Read Online Come Sundown by Mike Blakely - Free Book Online Page B

eyes, and he looked at me, instead of Blue Wiggins. He knew now that we had done this together.
    â€œLike hell,” he growled. He bolted backward and reached for his pocket pistol, but Blue had his Colt cocked and pointed in an instant.
    I wheeled as I drew my revolver, jumping from my chair so quickly that I bumped the table and spilled my black coffee all over the cards. Behind me, I found the big bear of a bartender thumbing back the hammers of a double barrel he had produced from under the bar, and I let a bullet fly into the fancy
mirror of the back bar behind him before he could get it aimed in my direction.
    The loud report of my Colt and the shattering of the glass hushed everything in the gambling parlor. The white smoke from my pistol mingled with the gray tobacco smoke. A movement from the center of the room caught my eye, and I saw old John Hatcher appear from nowhere as he walked to the bar and took the bartender’s shotgun away from him. I turned back to Luther Sheffield and saw him glaring at me. Blue’s gun was only inches from his head, and Blue looked like he meant business. Now, I, too, covered the gambler with my Colt.
    â€œThe three of you,” Sheffield growled. “This is robbery.”
    â€œNo, this is poker,” I said. “Blue won the pot. I suggest you allow him to collect.”
    â€œThat hand is impossible.”
    â€œIt’s no more impossible than your four aces.” I saw a hint of uncertainty in Sheffield’s glare, so I leaned closer to him, and spoke loud enough for only him to hear. “Would you like for me to tell everyone here where you’re getting those aces?”
    It was a bluff. I had no idea how that slick gambler was producing those heavenly cards. But I am such a marvelous liar that I convinced Sheffield right then and there that I was on to him. It took him a few seconds, but he began to choke down his pride and anger, and regain his composure. He would need to get out of this with some dignity if he intended to keep playing cards here in his own gambling parlor. And, most important, he knew that he would never get out of this town alive if I divulged his secret methods of cheating. He had beaten too many men in the room at cards.
    Slowly, Luther Sheffield’s hand moved away from the pocket that held the pistol. “Gentlemen,” he said, “forgive my haste. Those four aces must have charmed me right out of my senses. It’s obvious that Mr. Wiggins has won the hand. And you, Messieurs Greenwood and Hatcher, may certainly feel free to escort him from this parlor as he collects his winnings and leaves. This game is now closed.”
    The speech made an impression on me. I had introduced myself to the gambler, but not John Hatcher or Blue. He had obviously asked about us since the brawl the night before, and knew
who we were. He was warning me to get myself and my friends out of town, for he knew who we were, and how to find us.
    Blue smiled as he returned his weapon to its holster. He took the coat from the back of his chair, spread it on the table and began heaping his winnings into it. He left fifty dollars in coin on the table. Having filled his coat, he gathered its edges and made it into a big sack which he lifted from the battlefield of his triumph.
    â€œYou left some,” Sheffield remarked.
    â€œFor your trouble,” Blue said. “And for the damages.”
    Sheffield tipped his hat with such poise that I had to admire him. It seemed he would survive this little setback to gamble again in Santa Fe. And he would win. And win. And keep winning until someone stuck a knife in him or shot him dead. At least, that’s what I thought at the time. In reality, I could never have predicted what the future held in store for Luther Sheffield and me. Our lives would become entangled in the most peculiar ways.
    Hatcher and I covered Blue’s exit from the so-called parlor, and we stepped out into the cold New