If January knew he was being watched, he gave no sign that it bothered him. But it was equally evident that nothing in the room evaded his attention. He was aware of every movement, every subtle change in voice-tone. It was a strange thing: Will January had made no threats and rattled no sabers since his arrival in Spanish Flat; he simply played cards, quietly. But nonetheless the air of death and danger emanated from him like perfume from a deadly flower. His narrow strict face, while it gave nothing away, seemed to be the surface sign of great pressures held precariously in check.

  The stagecoach division manager was playing shrewdly and had added to his stake: he was by far the best player at the table, January knew. The others could all be read as easily as the face of a card. Keene, the rancher, was too casual a player: he did not take the game seriously enough and therefore lost pots when he might well have won them by judicious bluffing or greater confidence in the strength of his cards. The other ranchers were of a similar kind. Sammy Preston, the kid, was reckless and imprudent, and furthermore Sammy was rapidly getting drunk. From time to time Sammy had baited Will January with callous insults, but January had sloughed them off and allowed the other players to keep Sammy in check. He disliked Sammy but he had nothing actively against the kid.

  January took every card game seriously and whether the stakes were high or low, he always played according to the same strategy. He took his time in the early hours of the game, willing to lose a certain portion of his stake temporarily in return for learning the characteristics of the players. For poker was a game in which skill, if it entered at all, had to be in the form of an ability to outguess the other players. On the frontier the professional gambler was held in respect, and this was so only because by and large the gamblers were honest. It did not pay to cheat at cards when careful honest playing could accomplish the same ends.

  And so January had lost a few dollars, mainly to the stagecoach division manager. It had been a good investment: it had bought time in which to study the others. He had learned a good many things. He knew, for example, that Sammy was the only player at the table who was inclined to cheat. Sammy’s cheating was clumsy, in January’s eyes, but to ranchers and other non-professional card-players it was adept enough to avoid discovery. Obviously Sammy had spent a good deal of time alone practicing the manipulation of a deck of cards. It was clear to January that whenever the deal passed to Sammy, Sammy managed to order the cards in such a way that he knew just what he was dealing to each player. It was amateur deck-stacking, but proficient enough to get by. When Sammy shuffled, the deck had a way of disappearing under the rim of the table or being spilled, face-up, by a convenient clumsy accident. And when Sammy offered the pack to be cut, he always managed to replace the cut-halves in the same order they had been in before the cut.

  One requirement of success as a professional gambler was that even if the gambler did not cheat himself, he had to be expert enough to know every possible means of cheating and spot them immediately. It had not taken January long to figure out what Sammy was doing. The only thing that puzzled him mildly was why Sammy thought he had to cheat. The game was penny-ante and obviously Sammy had plenty of money. Perhaps he cheated just to prove to himself that he could get away with it: perhaps it gave him a secret feeling of superiority over the others.

  January was not particularly troubled by Sammy’s penchant for stacking the deck. The deal only came around to Sammy once in awhile, and his methods of cheating were so inefficient that he often lost even when he had stacked the cards. Under the circumstances January saw no need of exercising his prerogative and exposing Sammy.

  There were many ways to cheat at poker and probably the most effective was the employment of teamwork. Three cardsharks would band together to fleece a pilgrim. In a four-handed game the three manipulators would not need to touch the cards. All they had to do was nod to each other or give some other silent signal: whichever of them had the high hand was bound to win, in the long run, supported by his friends. One-man cheating was always risky and required too much sleight-of-hand; only amateurs indulged in it. January had made sure that none of the ranchers were working in teams. Once assured of that, he knew that aside from Sammy the game was honest.

  He had taken his time and made his judgments. Now that he was ready he settled down to play in earnest.

  It was January’s turn to deal. He had won a small pile on the previous hand. He shuffled with slow care, presented the cards for Sammy’s cut, and dealt methodically, making no quick motions. Amateurs were always inclined to watch professional card-players and January meant to give them no reason to suspect him of cheating. He laid down the pack and unfolded his hand, had one look at it and put it face-down on the table. He would not look at it again until after the draw: he always memorized a hand instantly.

  He spoke to Keene, on his left: “Your open.”

  Keen shook his head. “I pass.”

  It fell then to the stagecoach division manager. He studied his cards, frowned, put them down, picked them up and looked at them again. It told January what kind of cards the division manager had. January knew their habits by now. If the division manager had a strong hand, he would have laid it down and not looked at it again. If he intended to bluff, he would have held the cards in his hand. His uncertainty this time meant the division manager had a marginal hand—probably openers, but not much better.

  “I’ll open,” the division manager said, and tossed two chips into the pot.

  The betting went around twice and then January dealt the draw-cards. Keene took one look at his new hand and tossed it in. The division manager’s eyebrow went up and he held the cards in his hand, smiling slightly as if he had a powerful hand. One of the ranchers dropped out; the second sat waiting to see what would happen. Sammy Preston clutched his cards close, glaring out at the others with savagery. Sammy evidently had a fairly good hand and was silently daring anyone to better him.

  January took three new cards, bettering his original pair and making it three jacks with an ace kicker. Once again he put his hand down on the table and did not thereafter look at it. He said to the division manager, “Up to you.”

  “Five dollars.”

  In a small-stakes game it was a strong bet. January was convinced the man was bluffing. The second rancher threw in his cards, shaking his head. It left Sammy and January in the game with the division manager. Sammy put challenge in his voice: “Your five and ten more.”

  Sammy was a little too bold. January was all but certain Sammy’s hand was not good enough to beat his own. He murmured, “That makes it fifteen to me, and I’ll bump it by ten more.”

  “Twenty dollars to me, then?” the division manager said. He frowned and then laughed abruptly. “Hell, I’m out of my reach with this hand.” He folded and withdrew from the play: he had, after all, been bluffing.

  January looked at Sammy. “Up to you.”

  Sammy’s eyes flashed. “Willing to take the limit off?”

  “Whatever you want,” January murmured.

  Keene said quickly, “Maybe you better leave well enough alone, Sammy.”

  “Mind your own damned business,” Sammy snapped. “I’ll bump you fifty dollars, January, for a start.”

  January’s expression did not change. He watched Sammy count chips out into the heap in the center of the table. When Sammy was done, January pushed two measured stacks of chips forward. “You’re in a man’s game now,” he told Sammy. “Your fifty and a hundred on top of it.”

  “And a hundred more,” Sammy said sharply. He had run out of chips and he began to count out gold coins—eagles and half-eagles. They rang musically on the table when he dropped them.

  “And another hundred,” January said, pushing his money in and adding quietly, “You can call whenever it suits you.

  “Right now will do,” Sammy said, matching the hundred-dollar raise. More than a thousand dollars lay in the pot.

  January laid his hand out without preamble—three jacks, an ace, a six. “Beat it if you can.”

  Sammy looked at his cards and chewed his lip. After a moment he looked up hotly and slammed his cards down on the table. They fell face-up and scattered a little way apart—three tens and two odd cards.

  The division manager said, “Jacks are better than tens, Sammy. You shouldn’t show the losing hand.”

  “Kind of close luck, don’t you think?” Sammy said thinly. “Jacks over tens, I mean. You could call it a tall coincidence. I notice you dealt that hand, January.”

  “That’s right,” January said mildly. He was watching Sammy unblinkingly.

  Keene leaned forward, facing Sammy. “Back off, kid,” Keene said roughly.

  “The hell!” Sammy retorted. “January knew all along what I had in my hand. You see how all-fired willing he was to kill the limit?”

  Keene shouted, “He did it to oblige you, Sammy. Now shut up before you end up good and dead!”

  January had not moved up to that moment. Now, without the appearance of hurry and yet with no wasted motions, he kicked his chair back, gathered Sammy’s collar in his fist, and hauled the youth to his feet. He yanked Sammy forward until his face was only a foot away and said in a wicked half-whisper:

  “It’s time for you to learn a lesson, sonny. Your friend Keene’s dead right. I’ve shot men in their seats for less than you’ve handed out this afternoon. One more loose remark out of you and it will be the last you’ll ever make. Understand me?”

  Sammy’s mouth was working. January shoved him powerfully away. Sammy windmilled back. The chair caught him behind the knees and he went over hard. He hit the floor on one shoulder and had his boots all tangled up in the chair. A roar, half of pain and half of rage, spouted from his throat and Sammy’s hand clawed for a revolver.

  Keene was close enough to lash out with his boot. The toe caught Sammy’s wrist and Sammy cried out with pain; but he wasn’t through yet. He had to roll over to free his other arm and go after his second revolver.

  Long before that, January had his gun trained on Sammy’s face. “Go ahead,” January said, his finger steady on the trigger.

  A voice cried from the doorway: “Sammy! No!”

  Amy Preston rushed forward, pushing the hood of her parka back. Sammy stopped trying to draw his gun and glared angrily at his sister. Before she had crossed the room, Sammy was struggling to his feet. January’s gun, cocked and leveled, held steady on him. January said, “Stand aside, miss.”

  Amy’s eyes were wide with fright. Her face was pale, chattering with cold. She stopped, hesitant, watching January’s glistening gun. January said slowly, “You’ve got a gun, Sammy. Draw it or drop it.”

  Sammy only stared at him. January’s gun muzzle lifted an inch. “Move. I don’t draw on a man if I don’t intend to use my gun. Make up your mind.”

  Sammy slowly shook his head. He reached for his belt buckle and let the two-gun harness slip to the floor. January said, very quietly, “It takes a sixteenth of an inch to pull the trigger on a forty-five, Sammy. That’s how close you came. Now get out of my sight.”

  January’s gun slid smoothly back into its holster. His eyes were bleak.

  At the bar, Dominguez had his hand on the handle of his revolver, but he had not drawn it. January’s head swiveled slowly and he said to the deputy, “If I’d shot him, would you have bought in?”

  “I’m the law,” Dominguez said. “I reckon I wouldn’t have had any choice.”

  “Then you share Sammy’s luck,” January told him coldly.

  “Maybe,” Dominguez said with stubborn dignity.

  The girl stood, chilled and shivering, staring uncomprehendingly at them all, her eyes moving in a confused sweep. Cold and fear had evidently numbed her. She reached out unthinkingly for Sammy’s arm. January said, “Are you his wife?”

  “I’m his sister.”

  “Then see if you can help him find some sense before it’s too late for him.”

  Amy’s eyes focused on him. After a moment’s stretching silence she said, “You could have killed him. Thank you for not killing him.”

  “Your thanks aren’t necessary,” January said. “I didn’t do it to oblige you.”

  Keene said, “Why did you?”

  January shook his head. “Maybe I’m tired of watching men die. Put it down to that.”

  He was watching Amy Preston and her eyes were direct against his. But in a moment she shook herself free of the locked glance and turned, giving her brother a rough push. “Get your coat. I’ll take you over to the hotel and maybe we can sober you up.”

  Sammy was mute; his lips were white. He walked toward the racked coats by the door. Amy went with him. Once she looked over her shoulder at Will January. He was still watching her.

  Chapter Five

  Jeremy Six had his hat tied down with a scarf that ran under his jaw and over the crown of the hat, and pinned the sides of the hat brim down like earflaps. He shouldered into the wind, one crook’d elbow before his face, and made his way along the roaring walkway. He let the buffeting wind drive him into a side street, put his back to the wind and let it half-carry him along while he kept one gloved hand against the building walls to maintain his bearings. He counted doors; at the fifth building he yanked the door open, wheeled inside the telegraph office, and let the wind slam the door behind him.

  A flurry of snow had come in with him and wheeled through the air; it was just settling, like the snow inside a little glass miniature shaken up. The lamps flickered dangerously but did not go out. The clerk looked up at Six without particular expression. Six went immediately to the stove, opened his coat to it and let the warmth circle him beneath the coat. He spoke over his shoulder:

  “What time is it?”

  “Four-ten.”

  “Any answer to my wire to Prescott?”

  “Nope. And you ain’t likely to get none, either. Not until the storm blows over. I think the wires are down to the west. They’re about to go down eastward too, or I miss my guess.”

  Six made a face and turned around. The telegraph clerk had a small stack of dime novels on the counter near his stool. There was a big pot of coffee on the stove and Six helped himself to a cupful. He said, “Any chance of them routing an answer around in a circle to come in here on the wire from the east?”

  “Wait a minute,” the clerk said, and turned to his key. He was a soft-faced freckled man with red hair and a browbeaten look; he wore a green eyeshade and sleeve-garters like a bank teller. He tapped out a staccato rhythm on the telegraph key and waited, his ear cocked. After a minute he shook his head. “Gone dead,” he said. “Wind like this’ll tear anything down, Marshal. We’re cut off. Maybe it don’t feel like much of a blow here in town, but don’t forget we’re under the shelter of that Mogul Rim. Out on the flats or up on the plateau you got a ninety-mile gale blowing straight through to hell. Fifty miles from here to Arrowhead, and all it takes is one weak telegraph pole. I ain’t surprised. Reckon you’ll have to wait till the storm passes on and crews get out to patch up the lines.”

  Six thought, That may be too late. But he said, “Well, you may as well go on home, then, Charlie. Nothing much for you to do here.”

  “I figure on sitting the storm out right here,” the clerk said. He added soberly, “I go home, my wife’ll just get after me, and I’ve had enough of that tongue of hers for a spell. Hell, Marshal—you going out in that stuff again?”

  “Got to, I’m afraid,” Six said, buckling his coat up to the throat and turning the collar up around his cheeks. He made certain his hat was secured, got a good grip on the door latch, and thrust his way outside.

  The storm hit him like driven icicles in the face. He braced one arm before him and felt his way along the wall, moving directly into the wind and finding that he had to turn his body sideways like a blade in order to make headway against the blast. Something flapped past his head, missing by inches, like a huge dark bird. He had a feeling it was the General Mercantile’s sign—a ten-foot-long board that had hung on rusty chains beneath the store’s porch-roof. He heard a crash behind him where it slammed into a building. He thought, with strange calm detachment, If that had hit me I’d be dead. The wind carried objects along like bullets.

  If this keeps up, he thought drily, there won’t be an ounce of topsoil left in the valley. This’ll scour it down to bedrock. He was heading for the Drover’s Rest but when he got to the corner and knew he would have to breast the storm in the full open to get to the saloon, which was across the intersection, he realized he would have to take a break—he was already getting numb. If he were to enter the Drover’s Rest and face Will January, it wouldn’t do to have his hands half-frozen and his muscles dulled by cold. And so he turned left at the corner and went to the hotel door. It was a fight to get the door open against the pressure of the wind. He slid in through the narrow opening and heard the door crash shut. Lamps flickered all around the lobby.

  He tugged his gloves off with his teeth and wiped a numbed palm across his face, feeling the flesh tingle as though jabbed with needles. The hotel lobby was a large square room with a long central table of heavy planks, used as a dining table. The place was an old-fashioned cattleman’s hotel: everything was massive, heavy, rough-hewn. There was nothing frilly or ornate about it but it had a solid look of unshakeable, ageless sturdiness. Big leather-covered chairs lined two walls. Brass spittoons stood at handy intervals. The hotel registry filled one corner with pigeonhole mailboxes and key-slots behind it. The room had two pot-bellied stoves, one at either end, as well as a fireplace in the end wall; but there was no fire on the hearth, since the power of the wind made it necessary to close the flue. Both black-iron stoves were burning intensely, with angry red lights glowing out of their small isinglass windows.

  No one was in the room. Six tramped to the nearer of the two stoves, took off his coat, and stood before the stove, slowly revolving like an animal roasting on a spit. Feeling came back into his joints. He laid his gloves against the stove for a moment to heat them and then pressed them against his cheeks. His skin turned red.