Chapter One
Anyone would know at a glance that Newlywed was no longer in Bert's hands. She'd never been exactly shabby, but Bert's priorities leaned away from making her pleasing to the eye. Keeping Newlywed clean, freshly painted, and crewed by respectable-looking men would have bitten deeply into Bert's ten cents from every dollar to change hands on his boat. He'd always managed to keep it just decent enough that people with money wouldn't turn up their noses at the prospect of a hand, but it had never gone beyond that. No one was fooled into thinking it was a classy joint, even if that was the way Bert had liked to think of it.
Things were different now. Her hull, her paddles-every inch of the steamboat was lovely white with yellow trim. There were banners, streamers, and decorative lamps. Newlywed lit up the river and the evening, tingeing the mist and the water gold. It was impressive that that was all it took to make what was in Tom's estimation the humblest paddle steamer on the water into something remarkable.
However warm it looked, none of that warmth reached him. He was in the shadows between the cobbler and the barrel maker, watching in silence. He rubbed his hands together and waited, drawing back out of sight as two men rode by on horseback.
He'd recognized at least half the people going aboard, but there was only one who gave him pause: Pollock. He was a player out of Reno, and he wasn't much talked about, but Tom had sat down with him three times. Not once had he walked out with a profit. Pollock didn't just know how to get money; he knew how to keep it. He was such an easy fellow that most folks didn't mind seeing him win.
It was all right, though. One of the others to go aboard, in the company of no fewer than three girls in silly gowns, was Franklin McCall. McCall was every gambler's favorite opponent: a man with enough money that there was no danger he'd ever run out and the sort of disposition that rendered him able to lose it regularly without getting sore.
Tom hadn't seen Russell yet, but he'd be there as well, and there was no telling what sort of trouble he'd be. If he was sober and things were going well with his wife, he'd likely be the big winner in the end. If not, he'd be good for a few easy dollars.
There was some kind of luck at play already; Tom's new suit would've been overdressing for Bert's boat, but for the new Newlywed, it was just enough that he wouldn't stand out. Even Red Parker looked decent; the last time Tom had seen him, he'd been using string for suspenders.
Tom had seen enough, and it was getting to where he'd be pushing the limit of being fashionably late. He straightened up and went into the open, impressed by the relative quiet. Omaha had tripled in size in the past three years, but it wasn't like some other places that got to be this crowded. It wasn't as loud yet, and there was still a little clean air in it, at least close to the water, where the wind had room to move.
The welcome waiting for him was a warm one, with porters in uniform, and he even spotted a woman dressed as a maid.
Three well-dressed men, and one well-dressed idiot, were also waiting. It was easy to tell which one was Mr. Carroll: surely no one else would wear a white dinner jacket on a paddle steamer on the Missouri. There was enough wax in his mustache that it could have doubled as a candle, and enough gold in just the chain of his watch to buy a few good horses. The two other gentlemen were strangers to Tom, but he knew their type, and he wasn't worried. He'd never loved the ground rocking underfoot, but there was no helping it; there was money to be made here.
And the fourth man, well, everyone knew him.
"Dan," Tom said dryly in greeting, shaking his hand.
"Tom," Dan replied as though they hadn't seen each other just a few hours ago. Tom had to admit, Dan had come a long way. It seemed he had a bit of a poker face himself; he hadn't given any indication at all that he intended to be on this boat. Carroll must have hired him for his gun.
"Mr. Calvert," Carroll said, and there was some real warmth in the words. Indeed, there was a good deal of warmth coming from them all. If you were going to lose money, it was best to do it with a smile. "I'm very glad to meet you."
Tom sensed it was true; there wasn't any lying in his eyes, only confidence. Tom supposed if he had enough money to just buy a steamboat, he might come off like that himself.
"You as well, sir." He shook readily. "It was news to me today that Newlywed belonged to you."
"It's just a whim," the other man replied, waving his cigar. "My wife was so taken by the card games on the Mississippi that she wanted it all for herself. I'm coming around to seeing it her way." He shrugged and looked down at the lanterns lining the boat. "Good feelings and good cheer, you know."
That was true enough until the wrong man started losing.
"Well, it was kind of you to honor Bert's invitation to me," Tom told him.
"You're very welcome, Mr. Calvert. I've seen you play."
"Oh?"
"In Topeka."
Tom stiffened. "Topeka," he replied, taken aback, and the deck seemed to rise a little extra underfoot. The lanterns swayed in the breeze, and the laughter and voices from inside were suddenly very far away.
"What was that man's name?" Carroll asked, chewing his cigar.
"Can't say that I remember," Tom lied.
"You only gave him what he deserved. You did not do one thing that I would not have done myself," Carroll assured him. "He dug his own grave. However, we aren't here to greet you because we're enjoying the weather. I'm afraid that with my wife being here and all, I'm not allowing any firearms onboard."
"I hope you took Red's," Tom told him frankly.
"All," Carroll said, smiling.
"Fair enough." Tom pulled back his coat, took out the pistol tucked into his belt, and handed it to Dan.
"Is that a habit of yours," Carroll asked curiously, "not to wear a holster? It was the same in Topeka if my memory serves me."
Tom shrugged. "Just like every other joint I ever walked into, Mr. Carroll, I'm here to play cards, not to shoot anyone. I have this one too," he added, giving Dan a look. The other man had been staring expectantly, as though challenging him not to mention the tiny gun in his waistcoat. Tom pulled it out, holding it out in his palm.
Carroll raised an eyebrow and took it, holding it up to the light to admire the pearl handles and the engravings on its two barrels.
"I wager you won this from someone," he murmured. "It doesn't seem like the sort of thing you'd choose."
"I did. I keep it for luck. It isn't even loaded," Tom said, waving a hand. It was true. He'd have a better chance of being elected president than hitting anything with that toy.
Carroll tipped the barrels open and peered in, finding the chambers empty. "Well, Mr. Calvert, if there's one thing I've seen for myself, it's that you have a cool head. I wouldn't try to confiscate your luck."
Tom snorted. "I'm not superstitious. More than luck, I keep it for the memories."
"Won it from a woman, did you?"
"As you said, it's not the sort of thing you expect a man to carry."
Carroll grinned and tossed it back. "Have a pleasant night tonight as well, Mr. Calvert."
"Thank you, sir. I plan on it." Tom tipped his hat and went aboard.
Newlywed was even more difficult to recognize up close. There were more than just paint and decorations; walls had been added and removed, and now there was carpet inside. Just the smell of the dinner being cooked down below was enough to push cards out of Tom's mind.
A man in a suit took him to a cabin, which was cramped but still better appointed than most hotel rooms. Tom had always liked Bert, and he'd enjoyed playing cards on this boat, but he wouldn't miss him or the way Newlywed had been in the past. There'd always been a moldy smell that had clung to the boat no matter what season it was. That was gone, which was a pleasant surprise.
Tom's things were already there, and he was half surprised they hadn't been unpacked for him, not that he planned to stay more than a single night. The boat would reach the Nebraska camp by midmorning, and he'd go ashore there and find a stage that could take him to Topeka. He was not superstitious, and he would not avoid Topeka because of what had happened there.
The man's name had been Colin Adams, he'd been a sore loser, and it had been a fair fight. There was nothing more to say about it. So Carroll had been among the onlookers; Tom wouldn't have guessed. At any rate, that had been nearly six months ago, so it was time to go back and take whatever money Topeka had to offer. Then to Wichita to do the same there before swinging back north. He'd never been any farther west than Reno, and it was high time he saw what was waiting out that way.
He pulled back the drapes and peered out at the river. The sun was nearly done for the day, but so were the clouds, so it would be a clear night. A good night to be out on deck if it wasn't so cold. He'd never seen chill like this in July in all his life.
Rubbing his hands together, he patted himself down, patting a few extra times where his gun would've been. It didn't bother him not to have it; it was just a different sort of feeling. Nothing would happen at a game like this, but there was no blaming Carroll for being cautious. He was new to this business, and he'd probably heard stories.
And he'd been there in Topeka to see what had happened to Colin Adams.
Raised voices startled Tom, and he turned toward the door.
"You think I don't know a liar when I see one?" a man shouted.
Well, that was new. The first hand hadn't even been dealt, and people were already calling one another cheats. Tom opened the door and went out to find a big man, well-dressed, towering over a terrified boy.
The boy wasn't half as well-dressed as the man, and he was clearly a hand aboard the boat; there was coal on his hands and face and oversized sleeves.
And his eyes were so full of lies, Tom couldn't help but feel bad for him.
"I did not steal anything," the boy said, raising his hands as though he expected to be hit. It was jarring how well he spoke, being so small, thin, and ragged.
He spoke his words well, but he didn't choose them well. He shouldn't have denied stealing; he should have denied being a thief-but whatever his grift was, he was so bad at it that there was no saving it at this point. Not that Tom approved; he certainly didn't.
"I know you didn't! I caught you before you could do it!" the man roared.
"What was he doing?" Tom asked curiously, and the big man turned on him.
"He was in my room. I seen him."
"I was bringing a towel," the boy blurted.
"With them hands?" the man asked disdainfully, eyeing the coal stains.
The boy swallowed.
"Where's the towel?"
"It's there, mister."
Indeed, in the next room over, there was a folded towel on the table. It even had a few grayish smudges on it where the boy's fingers had been. This was the worst game Tom had ever seen, bar none, but at least the boy had made some sort of effort to sell whatever it was he was trying to pull over on this man. He looked only about thirteen, so it would be a while yet before he had enough brains to do much more than find trouble.
The big man wasn't convinced, and rightly so. The boy had fully intended to steal from him.
"You look familiar," Tom told him. "I saw you on the Mississippi, didn't I? Aboard Sawyer's boat. You were serving drinks. You ought to be more careful. Misunderstandings'll get you killed. The wrong fellow thinks you're doing wrong on a night like this, and you're liable to get a bullet, not a paddle."
The big man scowled, slammed his door shut, and locked it. He stalked off without another word. He was more concerned with the cards than with a boy who might have been a thief. He'd gotten his temper under control fast; Tom had never seen him before, but at a glance, he looked like trouble.
Tom stifled a yawn, but the boy was still there, giving him a funny look. Tom sighed and leaned in, lowering his voice.
"If you're going to steal, don't do it at the beginning of the voyage," he murmured. "Wait until you got somewhere to go with what you get." He saw the look on the boy's face and smiled. "Why do you want to steal anyway? Boat like this, you're probably paid a dollar a day. Isn't that enough for you?"
The boy looked uncertain, and that gave it away. He wasn't being paid at all. He probably wasn't even supposed to be aboard. What had his plan been? Had he even had one?
There were a lot of things Tom could have said.
Instead, he shook his head and gave the boy a pitying look.
"You do what you have to," he said, locking his own door. "But for what it's worth, I'll tell you this isn't the right boat to try your first grift on."
He left it at that. This was no business of his; the boy was no threat, and if he wanted to take a risk, well, Tom had never let anyone talk him out of that.
Chapter Two
Looking like a classy joint wasn't enough to make it one.
A night's entertainment for real people of means would have been more leisurely, but the dinner and all that were just formalities; they were what you did. No one wanted to play cards on an empty stomach, but they did want to get on with it.
Chapter One
Anyone would know at a glance that Newlywed was no longer in Bert's hands. She'd never been exactly shabby, but Bert's priorities leaned away from making her pleasing to the eye. Keeping Newlywed clean, freshly painted, and crewed by respectable-looking men would have bitten deeply into Bert's ten cents from every dollar to change hands on his boat. He'd always managed to keep it just decent enough that people with money wouldn't turn up their noses at the prospect of a hand, but it had never gone beyond that. No one was fooled into thinking it was a classy joint, even if that was the way Bert had liked to think of it.
Things were different now. Her hull, her paddles-every inch of the steamboat was lovely white with yellow trim. There were banners, streamers, and decorative lamps. Newlywed lit up the river and the evening, tingeing the mist and the water gold. It was impressive that that was all it took to make what was in Tom's estimation the humblest paddle steamer on the water into something remarkable.
However warm it looked, none of that warmth reached him. He was in the shadows between the cobbler and the barrel maker, watching in silence. He rubbed his hands together and waited, drawing back out of sight as two men rode by on horseback.
He'd recognized at least half the people going aboard, but there was only one who gave him pause: Pollock. He was a player out of Reno, and he wasn't much talked about, but Tom had sat down with him three times. Not once had he walked out with a profit. Pollock didn't just know how to get money; he knew how to keep it. He was such an easy fellow that most folks didn't mind seeing him win.
It was all right, though. One of the others to go aboard, in the company of no fewer than three girls in silly gowns, was Franklin McCall. McCall was every gambler's favorite opponent: a man with enough money that there was no danger he'd ever run out and the sort of disposition that rendered him able to lose it regularly without getting sore.
Tom hadn't seen Russell yet, but he'd be there as well, and there was no telling what sort of trouble he'd be. If he was sober and things were going well with his wife, he'd likely be the big winner in the end. If not, he'd be good for a few easy dollars.
There was some kind of luck at play already; Tom's new suit would've been overdressing for Bert's boat, but for the new Newlywed, it was just enough that he wouldn't stand out. Even Red Parker looked decent; the last time Tom had seen him, he'd been using string for suspenders.
Tom had seen enough, and it was getting to where he'd be pushing the limit of being fashionably late. He straightened up and went into the open, impressed by the relative quiet. Omaha had tripled in size in the past three years, but it wasn't like some other places that got to be this crowded. It wasn't as loud yet, and there was still a little clean air in it, at least close to the water, where the wind had room to move.
The welcome waiting for him was a warm one, with porters in uniform, and he even spotted a woman dressed as a maid.
Three well-dressed men, and one well-dressed idiot, were also waiting. It was easy to tell which one was Mr. Carroll: surely no one else would wear a white dinner jacket on a paddle steamer on the Missouri. There was enough wax in his mustache that it could have doubled as a candle, and enough gold in just the chain of his watch to buy a few good horses. The two other gentlemen were strangers to Tom, but he knew their type, and he wasn't worried. He'd never loved the ground rocking underfoot, but there was no helping it; there was money to be made here.
And the fourth man, well, everyone knew him.
"Dan," Tom said dryly in greeting, shaking his hand.
"Tom," Dan replied as though they hadn't seen each other just a few hours ago. Tom had to admit, Dan had come a long way. It seemed he had a bit of a poker face himself; he hadn't given any indication at all that he intended to be on this boat. Carroll must have hired him for his gun.
"Mr. Calvert," Carroll said, and there was some real warmth in the words. Indeed, there was a good deal of warmth coming from them all. If you were going to lose money, it was best to do it with a smile. "I'm very glad to meet you."
Tom sensed it was true; there wasn't any lying in his eyes, only confidence. Tom supposed if he had enough money to just buy a steamboat, he might come off like that himself.
"You as well, sir." He shook readily. "It was news to me today that Newlywed belonged to you."
"It's just a whim," the other man replied, waving his cigar. "My wife was so taken by the card games on the Mississippi that she wanted it all for herself. I'm coming around to seeing it her way." He shrugged and looked down at the lanterns lining the boat. "Good feelings and good cheer, you know."
That was true enough until the wrong man started losing.
"Well, it was kind of you to honor Bert's invitation to me," Tom told him.
"You're very welcome, Mr. Calvert. I've seen you play."
"Oh?"
"In Topeka."
Tom stiffened. "Topeka," he replied, taken aback, and the deck seemed to rise a little extra underfoot. The lanterns swayed in the breeze, and the laughter and voices from inside were suddenly very far away.
"What was that man's name?" Carroll asked, chewing his cigar.
"Can't say that I remember," Tom lied.
"You only gave him what he deserved. You did not do one thing that I would not have done myself," Carroll assured him. "He dug his own grave. However, we aren't here to greet you because we're enjoying the weather. I'm afraid that with my wife being here and all, I'm not allowing any firearms onboard."
"I hope you took Red's," Tom told him frankly.
"All," Carroll said, smiling.
"Fair enough." Tom pulled back his coat, took out the pistol tucked into his belt, and handed it to Dan.
"Is that a habit of yours," Carroll asked curiously, "not to wear a holster? It was the same in Topeka if my memory serves me."
Tom shrugged. "Just like every other joint I ever walked into, Mr. Carroll, I'm here to play cards, not to shoot anyone. I have this one too," he added, giving Dan a look. The other man had been staring expectantly, as though challenging him not to mention the tiny gun in his waistcoat. Tom pulled it out, holding it out in his palm.
Carroll raised an eyebrow and took it, holding it up to the light to admire the pearl handles and the engravings on its two barrels.
"I wager you won this from someone," he murmured. "It doesn't seem like the sort of thing you'd choose."
"I did. I keep it for luck. It isn't even loaded," Tom said, waving a hand. It was true. He'd have a better chance of being elected president than hitting anything with that toy.
Carroll tipped the barrels open and peered in, finding the chambers empty. "Well, Mr. Calvert, if there's one thing I've seen for myself, it's that you have a cool head. I wouldn't try to confiscate your luck."
Tom snorted. "I'm not superstitious. More than luck, I keep it for the memories."
"Won it from a woman, did you?"
"As you said, it's not the sort of thing you expect a man to carry."
Carroll grinned and tossed it back. "Have a pleasant night tonight as well, Mr. Calvert."
"Thank you, sir. I plan on it." Tom tipped his hat and went aboard.
Newlywed was even more difficult to recognize up close. There were more than just paint and decorations; walls had been added and removed, and now there was carpet inside. Just the smell of the dinner being cooked down below was enough to push cards out of Tom's mind.
A man in a suit took him to a cabin, which was cramped but still better appointed than most hotel rooms. Tom had always liked Bert, and he'd enjoyed playing cards on this boat, but he wouldn't miss him or the way Newlywed had been in the past. There'd always been a moldy smell that had clung to the boat no matter what season it was. That was gone, which was a pleasant surprise.
Tom's things were already there, and he was half surprised they hadn't been unpacked for him, not that he planned to stay more than a single night. The boat would reach the Nebraska camp by midmorning, and he'd go ashore there and find a stage that could take him to Topeka. He was not superstitious, and he would not avoid Topeka because of what had happened there.
The man's name had been Colin Adams, he'd been a sore loser, and it had been a fair fight. There was nothing more to say about it. So Carroll had been among the onlookers; Tom wouldn't have guessed. At any rate, that had been nearly six months ago, so it was time to go back and take whatever money Topeka had to offer. Then to Wichita to do the same there before swinging back north. He'd never been any farther west than Reno, and it was high time he saw what was waiting out that way.
He pulled back the drapes and peered out at the river. The sun was nearly done for the day, but so were the clouds, so it would be a clear night. A good night to be out on deck if it wasn't so cold. He'd never seen chill like this in July in all his life.
Rubbing his hands together, he patted himself down, patting a few extra times where his gun would've been. It didn't bother him not to have it; it was just a different sort of feeling. Nothing would happen at a game like this, but there was no blaming Carroll for being cautious. He was new to this business, and he'd probably heard stories.
And he'd been there in Topeka to see what had happened to Colin Adams.
Raised voices startled Tom, and he turned toward the door.
"You think I don't know a liar when I see one?" a man shouted.
Well, that was new. The first hand hadn't even been dealt, and people were already calling one another cheats. Tom opened the door and went out to find a big man, well-dressed, towering over a terrified boy.
The boy wasn't half as well-dressed as the man, and he was clearly a hand aboard the boat; there was coal on his hands and face and oversized sleeves.
And his eyes were so full of lies, Tom couldn't help but feel bad for him.
"I did not steal anything," the boy said, raising his hands as though he expected to be hit. It was jarring how well he spoke, being so small, thin, and ragged.
He spoke his words well, but he didn't choose them well. He shouldn't have denied stealing; he should have denied being a thief-but whatever his grift was, he was so bad at it that there was no saving it at this point. Not that Tom approved; he certainly didn't.
"I know you didn't! I caught you before you could do it!" the man roared.
"What was he doing?" Tom asked curiously, and the big man turned on him.
"He was in my room. I seen him."
"I was bringing a towel," the boy blurted.
"With them hands?" the man asked disdainfully, eyeing the coal stains.
The boy swallowed.
"Where's the towel?"
"It's there, mister."
Indeed, in the next room over, there was a folded towel on the table. It even had a few grayish smudges on it where the boy's fingers had been. This was the worst game Tom had ever seen, bar none, but at least the boy had made some sort of effort to sell whatever it was he was trying to pull over on this man. He looked only about thirteen, so it would be a while yet before he had enough brains to do much more than find trouble.
The big man wasn't convinced, and rightly so. The boy had fully intended to steal from him.
"You look familiar," Tom told him. "I saw you on the Mississippi, didn't I? Aboard Sawyer's boat. You were serving drinks. You ought to be more careful. Misunderstandings'll get you killed. The wrong fellow thinks you're doing wrong on a night like this, and you're liable to get a bullet, not a paddle."
The big man scowled, slammed his door shut, and locked it. He stalked off without another word. He was more concerned with the cards than with a boy who might have been a thief. He'd gotten his temper under control fast; Tom had never seen him before, but at a glance, he looked like trouble.
Tom stifled a yawn, but the boy was still there, giving him a funny look. Tom sighed and leaned in, lowering his voice.
"If you're going to steal, don't do it at the beginning of the voyage," he murmured. "Wait until you got somewhere to go with what you get." He saw the look on the boy's face and smiled. "Why do you want to steal anyway? Boat like this, you're probably paid a dollar a day. Isn't that enough for you?"
The boy looked uncertain, and that gave it away. He wasn't being paid at all. He probably wasn't even supposed to be aboard. What had his plan been? Had he even had one?
There were a lot of things Tom could have said.
Instead, he shook his head and gave the boy a pitying look.
"You do what you have to," he said, locking his own door. "But for what it's worth, I'll tell you this isn't the right boat to try your first grift on."
He left it at that. This was no business of his; the boy was no threat, and if he wanted to take a risk, well, Tom had never let anyone talk him out of that.
Chapter Two
Looking like a classy joint wasn't enough to make it one.
A night's entertainment for real people of means would have been more leisurely, but the dinner and all that were just formalities; they were what you did. No one wanted to play cards on an empty stomach, but they did want to get on with it.
