The more he traced along the edges of the deck, the more flustered he became. “These aren’t the cards! These aren’t the ones we played with, goddammit!”