Bucking the Tiger by Marcus Galloway

hunt down some grits?”
    The man holding the tray of food stepped in and set the tray down on the small table normally reserved for a washbasin. He took a quick survey of the room using intent, close-set eyes and then shut the door behind him.
    Doc sat on the edge of his bed, wearing trousers and an undershirt. He held a newspaper in his hands, but lowered it when he saw that the man was still in the room. “Is it fair to assume you’re not just here to deliver my breakfast?”
    â€œYes, Holliday. It is.”
    After lowering the paper, Doc asked, “And would it also be fair to assume your name is Boyer?”
    The surprise on Boyer’s face registered as something slightly more than a twitch in the corner of one eye. He twitched again when he noticed the gun holstered beneath Doc’s arm.
    â€œYou’re not the only one who remembers a name or two,” Doc said. “Since you didn’t pay for that food, why don’t you step aside so that I may indulge myself?”
    â€œBe my guest,” Boyer said as he clasped his hands like a preacher and stepped to one side. “I hope you don’t mind a little company while you eat.”
    â€œA guest who doesn’t expect to be fed? What better situation is there?”
    â€œA better situation for you would be to pay your dues like the rest of the gamblers in Fort Griffin before some bad luck befalls you.”
    Doc crossed his room in less than two full steps and took the fork from the side of the plate. He cut off a hunk of tough buffalo meat, dipped it in some of the grits, and wolfed it down. “Bad luck? Oh, you mean like the luck that was dumped on the head of Lottie Deno’s unfortunate lookout?”
    Without a flinch or even a spark of emotion, Boyer said, “You’re a smart man, Holliday. Is it true you used to be a dentist back in Dallas?”
    â€œAnd other places. I’ve been looking around for a spot to hang my shingle here, but these cowboys don’t seem to be concerned with oral hygiene.”
    Boyer couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of any one of the dirty cowpokes squirming in a dentist’s chair. “You’re not like the other men I talk to, Holliday. You seem to have a head on your shoulders that’s good for something other than counting cards.”
    â€œWhy, thank you.”
    â€œBecause you seem like a friendly sort, I’ll pay you the compliment of being honest with you. The people I represent take a piece from all the gambling operations in Fort Griffin as well as many other spots on the circuit. Some might say that we’re the reason there even is a circuit.”
    â€œI’ve always wondered about that,” Doc said as he continued eating his breakfast. In between bites, he poured some of the contents of his own flask into the cup of coffee that had already been sitting at his bedside.
    Boyer nodded, picking up on the smugness in Doc’s tone and not approving of it one bit. “By keeping on our good side, gamblers like yourself can set up shop in saloons, run things the way you see fit, and conduct your business with a minimal amount of trouble from the law.”
    â€œHow generous.”
    â€œAll we ask in return is a small percentage of your profits.”
    â€œAnd when there are no profits?” Doc asked.
    â€œA small fee, which many consider to be the simple price of thriving within your chosen profession. Other folks pay their taxes and such. There’s no reason why you should be any different.”
    Doc’s eyes widened as he got to his feet and straightened up. “Oh! You’re a representative of the government? I did not realize, sir. I do try to keep up on paying taxes and the like. After all, it is what keeps this grand country of ours—”
    â€œI’ve allowed you a certain amount of slack due to your condition,” Boyer interrupted. “But don’t think, for one moment, that I will