William Johnstone - A Good Day to Die

“Who knows why women do what they do?” Johnny wondered. “At least she left the bourbon,” he said, reaching for the bottle.

Mrs. Frye came out of the office to check on some item of business with Damon. Standing at his side, she laid an open ledger on the table before him, pointing out an entry about which she had some questions. While they were talking, a man came in through the front entrance.

He was Ace High Olcutt, a card dealer employed by the Golden Spur. He was thin faced, with wavy black hair slicked back and a pencil-thin mustache. He walked fast, a sheepish expression on his face.

“I thought we’d seen the last of you, Ace High,” Mrs. Frye said, a cynical twist to her mouth.

“I got a week’s wages owing,” Olcutt said, avoiding her eyes, and Damon’s.

“What’s the hurry? Going somewhere?” She needled him, already knowing the answer.

“I’m clearing out,” the dealer said.

Damon looked up, his expression calm and mild. He smiled gently. “Quitting us, Ace High?”

Olcutt squirmed, uncomfortable and awkward. “I’m a gambler, not a gunman.”

Damon nodded. “The Golden Spur always pays in full, you know that. If you would be so good, Mrs. Frye?”

“I’ll take care of it, Damon. Come in the office and we’ll settle up, Ace High.” Mrs. Frye turned, heading to the rear of the building.

“Thanks.” Olcutt followed her into the office.

“Looks like Ace High is running out on us,” Morrissey observed.

“He’s a yellowbelly.” Creed Teece spoke without rancor, as if commenting on a change in the weather.

“I thought he had more sand than that.”

“Now you know better.”

The business transacted quickly. Olcutt soon emerged from the office. He went upstairs to his room. A few minutes later he came out, carpetbag in hand, descending the staircase. He started toward the front.

“Paid in full?” Damon asked.

Olcutt halted. “Yes.”

“That’s fine.”

Olcutt squirmed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Well ... I’ll be on my way.”

“Sorry to see you go,” Damon said.

“You know how it is, boss. No hard feelings?”

“No hard feelings.”

Mrs. Frye stood by the Wheel of Chance, an oversized numbered gaming wheel mounted vertically on a table stand. Her arm was bent at the elbow, one hand resting on the Wheel’s rim. “You’re a gambling man, Ace High. Care to make a sporting proposition? Stake your wages on a turn of the wheel? Red or black, double or nothing?”

Ace High looked like he was thinking about it for a few seconds before shaking his head. “No thanks, I’ll pass.”

“Too rich for your blood, eh? Looks like the house holds its edge after all,” Mrs. Frye said.

Damon had already returned to his game of solitaire.

“Well—so long,” Olcutt said lamely.

“Good luck,” Damon said indifferently, his attention elsewhere.

Olcutt scuttled away toward the front entrance. Mrs. Frye gave the wheel a turn, setting it motion. It made a loud clickety-clacking noise as it spun, causing Olcutt to flinch.

“Hah!” Mrs. Frye’s mocking laughter was a harsh crow’s caw.

Olcutt went out, not looking back.

Mrs. Frye crossed to Damon. “Can you beat that. Damon? After all you’ve done for him, pulling him out of the gutter and giving him a good job, and then the louse walks out on you!”

“I took a chance on him. Can’t win them all.”

“Burns me up anyway.” She stood beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder, watching silently as his restless hands worked the cards.

“What about you, Mrs. Frye? Can’t I persuade you to find a safer place, at least for now?”

“Nobody runs me out of the Golden Spur, Damon. Nobody! I worked too hard for my half of it. So let’s have no more nonsense.”

“As you will. I never argue with a lady.”

“I’m no lady.”

“I beg to differ.”

“That’s arguing.”

Damon took her hand, raising it to his lips and kissing the back of it.

Outside was the sound of riders pulling up in front of the place. Not many, no more than a few. And not the Ramrod bunch. Monk on the roof would have given the alert. Still, everyone in the Golden Spur looked up to see what it was about, things being what they were.

A delay of a half minute or so occurred while the newcomers tied up their horses at the hitching post. Boot heels clattered as they climbed the stairs, crossing the front porch to the entrance.

Inside, Mrs. Frye gripped the back of Damon’s chair, her knuckles whitening.

The batwing doors swung open, admitting two men. One was tall and lean, with a long horse face, bright eyes, and buck teeth. Flint Ryan.

The other was square built, muscular, with long black hair and a thin mustache that came down on the sides of his mouth. He was Anglo with Mexican blood, maybe some Indian blood, too. He was Charley Bronco.

Tension eased in the Spur. The newcomers were friends.

“Sorry, gents, this is a private party,” Mrs. Frye said.

“We know. We brung some party favors.” Bronco patted twin-holstered guns.

“We rode in as soon as we heard the news. Afraid we’d be late for the fun,” Flint said, “but it looks like we got here in time.”

Damon rose, looking thoughtful, troubled. “I appreciate the sentiment, gentlemen, but I can’t allow you to put yourselves in harm’s way.”

“Save your breath, Damon. You can’t fancy-talk us out of this go-round. Hell, you’re our favorite gambling man. Losing to you in a poker game is the next best thing to winning,” Flint said.

“We got a right to be here. You can’t turn us down, not with all the money we’ve lost at the tables,” Charley Bronco said.

Damon shrugged in a gesture of hopelessness. Turning to Mrs. Frye, he said, “What can you do with men like this?”

“I know what I do, but you don’t have the anatomy for it. Best say ‘welcome aboard’ and give them a drink,” Mrs. Frye said.

Damon did exactly that. Handshaking and backslapping all around was followed by a round at the bar.

Flint exclaimed, “Free drinks, Bronco!”

“No wonder the man was trying to get rid of us,” Bronco answered.

Morrissey poured, filling glasses for all including Damon and Mrs. Frye, and one for himself.

“We was down in Waco when you boys had that dustup with the Harbin gang. Sorry we missed it,” Flint said to Johnny and Luke.

“This one has all the makings of a pretty good shooting match,” Johnny volunteered.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Damon raised his glass, the others following. “A toast, gentlemen ... and lady”—he nodded to Mrs. Fry—“confusion to the enemy!”

“That—and plenty of hot lead!” Luke chimed in.

They drank. His glass empty, Damon threw it in the corner, shattering it. An instant later, Mrs. Frye did the same, followed by Morrissey and Creed Teece.

“What for did you do that?” Bronco asked.

“For luck,” Mrs. Frye said.

“Busting the glasses?”

“Glasses we’ve got plenty of, cowboy.”

Bronco and Flint exchanged glances. “Must be one of them fancy New Orleans ways,” Bronco said, shrugging.

An outburst of breaking glass ensued as the rest of them hurled empty glasses against the wall.

A dawning light of comprehension showed in Bronco’s eyes. “Now I know why he thunk that up. No glasses, we can’t cadge no more free drinks.”

“I told you—glasses we’ve got plenty of,” Mrs. Frye said. “Set ’em up, barkeep! Hell, give ’em each their own bottle if they want it!”

“Now that’s what I call being sociable!” Luke exclaimed.

“He’d storm Hell if you gave him a beer chaser,” Johnny joked.