Apparition Trail, The by Lisa Smedman Page B

Grabbing one of the glasses on the table, he poured the residue of cold tea it held onto the floor, then refilled the glass with amber liquid, measuring the amount by holding his four fingers against the glass and stopping when the liquid was level with the uppermost finger. Judging by the smell, it was whiskey.
    He screwed the lid back on his flask and shoved it back into the folds of his odorous shirt. That done, he stared at me, as if challenging me to uphold the law that prohibited possession of alcohol without a permit. I met his eye with a level stare, and he at last answered the Englishman’s question.
    “Four Finger Pete’s my name, and I come from here and there — most lately, Fort Garry. I’ll play until my drink is done, then quit the game, win or lose.” His look suggested that he intended to win — and that we’d better like it when he did.
    I’d met men like him before, and had even been forced to draw my revolver on them a time or two. I considered myself a match for this Four Finger Pete. Yet Steele had instructed me not to draw any attention to myself while on this case. I had to satisfy myself with giving the uncouth fellow a glare, and leave it at that.
    We played six more hands of poker, three of which I won. As coins and twenty-five-cent shinplaster bills piled up in front of me I saw a spark of anger ignite in Four Finger Pete’s eye. I deliberately lost the next hand, not wanting to provoke a confrontation with the American gunslinger. Shaking my head as if bewildered by my change of luck, I secretly sighed in relief as Four Finger Pete scooped up the pot, which had grown to a substantial eight dollars and fifty cents. I could see by his confident attitude that he was used to winning, and guessed that he was a professional gambler. I’d have loved to have taken him down a notch or two — something that would have been easy, given my luck at cards — but Steele’s admonition to remain inconspicuous kept ringing through my thoughts.
    Chambers was the next to deal. He picked up the cards I had thrown away in that last hand: two queens — and the cards that had been in my hand: a queen, a six, two threes and an ace — and glanced at them as he slid them into the deck.
    “Quite a pity, Corporal Grayburn,” he said, clucking his tongue. “If only you’d known that lady luck was coming your way, things might have gone quite differently.” His long-lashed eyes blinked innocently, but I had caught the inflection in his voice. Somehow he had recognized my talent for intuitively knowing which cards to toss away, and he’d guessed that I’d deliberately ignored it on that last hand.
    Chambers dealt a fresh hand. The farmer stared at his cards from under the brim of his slouch hat, took a deep draw on his pipe and let out a stream of pungent smoke that smelled like Fon du Lac Cut Plug, then held up a tobacco-stained forefinger for one card. Xavier, after a quick wave at the chief engineer to indicate that he would return to his duties presently, shrugged and drew four new cards. Four Finger Pete studied the farmer’s eyes closely, watched Xavier as he reordered the cards in his hand, gave me a sidelong glance, then asked for two cards. His overall expression did not change as he was dealt them, but I saw a small tic at the corner of his scruffy moustache that might have been a smile.
    I was about to toss away the jack, queen and king of hearts that were in my hand — in direct defiance of my strong hunch that they were the cards to keep — but just at that moment an Indian woman entered the saloon from the door nearest the stairway that led to the lower deck. I recognized her by the ochre-painted leggings and American blanket she wore as a Peigan. The hood of her blanket was thrown back, revealing lustrous black hair that hung in two braids, into one of which was tied a bedraggled white feather. She had high cheekbones and long-lashed eyes and was quite beautiful — or would have been, I