Blackjack

2

The tall gambling man that Roger had come searching for in Appaloosa was right here in front of him now. He was a strong, handsome-looking man with silver-streaked black hair and a black-as-coal mustache.

At the moment he had a huge smile on his face as he walked down the steps with his hand extended toward the portly man in the street. The two men with him stayed back behind him a few steps. They both wore dark suits, but they weren’t refined in any way, not like Boston Bill.

Roger could certainly determine that detail about the two men. It was part of his job to quickly assess people and he was good at assessing. He figured if it wasn’t for their long, dirty hair, they might pass for guardsmen, like Dickerson men or Pinkertons or Denver police, even. But hell, they were nothing, no-accounts. One of them was blond and pretty like a woman, Roger thought. The other had deep-set eyes with a scraggly beard. He was skinny and younger than the blond man and a little smaller.

They both were heeled and looked like capable customers to Roger, but he was unconcerned with them. It was the tall man, it was Boston Bill, that Roger was interested in.

Roger knew how to do his job. He’d been at it for a long while, and even though this time the job was personal, he still operated as he had always operated, with ease and friendliness. No need to get all rigged up or emotionally boiling.

“Mr. Pritchard,” Boston Bill said. “Good to see you. How was your trip?”

Before Mr. Pritchard could answer, Roger moved out of the narrow alley and spoke with some volume.

“Mr. Black.”

Roger stepped off the boardwalk and took a few steps into the street. He took a step back and waited as a horse and buggy passed, then continued to walk toward Boston Bill. It’s okay, Roger thought. It is okay.

“I’d like to have a word or two with you,” Roger said. “Just a moment of your time.”

Roger always worked like this. He was as smooth as butter, everyone would say. Boston Bill glanced back at his two seconds, then looked back at Roger. Roger had to slow up again as a horse and rider hurried by.

“I’m sorry,” Boston Bill said. “If you are looking for work, I’m afraid there are no positions available at this time.”

“Oh, no, no,” he said. “Not looking for any position.”

“Well, what can I help you with, then?”

Roger thought to himself, Just keep it simple; just keep it calm. Roger had done this sort of thing at least one hundred times. And like mother always said, “An ounce of kindness Roger, an ounce of kindness is worth, worth... something about gold... the weight in gold?”

“Just a little business matter,” Roger said.

Boston Bill’s second, the one with the blond hair, stepped forward with a stance that suggested to Roger he thought he was much tougher than he looked.

“That’s far enough,” the blond man said.

Roger smiled.

“There’s no need to concern yourself, young man. This isn’t any of your business.”

The other of Boston Bill’s seconds, the smaller man with the dark beard, took a stance and spoke up with speech that seemed to Roger to be impaired by what looked to be a swollen jaw.

“It is our business,” the man with the dark beard said, and then spit in the street.

Most of the workers stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to Roger.

Boston Bill looked to Mr. Pritchard and nodded toward the entrance of the building.

“Let’s step inside,” he said. “After you, Mr. Pritchard.”

“Just hold on,” Roger said. “Just a moment, I have something you need to see.”

Roger put his hand into his knapsack, and when he did the blond man quickly pulled a butt-forward Colt.

“No,” Roger said. “Just...”

Roger had underestimated the essence of the men. He did not expect this, not at all.

There were two quick shots. Gun smoke kicked from the barrel of the blond man’s Colt. Roger was stunned. He stood looking at the smoke that hung almost motionless in the stillness of the late morning.

One of the shots went through the side of Roger’s jacket, missing his torso, but one shot hit him dead center in his midsection. Roger looked down to where the bullet had entered. His hand came out of the knapsack clenching a scrolled paper.

“Oh, lordy,” Roger said.

Roger staggered, falling on his backside on the hard packed dirt, and when he did his jacket opened up to reveal a shiny silver star pinned just over his heart on his gingham vest.

Somebody shouted, “He’s a lawman.”

“Goddamn it,” Roger said. “Can’t anybody do anything right?”

Roger managed to get back up on his feet, but he did not go for his pistol. He turned away and stepped up onto the boardwalk.

“You have gone and done it now,” Roger said. “And here I was trying to be proper and trying to keep this very...”

Roger took a few steps and thought about the fact that besides that damn can of beans he’d eaten earlier, he had not consumed much of anything substantial in the last few days, nothing at all. Then he thought maybe he should have gone about this little matter of business involving Boston Bill Black in a different way.

He took a few more steps. They were wobbly and awkward. Then he stumbled a bit and fell headfirst through a window of the upholstery shop.