“Miss Mosey wins,” the dealer at the Shaggy Dog Saloon said. Frank and Annie were not making themselves scarce, the way Bill had told them to. Instead, they were playing poker, trying to raise the money to free Jane.
They had decided to sit at the same table, under the assumption that Frank would win all the money, and Annie would provide company, but it turned out that Annie was on a hot streak and Frank was card dead.
“Who, me?” Annie responded to the dealer.
Frank smiled. She really was good at playing the novice. At least, he hoped she was just pretending.
The next hand of cards was dealt, and Joe “the Player” Fletcher was acting as if his hand was the “nuts,” which is a poker term for the best hand. (Incidentally, the term the nuts originated in the Wild West, because if a player wanted to bet his horse and wagon, he would have to remove the nuts from his wheels and place them in the pot.)
“All in,” he said.
Frank folded, and the play turned to Annie.
“I don’t know.” Annie shrugged. “I guess . . . all in?” She said it as a question, and Frank knew then and there that Annie had a genuine hand.
But Joe didn’t.
Everyone else folded, and the dealer called for cards up.
“Her first,” Joe said.
“She called you,” the dealer said.
And here’s the thing, Joe just threw his cards into the muck.
“Why don’t you want to show?” Annie said. “You were all in.”
“You show,” Joe said.
“I don’t think those are the rules,” Annie said. “And I’ve read the rules extensively.”
The dealer shoved the chips toward Annie.
Annie leaned over to Frank. “Would you mind stacking my chips while I . . . ahem . . .”
“Of course,” Frank said.
Annie excused herself, and Frank started stacking her chips. She had won thirty-five dollars so far. Frank wondered how Bill was faring. Perhaps with Annie’s contribution, they were close to their hundred-dollar goal.
Frank thought about Jane, and her ordeal up on that stage. He couldn’t imagine what she would be feeling now, alone in a cell.
George lumbered over and put his chin on Frank’s leg. (Oh my gosh! George is back! Hey, George!) Is Jane going to be okay? George thought.
“I hope so,” Frank said out of the corner of his mouth. He’d perfected the art of ventriloquism so no one knew he was talking to a dog.
Where’s Annie? George thought.
“You mean your girlfriend?” Frank said. George’s tail wagged. “I think she’s doing her business.”
Should we go to her? George said.
“I’m sure she wants to be alone,” Frank said.
Frank thought of that one time (like, yesterday) in the Gem where Annie was dressed up and they’d shared their first kiss. The memory made him smile. Maybe if her feelings about garou had changed, for reals, Frank could see himself down on one knee.
Yes, Frank’s thoughts turned this way. Because this was the Wild West, and life spans in the Wild West were short, and life spans in Deadwood were even shorter, and eighteen years of age was old enough to contemplate marriage . . . and then around twenty you could contemplate your own mortality.
Suddenly, there was a ruckus outside. Shouts and guns going off. Wails and screams. Frank and several other patrons went to the window. Dozens of men, and even some women, were chasing someone down the street.
“Don’t let him get away!”
“Jack McCall’s a murderer!”
Somewhere in the cacophony of sound, a name floated toward the poker room. Bill. And then Wild Bill. And then . . . the Wild Bill Hickok.
Frank stumbled backward, caught a heel on a broken slat of the floor, and fell.
He scrambled up and darted out the door.
Once on the street, he grabbed the first man he saw. “What happened?”
“Jack McCall shot Wild Bill Hickok!” the man said.
“Is he dead?”
The man shrugged and continued chasing after McCall.
It seemed the entire town was involved in the pursuit. But Frank ran in the opposite direction, toward the No. 10 Saloon, where he knew Bill had been playing poker.
He was barely aware of anything around him, until his wolf ears picked up the sound of delicate footsteps running in the same direction beside him. He turned his head to see Annie. Their eyes met. Neither one said anything, but their expressions held the same fear.
From the outside, the No. 10 Saloon was eerily quiet. Whatever had taken place there was over. The action was now on the other side of town, but Frank didn’t care about that. He only wanted to find Bill.
He burst through the swinging doors. Annie slipped in behind him.
And there he was. Bill. Slumped over a table.
“Bill.” Frank rushed to Bill’s side. “Bill!” He stepped back and put a hand over his mouth. There was a ringing in his ear. A cold shock down his spine. “He’s okay,” he said.
Annie touched his arm.
“He’s okay!” Frank said again, even though somewhere deep inside, he knew that wasn’t true.
Annie’s grip on his arm tightened.
“Everything’s okay.” Frank turned Bill over and shook his shoulder. “Dad. Wake up. Wake up!”
And then, there was a miracle. Bill’s eyes slowly opened. “I’m okay, son,” he said.
“Thank God.” Frank scooped his father into his arms.
“Frank,” Annie said. “Frank, he’s gone.”
“No. He’s awake.” Frank eased his grip on his father to show Annie that he was alive. But Bill’s eyes were shut. He wasn’t breathing.
“He just said . . . he just said . . .” Frank’s voice trailed off.
“He didn’t say anything,” Annie murmured.
Frank gently lowered his father to the floor. He got up and ran to the corner of the bar and lost the contents of his stomach. Annie followed. She rubbed his back softly as he heaved and heaved.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Don’t say that,” Frank said. “It’s not done.” He began to shake uncontrollably. He knew what that meant. “Annie,” he grunted, doubling over. “The wolf is coming.”
Annie paused for a split second, looking at him wide-eyed, and then burst into action. She rushed over to the windows and closed the shutters. Then she dowsed the brightest of the lanterns. The saloon became dark.
“It’s happening,” Frank groaned.
She took his hand and led him away from his sick, toward the back of the saloon.
“Get away,” Frank warned her. There was no amount of wooo-ing that would help him now. The truth was sinking in. His dad lay dead on the floor. Murdered. No meditation could overcome that. “Please.” Frank tried to push Annie away, but she stood her ground.
He looked at Bill again. There was a pool of blood around him. Frank could smell it.
His bones cracked and bent. His nose shattered and formed a snout. His shoulders cranked and cricked. His arms stretched, and claws sprouted from his fingers. For the first time in years, Frank involuntarily became the wolf.
He was suddenly so much taller than Annie. He could have picked her up with one hand if he wanted to, but he didn’t want to. He wanted to tear the saloon apart, and then tear this godforsaken town apart, and then burn it all to the ground.
But he knew he couldn’t. He simply stood there, at a loss for what to do, as his rage slowly melted into devastation.
Wolf-Frank loped over to the body and collapsed next to it. He put his arms around Bill’s shoulders, laid his head on his father’s chest, and stayed like that for a few moments.
Then he raised his head, arched his back, and howled.