The Templar Reprisals (The Best Thrillers Book 3) by James Best (free ebook reader for ipad .TXT) 📗

I turned to my partner. He passed but not before giving me a sour look.

Everyone stared at Dr. Dooley. He took his time, but we all knew. After forcing us to watch his little drama, he finally said, “Pass,” and I immediately responded with, “Hearts.”

I caught an uneasy glance from Jeremiah, but I gave my partner a wink and led with the ace of spades. Richard’s three of hearts was in mid-flight when a distant gunshot froze everything but the floating card. When I started to speak, Jeremiah halted me with an upraised palm and perked ears.

After a few moments, my companions’ rigid expressions suddenly regained life. “Damn,” Dooley said.

“Looks like ya might have some work, Doc,” Jeremiah said.

“A series of gunshots means a drunk got rowdy, but one or two means somebody probably got himself shot,” Richard said.

The explanation was for me, the newly arrived city dweller. The year was 1879, and I had come to the western frontier to explore and find adventure. I had arrived in this Nevada mining settlement only four days before and had soon made friends with the only literate men in this stove-top town.

“Stay here.” Dr. Dooley scratched his chair away from the table. “I’ll have a look.”

“Doc, just hang in and finish the hand,” Richard said. “They’ll come and get ya if they need ya.”

On hot nights, Richard propped the front door ajar with a heavy can of ink. Dooley glanced through the opening to see if any hysterical men were running in our direction.

“They know where ya are,” Richard added.

Dooley scooted his chair back up to the table. “All right, let’s play.”

When I arrived in town, I had gone over to the newspaper office to buy current and back issues of the town paper, a habit I had picked up in my travels. A quick read of four or five issues gave a person a fair grasp of the town and its grand denizens. Pickhandle Gulch seemed to have a penchant for rowdiness, but the newspaper stories concentrated on the silver mines and their monthly production. As best I could tell, people with good claims were growing richer than the paper miners I was familiar with on Wall Street.

When I had entered his print shop four days ago, Richard—reporter, editor, and printer—looked pleased to sell some old copies, but he was absolutely delighted when I answered a casual query in the affirmative: yes, I knew how to play whist. Reverend Cunningham, their fourth, had died a few weeks prior, and the three men had been in a funk ever since.

Thus started our nightly ritual of after-dinner whist. Funny how the little pleasures make life worth living, and life in Pickhandle Gulch needed some diversion beyond the predictable fare at Ruby’s whorehouse. I had visited many western towns, but Pickhandle Gulch seemed especially bleak. The discovery of silver had attracted rough-hewn men from all over the continent, and now the settlement had grown to be the largest in southwest Nevada.

“Richard, it’s your lead, for God’s sake.” Jeremiah used an oath I presumed the Reverend Cunningham would have objected to.

Everybody returned their attention to the cards, Richard with a smidgen of glee, and my partner with elevating levels of disgust every time Richard pulled another heart from his hand. Despite my best efforts, the hand played out badly for us, and we went set.

I guessed that my three companions were close to my age, and I had just celebrated my thirty-first birthday. Richard showed the fastidiousness of a printer and was afflicted with a strain of grumpiness that could become endearing once you got to know him. And he was a good whist player—short spades during the last hand.

My partner, Jeremiah, ran the general store and had a good head for numbers and an even better head for cards.

Dr. Dooley wore the crumpled look and grouchy manner of a seasoned physician. I presume he thought this would boost patients’ confidence, but I preferred my doctors young and recently educated rather than old and world-weary.

These were three smart men trapped in a dusty, hot town that pined for a wisp of breeze or a cleansing shower. Since I had arrived, neither blessing had interrupted the kilnlike days that invariably melded into flat, windless nights.

As I dealt the next hand, little Jemmy stuck his head in the open door and yelled, “Hey, Doc! Brian Cutler shot Dave Masters!”

“Hurt bad?” Dooley asked.

“Dead.”

“Then it’s the undertaker’s problem, not mine.”

“Don’t you want to look at the body?”

“Seen dead bodies before. Run along, Jemmy. We got a serious game here.”

A serious game was two bits a point, but the size of the bet meant nothing. With the last hand, ol’ Doc and Richard led eleven to six, and evidently, no ordinary killing was going to cut short their grab for glory.

I stopped shuffling and asked, “Richard, don’t you need to go get the story?”

“Not news. Deal.”

“Not news?”

“The Cutlers are a vile bunch,” Richard explained. “Two brothers … each as mean as a diamondback. They come to town every couple of weeks to get drunk, visit Ruby’s, shoot some poor son of a bitch, and get a bath. Pretty much in that order.”

I ignored Richard’s wave that prompted me to deal the cards. “What about the law?” I asked.

“As long as the Cutlers pay for damages, the sheriff turns a blind eye.” He made another hand motion. “Damn it, quit stalling and deal them cards. It’s time you took the licking you deserve.”

I passed the deck to my right, but Dooley declined to cut. When I continued to hesitate, Richard made another Hurry up gesture. I knew the command to deal must hide a larger story, but their faces told me this was all I was going to get, at least tonight. A man killed, but the town newspaperman and the sole doctor barely blink. This was the West, and Pickhandle Gulch was remote and isolated, but my new friends’ reaction seemed surprisingly subdued.

I glanced