Read Online Damnation Road by Max McCoy - Free Book Online

my game,” Gamble said. “Maybe I could get up my own table.”
    Buell’s eyelids flickered.
    â€œRent on the tables is five dollars an hour,” he said.
    â€œThat’s only fair,” Gamble said, even though he had less than four dollars left from hocking the fiddle.
    â€œAnd the house gets a taste of your winnings.”
    â€œHow much?”
    Buell paused.
    â€œTen percent,” he said, finally.
    â€œNow, that’s something we should negotiate,” Gamble said, and took another sip of the bad whiskey. “Fair would be paying a cut or an hourly rate, but not both. My preference is the hourly rate.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAll right,” Gamble said. “The house percentage, then. But three percent, not ten.”
    â€œI have overhead,” Buell said. “This tent, wood for the stove, the tables and chairs. Seven percent.”
    â€œYou’re right,” Gamble said, and drained the shot glass. He turned it upside down and put it on the plank. “I’m imposing on your goodwill. Forgive me.” He tipped his hat and walked toward the entrance.
    â€œHold on,” Buell said, but Gamble did not. Then, in a lower voice: “Five percent.”
    Gamble stopped. He turned and walked back. He leaned over the plank.
    â€œDeal,” he said. “But just so you know, I play an honest game.”
    â€œThen how the hell do you plan to make any money?”
    â€œI plan to win,” Gamble said. “Now, reach into some of that overhead of yours and give me a deck of cards.”
    Gamble took the deck and walked over to the cleanest of the round tables, the one in the back toward the stove, and sat down with his back to the corner. He shuffled the deck, cut it, then fanned the cards out on the table, facedown. He folded his hands across his stomach and waited.
    â€œCraps!”
    The shooter shoved the woman away from him, and she stumbled and fell against one of the tables, nearly upending it. Her shawl slipped from one shoulder, revealing a bruised breast overlapping a wine-colored corset. Around her waist was a wide belt made of rattlesnake skin.
    â€œSettle down there,” Buell called.
    â€œI told her to give me elbow room,” the cowboy said, pushing his hat back, spilling a sheaf of straight blond hair over his forehead. In a fancy tooled holster on his right hip was a nickel-plated Peacemaker with a bone grip. “The bitch cost me a month’s pay on that last throw. She’s the one what should pay.”
    His drunken friends laughed.
    Still on the floor, the woman tucked her breast back into the corset. She turned her face away from the men, but not from Gamble. Her eyes locked on his, defiant.
    â€œYeah,” one of them said and slapped him on the back. “Blame your bad luck on the whore, Timothy. What was your excuse in Pawhuska?”
    â€œGo to hell,” the shooter said. “And don’t call me Timothy.”
    The men at the table laughed harder, and the shooter became red-faced. He pushed away from the table like a spring uncoiling, grabbed the woman’s wrist, and jerked her to her feet.
    â€œYou owe me twenty-five dollars, you filthy cunny,” he shouted.
    â€œGo to hell,” the woman said. “You rolled those bones, I didn’t.”
    â€œYeah, but I would have done a better job if you hadn’t been ahold of my johnson.”
    â€œIs that what it was?” the woman said. “Thought maybe you had a pencil in your pocket. A really short one.”
    The cowboy bent her hand back over her wrist. The woman cried out in pain and leaned back, trying to ease the pain.
    â€œThat’s enough,” Gamble said, his hands still folded across his stomach.
    â€œDid you say something, pops?” the cowboy asked.
    â€œYou heard me,” Gamble said. “Take your hands off the woman.”
    The cowboy twisted her hand back with a final sadistic flourish, then suddenly