Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007
- Автор: Baldwin Barry, Campbell Melodie
- Год: 2007
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: ISSN:0002-5224
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007». Краткое содержание книги:
“No need to do that!” Patrick announced. “Miss Parson here is a right fine player.”
Miss Parson turned to stare at Patrick, a less than friendly expression on her face. “Mr. o’sullivan, I quite think I can make up my own mind as to whether or not—”
“Jezebel!” the old woman shrieked. “Harlot! Dragging these fine men into sin!”
Miss Parson whirled away from Patrick to glare at the old woman. Her body trembled with anger, and she twisted her mother’s silver wedding band around on her finger. She had known this was likely to happen, Corey realized. In fact, she had probably encountered this reaction many times before. It was probably why she played principally in saloons and avoided mixed company.
“Why thank you, Mr. o’sullivan,” Miss Parson said. “I believe a game of cards would be quite refreshing.”
“If she can play, may I?” a small, feminine, honeysuckle voice asked. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to play cards.”
“Well if this don’t beat all,” the man with the string tie said. “I don’t think I’ve ever played cards with a priest and two ladies.”
The conductors required a small cash incentive before agreeing to set up a table near the heating stove at the front end of the passenger car. The man with the string tie paid them happily enough, then took a seat at the table next to the cold stove, clearly eager to begin play.
Corey moved himself to the first row of seats behind the table where he could easily keep an eye on Patrick and Miss Parson. In doing so, he somewhat rudely beat out the Bible-thumping old woman and her family. Why she would want to be close to the action he did not know, but Corey felt certain that the players would be more comfortable if she sat back a few rows.
The old woman stood before Corey clearly waiting for him to volunteer to move. Corey squirmed but held his ground. Rudeness to a white woman was unnatural in the West, but his common sense told him that this was an acceptable exception. The old woman looked Corey up and down, taking in the fading purple bruises on his face and the still evident swelling on his hands. Then she sniffed with disdain and led her family several rows farther back.
“Now that that unpleasantness is finished,” the priest said. “Why don’t we all get better acquainted. I am Father Murphy.” He reached into the carpetbag at his feet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. “And this is my good friend, Jack. Any of you players who would like to become better acquainted with Jack, just let me know and I’ll pass him around the table.”
“Alcohol!” the old woman moaned. “Is there no end to this deviltry?”
Father Murphy took a long swig from the bottle and smacked his lips with satisfaction, seeming to delight in the woman’s distress. “Now then, we all know who I am, but as to the rest of you?” He turned toward Patrick, who was sitting on his left.
“Patrick o’sullivan,” the old man answered. “I train boxers. That there,” he indicated Corey with a nod, “is my pride and joy, Rock Quarry Callaghan.”
All eyes turned to study Corey’s bruised face. “Forgive my asking,” the young woman next to Patrick said, “but are you a good fighter, Mr. Callaghan?”
Corey smiled. The young woman was a pretty little thing with long blond hair and thick eyelashes. “I didn’t get these bruises in the ring, miss. I got them pulling him,” he indicated Patrick, “out of trouble.”
“I see,” she answered, then giggled slightly when she realized all eyes at the table were upon her. All the men smiled patiently. Miss Parson frowned.
“Oh, my name is Jenny Lynn Davis, and I’m frightfully glad to have this opportunity to join your little game. I used to watch the menfolk play back at our home in Georgia. It’s so wonderfully interesting.”
“I’m sure we are all quite glad to have you with us,” Lieutenant Ridgewood assured her. He twisted in his seat to look at Miss Parson. “I hope that the presence of you two ladies will help to keep this game friendly.”
“Indeed, Lieutenant,” Miss Parson agreed. She turned away from his smile to face the final man at the table. He had rare height and a breadth of shoulders that actually exceeded Corey’s. “Mr. o’sullivan has already given you my name, and the lieutenant has introduced himself, but I don’t believe you’ve offered your own name yet.”
The man with the string tie smiled, showing teeth stained brown with tobacco juice. “Well now, little lady, my name is Theodore Perkins, but all of you gamblers can simply call me Ted.”
“We’re pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Perkins,” Miss Parson told him. “Did you bring a deck of cards for the game?”
Perkins smile broadened. “Indeed I did, little lady.” He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a deck. His massive hand dwarfed the cards within it as he placed the deck in front of Miss Parson.
The lady gambler opened the deck and expertly rifled through the cards. They apparently satisfied her, and she returned the cards to Perkins with a slight smile.
Perkins took the deck. “Why don’t we start with a simple game of five-card draw?”
Luck is a strange and fickle lady. It was impossible to guess who she would favor with her charms. For as long as Corey had known Patrick, Luck had turned her back on the old man whenever he sat down to play cards. That afternoon on the train out of Cheyenne, Lady Luck not only smiled on Patrick, she sat down on his lap and kissed him on the cheek.
Patrick, it seemed, could do no wrong. Whether he held his hand pat or traded his cards, he always seemed to draw a winning hand. If he did lose, it was because he folded, or the pot would prove so trifling that the loss scarcely mattered. And with each successive win, the old man’s enthusiasm would grow while the pleasure of his companions diminished. By the time the train approached Laramie, Patrick had accumulated four times his starting stake, with the losses coming most heavily from Perkins and Miss Parson.
“If General Grant had folded during the war like I have today,” Lieutenant Ridgewood observed, “the South would still own its slaves.”
Miss Davis bristled at the lieutenant’s words, which caused Miss Parson to smile and address him. “You are so clever, Lieutenant,” she told him. “I’m glad that someone at this table can keep his spirits up while Mr. o’sullivan corners all the luck. Not that you are doing as poorly as I am.”
It was true. The lieutenant, thanks to a couple of decent hands, was mostly breaking even.
“I can keep my spirits up too,” Father Murphy observed. He hefted his bottle of whiskey and took a swig.
Patrick laughed in delight. “Look at all this, Corey me lad. If I had any sense, I’d quit now and we’d live off my winnings while you heal.”
“That would hardly be sporting,” Perkins protested. “You have to give us a chance to win back our money.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Perkins,” Corey assured him. “Patrick never has had any sense.”
“Twelve minutes,” called the conductor. “The train departs in twelve minutes whether or not all of you passengers are back on board.”
Steel wheels locked and screeched against the rails as the conductor spoke, grinding to a halt in Laramie Station.
Lieutenant Ridgewood got to his feet. “If we could take a short break, ladies, gentlemen, despite our conductor’s warning I feel I should check on my men.”
“So you’re not traveling alone then, Lieutenant?” Father Murphy asked.
“No, sir,” the lieutenant answered. “I’m taking six men to join the garrison at Fort Bridger. Now I don’t mean to be rude, but I want to be back before the train starts rolling. While I could step between the moving cars, I much prefer to walk beside them when the ground is still.”