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could arrange that for ya.”
    â€œI’d appreciate it.”
    â€œAin’t free, though.”
    Clint made sure the stableman saw the money in his hand, but didn’t hand any over. “How long will it take to get done?”
    â€œFew days,” the stableman said with another shrug.
    â€œHow long?”
    Staring at the money the way a hungry dog might drool over a steak, the stableman said, “I can probably get it done tomorrow, but it might take until the day after that. I don’t know how busy Uncle Tim is.”
    Clint added a few dollars to the stable fees and handed the money over. “The sooner it gets done, the more appreciative I’ll be when I leave.”
    Despite his dull eyes and slack jaw, the stableman had no trouble interpreting that.

NINE
    The tournament was a simple affair. Each man bought in for a certain amount of chips, and losing all your chips meant it was the end of that man’s chance to win. With a buy-in at only seventy-five dollars, it was also one of the cheapest tournaments Clint had ever entered. That relatively low fee, however, meant a lot more people could throw their hats into the ring. By the time the first hand was dealt, Clint figured the grand prize had grown to a fairly respectable size.
    Just as Delilah had predicted, Clint was given a stern warning the moment he plunked down his entry fee. “Don’t expect this back if you force me to kick you out of here again,” the barkeep said. He was the same barkeep who’d wielded the sawed-off shotgun when George had thrown his fit yesterday. Judging by the look in his eyes, he was awfully close to reaching for that shotgun again.
    â€œI didn’t start it the first time and I won’t start anything this time,” Clint said. “Did you give this same speech to George?”
    â€œNo.” Nodding toward the back of the saloon, the barkeep said, “He did.”
    Clint looked in that direction to find a man who seemed big enough to hold up that portion of the building on his wide shoulders. A long mustache sprouted from his upper lip like black wax dripping off his face. His crossed arms had the thickness of entwined logs. Even with those natural assets, the big man wore a double-rig holster around his waist.
    Perhaps recognizing the surprised expression on Clint’s face, the barkeep said, “Les had the day off when you were tossed out.”
    â€œSeems that was my lucky day after all.”
    â€œYou got that right. You’ll be playing at that table over there.”
    Looking to the spot where the barkeep was pointing, he spotted a table with two empty seats. Suddenly, he saw Les straighten up to become even taller. The reason for that made itself known a second later.
    â€œWhat the hell is this?” George grunted as he and two other men stomped into Pace’s Emporium.
    â€œStay right there, George,” the barkeep said. Jabbing a finger at Clint, he said, “You. Get to your table and stay put.”
    Clint held up his hands and walked away. Les watched him like a hawk until he got to his chair. Then, the big man shifted his gaze to George and watched him with just as much intensity.
    Just as his backside was touching his seat, Clint was greeted by a familiar face.
    â€œHello again, Mister Adams,” Wendell said.
    Not only was the skinny banker sitting in at another of Clint’s games, but he was in the same spot to his right that he’d been at the last game. “I just can’t seem to shake you,” Clint said. Before Wendell could get the wrong idea, Clint grinned and slapped the skinny man on the back. “Good luck to you.”
    â€œBetter than our last game, at least,” Wendell replied.
    The first hands were to be dealt promptly at eight o’clock, which gave the men in attendance another couple of hours before the tournament got underway. That didn’t stop any of the tables from starting games of their