The three plump, sun-reddened businessmen bounced around in a far from comfortable manner in the Wells Fargo coach. The Lordsburg, New Mexico – Tucson, Arizona, trail was neither as well laid out nor as comfortable to travel over as the road from New York to Fairview, New Jersey. Nor was the coach they were now in as comfortable as an eastern carriage. They sat there, lurching and jolting as the coach bounced along, their eastern clothes showing them for what they were, dudes not long in this country. They were a well-padded, well dressed bunch and looked like they might be carrying money with them.
The shotgun guard’s head appeared at the window of the coach, hanging upside down like a bat. ‘Mullen’s Way Station just ahead, gents,’ he said. ‘Change the teams there, be in for about an hour or so, then pull out again and make Tucson just after dark. You can get out and stretch your legs for a piece while we’re there.’
Alastair Ogden, self-appointed leader of the trio in this venture to the wide open spaces, nodded graciously and the head disappeared again. Ogden did not like the easy familiarity with which the man addressed them all the time. It was not what one expected from a mere employee of a big concern like Wells Fargo. He debated to himself on the advisability of reporting the man, but reached no decision when the coach came to a lurching halt out front of Mullen’s Way Station.
For all the name this way station was not an over-impressive place. All it consisted of was one long building which provided a bar, dining-room and a couple of bedrooms, a kitchen and living quarters for the owner and his men. There were a couple of smaller places and along with the large corral where the teams of the coaches milled and waited to be used, formed the whole of Mullen’s Way Station.
Ogden and his two friends climbed down from the coach, working their stiff joints and looking round. A tall, burly man came towards them, wearing a frilly bosomed white shirt, string tie, and brown trousers tucked into riding boots. He held out a hand in greeting, his face beaming with delight at the unexpected pleasure.
‘Howdy gents, howdy,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Honest John Mullen’s place. I’m Honest John. Come on in out of the sun.’
The other three men followed Mullen into the cool and dim shade of the building. They found themselves in the dining-room which was also the bar, a rough wooden erection presided over by a bald, bored-looking man. Apart from two silent, gun hung men who sat at a table idly playing cards, the place was empty.
‘Name your poison, gents, the first is on the house,’ Mullen boomed. ‘Allus like to let the customers sample me likker free first, then they knows I’m selling them good stuff.’
‘Thank you, sir, thank you,’ Ogden replied, feeling that this bluff, hearty and generous host, while not being an accepted social equal, was worth cultivating. ‘We are delighted to drink with you. My name is Ogden, these are my friends, Bender and Caldon.’
‘Most pleasured to make your acquaintance, gents,’ Honest John shook hands with the men. ‘Now here’s the drinks, put ’em down, gents. It’s the first since the last and that’s long enough.’
Ogden gulped down three fingers of neat whiskey in an attempt to emulate the way Honest John rat holed his rye. This brought on a fit of coughing and with tears in his eyes he protested as Honest John slapped him hard on his back.
‘Just a mite hard until you get used to it, Mr. Ogden,’ Mullen warned, then looked at the bardog. ‘Go get these gents a meal fixed.’
The food, when it came, was rough but good, and the three dudes were very hungry. Their meal was a success and their host kept them laughing with a fund of stories. Back East they were pillars of the church and full of civic virtues, strong in their campaigns against sin in all forms.
However, away from home they, like many another pious gent, became keenly interested in sin, purely from academic interest, so they could condemn it when they got home. These stories they were now hearing were entertaining, though not the sort one could tell the Reverend Sumpter, back home.
Feeling quite rips, and with a couple of snorts of Old Scalp Lifter under their belts, Ogden and his men thought Honest John a prince among men, a real diamond in the rough. They accepted his invitation to join him at the bar and were just on the point of ordering drinks when the door opened.
The man who came into the room looked old. Straggly long grey hair showed from under his beat-up, dirty hat; the face was also dirty, bristle stubbled and with a few coats of dust on it. He wore a check shirt, the sleeves rolled back and the long red sleeve of an undershirt showing below it; his old blue jeans were stuck into boots and at every step he shed dust. Around his waist was a gunbelt with an old Colt 1860 Army revolver in the holster and a bowie knife strapped at the other side.
‘Howdy Honest John,’ he greeted in a harsh, crackled old voice. ‘Here I be again. Made my pile out there and come back to show you I can win my bet.’
With this the old-timer pulled a pouch from his pocket and tipped it on the bar top. Ogden and his friends gave concerted gasps as they looked down at the glittering pile on the counter before them, for they all suspected that here was real, genuine gold dust gathered from some distant stream.
‘So you struck lucky and you aim to try that fool bet again,’ Honest John growled, looking down at the dust and nuggets on the bar. ‘Don’t you ever learn sense. I’ve won thirty thousand dollars’ worth of gold off you and my boys have took near the same. You should know you can’t win.’
‘I can so win,’ the old-timer bristled aggressively, ‘and I’m going to prove it.’
With this the old-timer turned and stumped across the room to where the two silent, hard-eyed men sat and started to talk with them. His words did not carry to the other men but from his gestures they could see he was getting excited.
‘Danged ole fool,’ Honest John told the dudes. ‘His name’s Wallapai Will, he comes in here every six months or so with a poke of gold and wants to make that fool bet with us.’
‘What bet is that?’ Ogden inquired, wondering how a man could lose so much money on any bet.
‘That he can cut the ace of hearts with one cut.’
Three faces turned to each other, three minds working out the odds of a man taking a deck of cards and with one single cut picking a selected card. They failed to come anywhere near the correct odds but he knew it ran into thousands to one. Then their eyes went to that pile of gold dust and nuggets on the bar top and they all started to wonder one thing. How could they get their chance at this bet and make some money.
‘Is he poor then, apart from this?’ Bender inquired, clearing his conscience in advance. ‘I mean, can he afford to lose like that?’
‘Why sure, he’s got him a claim there that brings in more than enough money for him. I reckon he could lose this and never even think twice about it.’
Wallapai came stamping back to the bar, bristling in fury. ‘Lookee here, Honest John,’ he said. ‘Your boys there tell me they can’t bet with me.’
‘That’s right,’ Honest John answered, turning to face the old-timer. ‘You never win and we’ve took enough gold off you.’
‘Why dednab you for a no good, confounded, interfering coyote,’ Wallapai was almost spluttering in rage and he turned to the three dudes. ‘Be that right and fair, gents. That’s my gold there, nigh on three thousand dollars’ worth. If I wants to bet it why should he interfere.’
‘I suppose Mr. Honest John knows what he’s doing,’ Ogden replied. ‘If you never win, I mean.’
‘I ain’t won yet, but I surely allows I can this time. He ain’t got no right to stop me making the bet.’
‘You don’t make it with me or any of my boys,’ Honest John warned grimly. ‘Not if they want to keep on working for me. I’m sick and tired of taking your gold on a fool bet you haven’t a chance of winning.’
There’s more where that comes from, plenty more,’ Wallapai turned his bloodshot eyes on the dudes for a moment. ‘You gents don’t work for Honest John. How’d you like—’
‘Hold hard, Wallapai, these gents didn’t come in here for gambling and I don’t want my place turned into a gambling joint.’
‘Shet up, Honest John,’ the old-timer snapped back. ‘These gents are growed men and look like they might like to take a little gamble.’
‘He might win, gents,’ Honest John warned.
‘We’ll confer for a moment,’ Ogden replied and with his two friends drew away from Honest John and Wallapai. They talked together for a time, apparently not in agreement over something at first. Then they came back. ‘We feel that we can raise the three thousand to cover the stake. Now, what exactly is the bet?’
‘Good!’ Wallapai whooped, taking from his pocket a greasy, thick old deck of cards. ‘Let her rip. I bets I cuts the ace of hearts with just one cut.’
‘Just one minute.’ Honest John looked worried, giving the impression that the welfare of his guests was at heart. ‘The gents would like a new deck used.’
The gents certainly did want a new deck but were not quite sure how to ask for one without giving offence. This old-timer looked wild and dangerous enough to be very awkward if crossed, and he was well armed.
Wallapai raised no objections and Honest John took a new deck from the bardog, handing it to Ogden with a request that he break the seal and riffle the cards. With hands that trembled, Ogden took out the new cards and started to shuffle them. Each of his friends gave the cards a thorough shuffle and then the deck was set on the bar top.
‘Set your money down to cover mine, gents,’ Wallapai announced, ‘then we’ll let her rip.’
The three men took out their wallets and counted down a thousand dollars each, leaving them only a few small denomination bills each. They put the money alongside the pile of gold and with the air of a professional gambler Ogden waved a hand to the cards, saying: ‘Cut!’
‘Hold it,’ Honest John put in as the old-timer reached for the cards. ‘I want all this straightened out right off, now. You gents are betting ole Wallapai that he can’t cut the ace of hearts with one cut. If he cuts it you lose, if he doesn’t you win. That fair enough?’
‘Yes, yes, of course it is,’ Ogden replied impatiently, hands just itching to grab up the gold dust and get back on to the stage again. ‘Carry on.’
Wallapai picked up the cards, holding them firmly in his left hand. He turned them edge up. Round came the bowie knife, ripping into the deck of cards and slicing half-way through them.
‘Done it!’ the old-timer whooped, tossing the cards on to the bartop and grabbing up the money.
‘Wait a minute!’ Ogden screeched back. ‘It’s a trick.’
‘And ye fell for it,’ Wallapai answered. ‘I said I’d cut the ace of hearts and cut her I did.’
“But … but … you … you said you’d … This is a swindle,’ Ogden was all but incoherent with rage.
‘Now hold hard a minute, mister.’ There was a subtle Change in Honest John’s manner now. It was suddenly menacing, and the two quiet men moved forward. ‘You made a bet with ole Wallapai here. You said that if he cut the ace of hearts he’d won the bet. Here,’ sorting through the cards, he tossed the severed ace of hearts in front of them, ‘that’s the ace. Now pay up and shut up.’
The three dudes, red-faced and spluttering, stared at the cards, then at the men. Slowly it dawned on them that they were being threatened, for all the easy benevolence had drained from Honest John now, leaving a hard-faced man. Somehow Wallapai looked years younger too, his face mocking and a sneer on his lips. The two silent, hard-faced men lounged near at hand: they watched everything with solid, dispassionate eyes, hands on the butts of their guns.
It was at this moment that the guard looked inside and told Ogden’s party the coach was ready to move. He could guess what had happened here, but was powerless to make any objection. The bar was not Wells Fargo property and the company had no control over it. The dudes would complain to the company but would receive no comfort there; Mullen’s Way Station was the only place a relay point could be placed in that area and under the lease, Mullen could run his bar any way he wanted. Wells Fargo might not approve of having their customers robbed but there was nothing they could do about it officially.
Muttering threats of revenge the three dudes walked from the bar and out in the sun once more. They climbed into the coach, bitterness etched on their faces and a desire for revenge in their hearts.
Mullen watched the coach moving out from his side window, and he grinned at the other men. Wallapai was washing his face in the corner. He turned round, rubbing it with a towel; no longer did he look old, he was a middle-aged man with a thin, intelligent face.
‘Damned suckers,’ he said. ‘You certainly know how to pick them, John.’
‘Sure, with their sort you have to make them feel they’re real bloods before they’ll bite. There won’t be another stage for three days so we can take it easy.’
~*~
‘I hold here four aces.’ Doc Leroy held the four cards so Captain Mosehan could see them. ‘Now I place them on top of the deck. Like so. Take the top ace off and put it on the bottom of the deck, the second ace and put it quarter way down and the third three-quarters of the way down. Leaving one ace on top,’ Doc showed the ace on top of the deck and the one at the bottom. ‘All four now being separated, I place the deck on the desk and strike it once, so!’ Doc struck the deck hard with the flat of his hand. ‘Then cut the deck like this,’ he made a fast cut, then fanned the deck out. To find in the middle one, two, three, four little aces all together.’
Mosehan laughed, holding out his hand for the deck and checking through it but finding only the four aces. ‘All right, I give it up. How do you do it? I thought you’d palmed the middle two aces somehow and held them out, then put them on top when you slapped the deck.’
Doc took the four aces up and two other cards, then placing the two cards behind the second ace so that they did not show, he folded the cards and laid them on top of the deck.
‘One ace on the bottom,’ he slid the top card off, showing the ace and put it on the bottom. ‘One ace in the middle,’ this time it was not an ace which went from the top of the deck into the middle. ‘One lower down,’ again it was not an ace. ‘One ace left on top. Only there are three aces on top, not one. Cut the cards and in the middle of the deck you have four aces.’
Mosehan laughed, watching Doc riffle the cards with tapering, almost boneless-looking hands. Doc was a tall, slim young man with a studious, pallid face but it was a tan-resisting pallor, not weakness. He was slender in build but there was a whipcord strength in his wiry frame. Doc was a cowhand, a good one; any man who trailed cattle for the edge trail crews was a top hand. Doc not only trailed for them but also handled the tough doctoring chores, for he’d started at medical school although he gave it up before he qualified. His reputation as a setter of bones and remover of bullets was known throughout the West. At least three babies were in this world due to his efforts and one man owed his life to Doc’s removal of his appendix with the highly technical, surgical instrument, a bowie knife.
With the end of the trail drives, the great, interstate journeys from Texas to Kansas, Doc joined Ole Devil Hardin, riding as Waco’s pard in the floating outfit of the OD Connected. Then when Waco was wounded he stayed with him until he recovered; it was Doc’s medical skill which saved Waco’s life. They’d been taken on at the Hashknife where Mosehan had been manager, to make enough money to head back to Texas. When Mosehan formed the Rangers he brought them with him: he did not regret the decision, for they were amongst his best men.
Watching the slim young man in the range coat and the jacket with its right side stitched back to leave clear the ivory butt of his Colt Civilian Peacemaker, Mosehan was pleased. Doc was waiting to be sent out on a local chore, having just watched his pard, Waco, ride out for Allenvale.
The long, fast-moving fingers split the cards in the middle and married them together with a fast riffle stack; then he cut the cards twice or appeared to be cutting them, but the same cards remained on the bottom all the time.
‘You’re wasting your time in the Rangers,’ Mosehan remarked dryly as Doc went on to deal four hands of cards out. Fetching from the bottom a full house for himself and doing it without Mosehan, no mean gambler himself, catching him at it. ‘You ought to be on a sternwheeler going up and down the Big Muddy.’
‘Couldn’t stand all that water,’ Doc replied.
There was a knock at the door and the young man who handled the Rangers’ paper and office work looked in.
‘Mr. Hume, from Wells Fargo, and three gents to see you, Cap’n Mosehan.’
‘Show ’em in, Jeb. Show ’em in,’ Mosehan replied, signing Doc to stay.
A tail, good-looking, wide shouldered man wearing range clothes came into the office, followed by Ogden and his party. Jim Hume was one of Wells Fargo’s top men, a special investigator with a reputation for bringing in his man. He was an old friend of Mosehan and co-operated with the Rangers on the occasions when their line of duty came together.
‘I brought these three gentlemen to see you, Bert,’ he said.
‘It’s an outrage, sir. A deliberate outrage,’ Ogden stepped by Hume, his face working angrily. ‘I demand action. I demand that our money is recovered. We’ve been robbed and swindled.’
‘How?’ Mosehan glanced at Jim Hume but could read nothing on his face.
‘How?’ It was Bender now giving vent to his outraged feelings. ‘How! By a dirty trick. That old prospector said he would cut the ace of hearts—’
‘Didn’t he do it?’ Mosehan heard Doc’s choked down gurgle of amusement and saw the ghost of a smile on Hume’s face.
‘He cut it all right,’ Ogden answered. ‘Or he didn’t cut it, he used a knife—’
‘Which cut the ace,’ Mosehan finished. ‘You mean that you let someone talk you into making a bet that he couldn’t cut an ace in one cut.’
‘But we thought he meant to cut the cards, not use a knife.’ Ogden was beginning to see his position and was wondering how he could explain his own actions in anything like a creditable light. He couldn’t come right out and say he’d planned to make the bet against a foolish old man who should not have had a chance. He could also see that the three men in the room were not exactly unaware of the trick.
‘What do you want me to do, gents?’ Mosehan asked.
‘Unless you can prove a definite swindle I can’t move. You made a legal bet; in Arizona gambling is legal and I can’t arrest him just for cutting cards with you.’
‘Bah!’ Ogden’s angry snort sounded more like the bleating of a sheep stuck with a pitchfork. ‘Wells Fargo can’t help us, the county sheriff says the way station is over the county line and he can’t do a thing. Now you say you can’t help.’
‘What did you expect me to be able to do?’ Mosehan growled. ‘You name it and we’ll try and do it.’
There the three dudes had it; they could tell Mosehan what they wanted doing and he would get it done. All they had to do was put some light on their own motives for making the bet and they might be able to make a complaint. They turned and headed for the door muttering threats about seeing the governor.
Mosehan watched them go, his face thoughtful: he knew their type all too well. Fresh out from the East, they thought every man they met in the West was an illiterate, slow-witted yokel ripe for plucking. When they learned, too late, that the stupid yokel was the one who’d done the plucking they screamed to high heaven. Worse, they reported the incident, highly colored on their side, to the Eastern Press and stories of Western lawlessness ranged, high amongst the stories the Eastern papers printed.
‘There’s not much I can do about it, gents, but I’ll try and get your money back for you.’
With that the three dudes had to be satisfied. They left the office and were spared the humiliation of seeing Doc Leroy howling in laughter at the thought of anyone falling for the old ace cutting game in this day and age.
‘Lordy, Lord,’ he said, ‘I surely thought the old ace cutting game went out with the cap and ball guns.’
‘Looks like it came back again,’ Mosehan answered. ‘Why’d you come across with them, Jim. You know we can’t do anything about it.’
‘Unless you can prove definite fraud.’ Hume replied. ‘Then both you and, Wells Fargo can make a move. We’ve been getting complaints from the Mullen’s Way Station for a spell now but we can’t tie them down with anything. A man won’t go into court and admit he made a fool of himself. Anyways, you can’t arrest a man for making a bet.’
‘We might be able to get evidence,’ Mosehan said thoughtfully. ‘Then we can move in. We need a plant, a man who can be took.’
Doc smiled; he knew this boss of his very well. ‘When do I start?’ he asked.
~*~
Mullen got a shock when a stagecoach came rumbling into the way station on the afternoon two days after the successful rooking of the three dudes. He strolled down to the corral where the teams were being changed, noting that a tall stranger was riding shotgun. A man who looked vaguely familiar and also looked handy with the staghorn butted gun tied low at his left side.
“What’s all this?” he asked the driver.
‘Howdy John,’ the driver replied, jerking his thumb to a slim young man who was climbing down from the coach. ‘Rich young dude in a hurry to get East again. He hired this coach special to run him to Lordsbury.’
Mullen studied the young man, noting the pallid face but paying more attention to the high hat. It was very costly beaver from the look of it and the travelling cloak the young man wore was black, lined with red silk. It covered most of his clothes but Honest John could see a white silk shirt, a costly cravat and a diamond stick pin which made his eyes gleam avariciously.
‘Howdy sir, allow me to introduce myself.’ Mullen advanced, hand held out. ‘I’m Honest John Mullen, owner of the way station here. If you’d care to step into my place for a meal while the teams are being changed.’
‘Why most certainly, sir, I could eat something,’ the voice was a cultured deep south drawl.
Doc followed Honest John into the bar, glanced at the two hard-faced men who sat watching him, then went to the bar and accepted a glass of whiskey on the house. He took his place at the table, throwing the cloak back slightly but making sure the right side of his suit could not be seen. Outside, he knew Mosehan would be watching from the window of the coach, where he’d been hidden, and Jim Hume also was getting ready to move in.
Honest John gave the order for the food and his bardog left, hurrying to one of the small side buildings to tell Wallapai he would be needed. The thin man gave an angry curse, he’d shaved this morning, not expecting another stage. That gave him only one alternative. He rummaged through the box he pulled from under the bed and brought out a well-made straggly false beard.
Doc enjoyed the meal and was rather pleased when the door opened to admit the ‘old sourdough prospector’. A keen student of the art of taking suckers, Doc had to admit it was all well done. In fact, if he did not know about this set-up he might even have been fooled by Wallapai himself.
Rising, he sauntered to the bar and was treated to the same sort of build-up the other victims were given. He glanced at the ‘gold’, seeing it was only fools’ gold, worthless quartz, but gave the impression he was taken in.
When the prospector failed to get his bet with Honest John’s two men and came back to the bar, Doc gave a creditable performance as the sucker who wanted to make some extra money fast.
‘How about you, stranger. You wanting to take a chance?’ Wallapai asked.
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Doc replied. ‘Is that real gold, I’ve never seen any like this before, in its raw state.’
‘Real gold?’ Wallapai’s face showed anger. ‘Of course it’s real gold. I just come in from my gold claim with it.’ Mullen gave his agreement that it was real gold and that Wallapai went into the hills to prospect for it. He acted grudgingly, giving the impression that he did not want any betting in his place. The more determined he was to stop it, the more insistent Doc became.
‘All right,’ Mullen placed two decks of cards on the table. ‘If you’re all set to make the best use one of those two decks, then you’ll know you’ve had a square deal.’
‘It’s a pity you’ve only got two thousand in gold there,’ Doc remarked, taking a bulging notecase from his inside pocket. ‘I’d go up to five thousand that he can’t cut the ace.’ There was an awkward silence for a time; Mullen and Wallapai always tried to guess how much the sucker would go for and put that much gold out. Now they could see they’d gone under. However, they had a plan arranged for such an emergency.
‘Honest John, I’ve got me three thousand dollars in your safe there,’ the ‘prospector’ said. ‘Git her out, this is my lucky day.’
The money was counted out and matched Doc’s own pile on the counter. Doc took up the cards, extracted them from the box and gave them a casual, awkward overhand stack. The others looked at each other; from the way he handled cards this dude was the veriest beginner.
Laying the cards on the bar top Doc stepped back, his left hand going to the fastening of the cloak as he said, ‘Cut!’
With a grin Wallapai took up the cards, holding them edge up and brought out his bowie knife, slashing down deep into the deck. He dropped the cards on the bar and reached for the money.
‘Hold hard, friend. You didn’t cut the ace of hearts.’
There was a different note in the drawl now; Mullen did not turn to look at the young man, but took up the cards and thumbed through them, looking for the ace of hearts. He went through the deck without finding the card and his face deepened into a scowl as he started through again.
‘It’s here.’
Mullen turned. The slim young man’s cloak had slid from his shoulders and lay on the floor. He wore a brown suit under it, the right side of the jacket pinned back. Around his waist was a hand carved buscadero gunbelt and in the low-tied, gunfighter’s holster a white handled gun. But it was at his right hand that Mullen stared; one moment the hand was empty, then with a snap of his fingers the young man produced and tossed the ace of hearts down.
‘Get him, boys!’ Mullen roared, hand dropping down towards his waistband.
Doc’s hand made a fast flicker, the gun appearing with the sight defying speed of a master. He threw one shot into the gunman who was first to make his move, staggering him backwards across the room.
At the same moment the door was kicked open, and Mosehan and Hume came in fast, their guns out. Wallapai was throwing down on Doc when Hume fired once, the bullet smashing into his leg and dropping Wallapai to the floor. The other men threw up their hands.
‘That’ll finish you, John,’ Hume warned. ‘We have proof of fraud now. We saw your “prospector” coming out of the hills, only it was the hut back there. I reckon we’ll find his make-up bit hidden in there.’
Doc looked thoughtful; a good lawyer might get Mullen out of it even now: he could play on the pro vocational way in which Mullen was trapped and might get the man free. But good lawyers were hard to come by and their services very expensive. Doc knew there was more money in the safe, money they could not touch: legally.
He attended to Wallapai’s leg; the other shot man was dead before he could do a thing for him. Then as they were waiting for the stage he took up the second deck of cards and fanned them out, holding them face down.
‘Here, John, take one,’ he said.
Mullen was about to snarl a refusal, then he shrugged. He had been caught out fairly and held little or no grudge against the young Ranger. He could even admire the skill which palmed out the ace while giving that misleading and casually amateurish overhand stack of the cards.
Reaching out he took a card, at least, he thought he chose a card but the nine of Spades he showed to the others was forced on him by Doc.
‘Put her back and riffle them well,’ Doc said.
With the cards well-mixed Doc took them and started to turn them over, counting as he did. The nine of spades fell on the fifteenth card but Doc carried on and at the twenty-third, pushing it forward but not turning it he said, ‘The next paid I turn over will be the one you picked out.’
‘Will it?’ Mullen asked, glancing down at where he could see the corner of the chosen nine.
‘I’d surely bet on it,’ Doc replied.
At the word bet Mullen looked eager. He was thinking along the same lines as Doc: a good lawyer would be worth money if he could get them off this charge, for it could go hard on them. They all had records with the Pinkerton Agency for this sort of swindle. Pinkertons would be only too pleased to serve the interests of justice, and get some good publicity for themselves, by producing this record in court.
‘I got me two thousand dollars more in the safe,’ he said. ‘I’ll get that and bet it.’
‘Done,’ Doc agreed.
‘You know what you’re doing, boy?’ Mosehan asked, temporarily forgetting that Doc was not gambling with his own money.
‘Why sure, I know.’
Hume escorted the handcuffed Mullen to the safe as a precaution against tricks. However it was money and money only Mullen brought out and took back to count down against Doc’s two thousand.
‘I’ll take fifty of that,’ Mosehan remarked, not quite sure what Doc was up to. ‘If you like.’
‘I’ll have fifty myself,’ Jim Hume agreed.
All eyes were on the top card of the deck, waiting for Doc’s discomfiture when he turned it. His other hand reached out, extracted the nine of spades from where it lay and turned it over.
‘But you told us—’ Mullen began, then his mouth dropped open and he gave a strangled croak of, ‘You tricked us.’
‘Why sure, now you know how it feels,’ Doc replied. He scooped up the money, pushing the large heap towards Jim Hume. ‘You might be able to find some of the folks they swindled and pay them back.’
Hardie nodded, then watched Doc scoop up the ten dollar bills which Hume and Mosehan had put down in the bet. Doc took out his notecase and slipped them in.
‘Hey, that’s my money, mine and Jim’s,’ Mosehan objected.
‘And you just lost it,’ Doc replied. ‘I always told you gambling’d be your ruin, Cap’n Bert.’
~*~
It was the day after Doc’s return from a hurried ride to Allenvale to help Waco out. The two young men were being sent out on another assignment and Doc was just going to tell Mosehan and Waco, who were in the office, that the horses were ready.
He opened the door and heard something which made him stay quiet. Mosehan and Waco were at the desk, the Captain holding part of a deck of cards, the other part on the table before him.
‘All right then, boy, you’re betting your pay check against my seventy dollars that the next card I turn over isn’t the one you picked?’
‘Why sure,’ Waco agreed, laying his paycheck on the table alongside the money Mosehan had placed there. With the same move he scooped up the cards from the desk and put them in his pocket. ‘Turn ahead, Cap’n.’
Mosehan heard Doc’s laugh and turned, scowling. Waco put the money and his paycheck into his pocket, took his hat up and headed for the door.
‘Did you teach him that damned trick, Doc?’ Mosehan asked.
‘Why no, I’ll confess I didn’t,’ Doc answered. ‘See, Waco was the one who taught it to me.’
Before the speechless Captain of Rangers could say another word the door shut. Before he had time to get to his feet and go after the two jovial tricksters he heard hooves and knew they were already on their way. He went back to his desk, sat down and shook his head.
‘My mammy told me there’d be days like this,’ he said.