Chapter 17
It’s past midnight by the time they finally call it a night, and Cypress once again closes the evening with less than he started. Substantially less, by my estimate. His accumulated debt seeming even worse than the night prior since he stayed far longer.
“Beginning to worry I may be out of my depth,” he’s telling Maddock and the others as the table gets to their feet, shaking his head with a sheepish expression while they try to reassure him otherwise. “Perhaps I ought to excuse myself from tomorrow’s game?”
“You really are having one hell of a bad luck streak. Those last few hands…you have my sympathies,” Maddock says, both his words and his steps swaying slightly with the influence of drink as he rounds the table toward Cypress. “Or you would, if your misfortune wasn’t working so much in my favor.”
“Well,” Cypress replies, continuing to do a good job of looking both innocent and amiable as Maddock laughs at his own joke. “Most important thing is that you’re enjoying yourself.”
From what I’d observed earlier this evening, things had seemed somewhat strained between them for a time, Cypress’s fingers drumming away at the top of the table whenever he didn’t have a hold of cards.
But it seems to be water under the bridge now, Maddock still laughing as he says, “Remind me to never ride one of your trains. Given what I’ve seen of you, I’m not sure I’d make it to my final destination. ”
“I’d ensure it personally,” Cypress replies, standing impressively firm when Maddock claps his hand hard against his shoulder.
I cover my own laugh behind my hand, positive there’s a double meaning in there, but Maddock doesn’t seem to notice any more than he does that Cypress is letting him win.
Certainly is a curious thing for the thief to do, unless it’s his goal to go broke, but I don’t think that’s the case simply based on the way he likes to dress and the company he likes to keep.
Nor am I of the opinion that he comes from such an endless supply of money that there’s no risk he might run out.
Haven’t met many wealthy people who know how to pick pockets that well. Never consider it a skill they need to bother with when they are plenty comfortable stealing right in front of you. Key difference being that they can afford the consequences of getting caught. If there even are any.
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Maddock says, draping an arm around Cypress’s shoulders as they start for the door, practically giving the thief an open invitation to rob him blind, and I suppose I ought to try to stop him if I’m to hold up my end of the deal.
With a sigh, I straighten from my barstool, the shift in my position immediately recapturing Cypress’s attention. He turns his head to look at me, and the quickness of his response is enough to get Maddock looking, too. Upon seeing me, he withdraws his arm from around Cypress, his face screwing up.
“Ah, of course, the legend himself,” my employer says. “Practically the second coming, according to some.” Maddock directs this at the older man who favors cigars, the same one who came up to me earlier talking about things I’d rather forget.
“Think you’ve probably had enough for the night, Maddock,” he says, shaking his head at him. “Maybe should’ve called it when Charley did.”
“I’m far better off than that old bastard,” Maddock snaps back, the end of his sentence slurring in unintentional disagreement.
“Besides, I say when we’re done.” He turns again, squinting in my direction as if to see me better from across the saloon, and some of the other patrons still left in here promptly part ways to clear his path. “Isn’t that right?”
“Sure, boss,” I say, doing a quick count of the twenty remaining souls in the room, including the bartender and the shotgun he has stashed under the bar, before planting my hands on my hips as I stare right back. “Whatever you say goes.”
Maddock smiles. “Look at that. Suddenly, so quick to obey.” He glances back at Cypress. “And we’re supposed to believe he’s some great fighter?”
My jaw tenses, teeth grinding together as I bite back a retort before I catch Cypress’s gaze flicking to me. His own smile stays easy enough, though the way he’s tap, tap, tapping again with his thumb against his thigh says it’s all for show. Does he even know he does that?
“Prudent fighter knows which fights to take on,” Cypress says, voice low as his eyes stay on mine. “And which to leave.”
There’s a warning in there, I’m positive.
One he’s hoping I’ll heed, because I suspect he has as little interest as I do in this taking a turn.
Him because he’s yet to have earned his money back, plus whatever amount he planned to add to it.
Me because I have no interest in observing firsthand how Maddock or one of his crews ended up leaving a man dead outside of San Antonio.
I’d been out with the herd when it happened. I’d been doing what I thought I ought to be doing that time, but maybe it still counts against me regardless.
“How right you are. Always best to be prudent,” Maddock replies to Cypress, his agreement pulling my gaze back to him. “That how you killed so many, Aiden? Knowing how to be prudent about your battles?”
The saloon goes quiet as one conversation dies away, then another and then another, as more people catch wind of what’s going on. Although, honestly, it’s hard for me to hear the silence over the rushing in my ears.
“That’s enough,” the older man cuts in again, and I really wish he wouldn’t. He doesn’t need to out of some misguided sense of duty. “If you’re implying—”
“I’m not implying anything,” Maddock replies with a shrug. “Just curious how many of those famous duels were against men who actually knew their way around a weapon. Maybe if he’d had some real competition…perhaps the papers would have read different? Not so complimentary after all.”
Maddock steps toward me, and Cypress casts another warning glance my way before calmly saying to him, “I think we need—”
“What we need is a demonstration. Otherwise, how do we even know he is who he says he is?” Maddock asks, and I think the older man cuts in with another warning, one that I mostly miss because I’m too busy watching Cypress move to put himself more firmly between me and my employer.
“Maddock, whatever it is you’re hoping to prove—”
“Won’t need to prove anything. Not after everyone sees,” Maddock counters, pushing past Cypress and weaving closer to me through the tables. “This is about twenty paces, isn’t it? Maybe not quite.”
“Maddock,” I say, my left hand up as my right hovers near my holster, which conveniently hides the fact my fingers are shaking. “Let’s take this outside.”
“Why?” He laughs. “Are you telling me you’re actually going to grab for that gun?” He nods at the pistol in my belt. “Never seen you so much as look at it.”
“Haven’t had a reason to,” I reply, keeping an eye on Maddock while also trying to keep his men in my periphery. All of them look ready to reach for a weapon themselves—well, all of them except the kid, who is white as a sheet as he lingers near the front door. “You going to give me one?”
“I want to see what all the fuss is about,” Maddock continues. “And I’m sure I can’t be the only one.”
The man who approached me earlier also seems to have noticed the kid’s quick escape path because he’s shifted quietly his way, bending to whisper something in his ear before the kid nods and slips out the door.
“I think I just need to see it for myself,” Maddock says. “Have my own chance to weigh in on the myth.” He smirks. “You know, I’ve been told I’m pretty fast. Pretty damn fast.”
“Outside,” I offer again, doing an obvious look around the room this time as a reminder of the others present. “We don’t want someone getting hurt.”
He looks around too, as if this has only now occurred to him, but instead of innocent bystanders, he merely sees an audience.
“We won’t really shoot. We’ll just see…” Maddock’s hand starts to stray toward his own belt beneath his coat.
“We’ll see who’s really the better man after all. On the count of four?”
Fuck, is he actually…
“One.” Maddock smiles, then widens his stance as if he’s bracing for the rush of a bull rather than a bullet. Something that might have been funny if it didn’t also let me know there’s a fairly good chance that even if he doesn’t intend to shoot me, he still might out of sheer ignorance.
“Two.” I wonder how many of Maddock’s men will shoot at me if I take their boss down. No matter if I only aim to wound. My gaze lands on each of them in a rapid assessment, stopping when I reach Cypress. The only one who meets my eyes.
“Three.” Almost imperceptibly, he shakes his head. Expression pleading with me to trust him, but there’s no reason for me to. Not one that makes any sense. None of this makes any sense.
“Four.” Maddock reaches, and I…I don’t. Fuck, I—
“The hell is my gun?” Maddock’s outburst brings my attention to him in time to see him staring blankly at his empty holster. “Who took it?”
It takes everything in my power not to look right at Cypress again, even after he’s turning toward the table as if helping to search. “Are you sure you had it with you? Perhaps you left it back at the hotel this evening?”
“Who do you take me for?” Maddock protests, sounding more like an angry child. “I never leave without my—”
“What’s going on in here?” a new voice cracks in, booming from the front door. A burly-looking man more than twice my age strides in without waiting for an answer, rifle already in hand and a shiny sheriff’s badge on his chest. “No one had better be starting something in my town.”
“No, sir,” Maddock says, perfectly pleasant again as he turns, and I wonder if he’s also seen the kid sneaking back in behind the law. “We were just heading out for the evening.”
“That right?” the sheriff asks, highly suspicious as he switches from glaring at Maddock and me to looking elsewhere for confirmation. “Everything good here, Clay?”
The man with the cigar nods, solidifying my belief that he is a local. “S’alright I think now, Ben. Appreciate you coming down in the middle of the night.”
The sheriff nods, but then turns again to Maddock. “Well, if you are heading out, then I suggest you get movin’.” He jerks his head toward the door. “Now.”
“You got it, Sheriff.” Maddock holds up his hands, still smiling as he makes for the street out front with his entourage on his heels, including Cypress, who gives me one last once-over.
“You have a good evening,” he tells the sheriff before disappearing out the door.
In return, the sheriff tips his hat, then faces me once more. Fortunately, I need no further prodding, already digging a few coins out of my pocket to leave on the bartop for the trouble before exiting in the opposite direction out the back.