released it. She fell in a heap on the floor, clutching her hand.
âThere,â the cowboy said, walking wildly in a circle âAre you happy, pappy? Youâd better watch your step with me, old man, or you just might get all busted up.â
He lunged at Gamble with a feigned punch, but Gamble did not flinch.
âYou think youâre tough,â Gamble said, âbut youâre not. Youâre just drunk. You work on one of the big spreads in the Nations, probably the Miller brothers, and maybe you impress the girls in town, but youâre not a real cowboy. You wouldnât have held a candle to any of the men that came up the Chisholm Trail twenty-five or thirty years ago.â
âHow the hell do you know?â
âI was there,â Gamble said. âFor a season or two, anyway. I was about your age and so full of shit that my eye damned near turned brown. But thatâs one of the advantages of a long lifeâyou get over that.â
âYouâre as old and washed up and as full of it as my Pa.â
âMaybe. But that doesnât change the fact that you arenât as tough as you think. You wouldnât have been good enough to ride the river with any of the men I knew back then.â
The cowboy grinned drunkenly and looked over at his friends, but Gamble was keeping an eye on his right hand. His fingers were hanging too loose and too close to the bone-handled Colt.
âThing is, I donât have to be as tough as those old boys,â he said. âI just have to be tougher than you.â
The cowboy whirled around while trying to pull the gun out of the fancy holster. The front sight caught on a loop of leather stitching, the half-cocked hammer fell, and the gun discharged. The cowboy fell to the floor, a .45-caliber slug in his thigh.
âSonuvabitch,â he said in a matter-of-fact tone. âI think my leg is broken.â
Gamble was half out of his chair, the Manhattan in his left hand, the hammer drawn. The cowboyâs friends were standing around the craps table, motionless.
âI should kill you,â Gamble said, then gently lowered the hammer on the Manhattan and placed it on the table. âBut I wonât. I want you to live to be fifty or sixty years old and have some punk come try you and see how it feels to be called old and washed-up when you know that you are one cold and sober second away from having to splatter that kidâs brains all over the floor. You will remember that, wonât you?â
âYes, sir,â the cowboy said. He had wrapped his hands over the wound and was watching the blood spurt from between his fingers. âIâll remember, I promise.â
âWhat are you waiting for?â Gamble asked. âGet him out of here. Find a doctor or a vet or a dentist, I donât care which.â
His friends grabbed the cowboy by his boots and under his arms and carried him toward the door.
âTake the gun,â Gamble said.
One of them scrambled back, snatched the bone-handled Colt from the floor, and ran out. The door slammed behind him with a clap.
It was suddenly silent in the tent. The pit man, a scruffy-looking character with wire-rimmed glasses and a bowler hat, used the stick to scratch his head.
âChrist,â Buell said, uncorking a bottle of rye and pouring himself a shot. âYou sure know how to break up a game of craps. Them boys was good customers. I should have stuck to the five dollars an hour.â
The woman walked slowly over to Gamble and placed a hand on his arm.
âThanks,â she said.
âDonât thank me.â
âOh, but I must.â
She wet her lips, then leaned down to whisper in his ear.
âHow about a poke?â
âPass,â Gamble said.
âA blowjob, then. You canât turn that down.â
âWatch me.â
She stroked his cheek.
âDo you prefer boys?â
âThatâs revolting,â Buell called from
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