Colorado Territory, 1878

The early morning sun shone down on a street that to any onlooker would have seemed crowded, until they realized that a stagecoach was heading out of town with a payroll shipment inside. Then they would have wondered why there were comparatively few guards present, until they knew that one of the men riding along was known as Thaddeus Jones.

"You stay out of trouble now, y'hear, Thaddeus?" Heyes ordered as he tossed the saddlebags onto the top of the coach. "I'll be right here waitin' two weeks from now."

Kid Curry sent his partner the expression that horses sometimes give their inexperienced riders—the 'you dumb human' look. "Smith, every time you say that to me, it's always you that ends up gettin' into mischief. You just concentrate on talkin' Major Wilkins into givin' us a job when he arrives, and I'll worry about guardin' the stage."

Heyes stepped back as the driver mounted the box of the heavily guarded stagecoach. "I think your job is easier."

"Oh yeah?" The Kid rolled his eyes and pulled his hat down, bracing his feet for the inevitable lurch of the stage when the driver cracked his whip. The vehicle swirled away in a cloud of dust, and his words drifted faintly back, almost drowned by the sound of hooves. "You don't have to ride with him!"

Two Weeks Later . . .

Kid Curry had exactly two things on his mind as he rode the last few miles back to town—a hot meal and a hot bath.

The rifle shot that splintered a branch near his head changed that in a hurry. Within seconds his gun was out of the holster and pointing in the direction of the unseen shooter while his horse danced uneasily beneath him.

"Put your gun up, mister! I just want to talk!" the man hollered. Curry placed him in a pile of rocks higher on the hill. A good place to shoot from, but nowhere to retreat.

"You got a mighty hostile way of startin' a conversation!" The Kid's black horse tossed his head against the tight hold on the reins, but the revolver didn't lower.

"Look, I needed to see how you could handle a gun. There's a hundred dollars in it for you if you take the job I'm offerin'." The man rose from the rocks, rifle held high above his head in a gesture of surrender.

Curry dropped the pistol back into the holster and waited while the man slid down the hill. "I can't think of too many jobs worth doin' for a hundred bucks that need an interview at rifle point."

"My name's Bryant. Bill Bryant. I'm sorry if I scared you." Graying hair stuck wildly out from under a battered bowler hat that had once been black. Bryant had narrow shoulders and a belly that hung over his belt, complete with stains on the front of his shirt and a two-day growth on his chin.

The Kid eyed him with a smirk that pulled at one corner of his mouth. "Mr. Bryant, I wasn't half as scared as you would be if you knew how close you came to gettin' a little round hole blowed right in the middle of your forehead," he drawled.

Bryant grinned, revealing a gold tooth. "I like your guts. You're the fourth man I've tried and none of the others were worth an empty cartridge case."

"You mean you're holdin' up ever'one on the road looking for someone to hire? I've had some interestin' job offers in my time, but you beat all." Curry turned his horse toward the trail.

"Wait!" Bryant exclaimed. "I'm not lookin' for anything illegal, and like I said before, I'll pay you a hundred dollars if you pull it off."

The Kid looked him over again. "Start talkin'."

"There's a fellow who's been playin' poker over to the Purple Pony in town, and I'm sure he's not usin' the same rule book as everyone else but I can't prove it. I've lost to him six straight nights, and I've had enough. All I want you to do is beat him to the draw—you could do it easily—and run him out of town."

Curry laughed, but it wasn't amused. "All I got to do is beat him to the draw," he repeated. "Say—this poker player wouldn't happen to be hangin' around with a Major Wilkins, would he?"

"Nope. He's a loner."

"Oh well. I thought it might have been a friend of mine." He patted his horse's neck thoughtfully. "You just want me to chase him out of your game, right? I'm not gonna kill anyone for you, no matter what the price is."

"Just threaten him. He looks like he'll run easy."

"Look, Mr. Bryant, is there some other reason you want him gone besides the poker game?" the Kid asked with a suspicion honed by years on the trail with Hannibal Heyes.

Bryant puffed up indignantly. "Of course not! I'm not a good enough poker player to catch him cheatin', but I'm sure he is. That's all."

"Well," Curry drawled the word slowly. "I sure could use a hundred dollars."

The Purple Pony Saloon resembled a thousand other saloons scattered across the West, complete with thick smoke, filthy patrons, a scattergun under the bar, and a slightly grimy chandelier. Three tables held card games, and a roulette wheel was in the corner opposite the piano.

"The fella in the white shirt at the table in the middle."

The Kid looked over his shoulder at the whisper and saw that Bryant had followed him into the building but was being careful to keep the gunslinger between himself and the poker table. He rolled his blue eyes faintly and turned to watch the play, his presence somewhat obscured by the haze that emanated from a cigar in the mouth of a short cowpoke in a flat-top hat. "You're sure he's cheatin'?"

"He's the one. Remember, a hundred dollars!" Bryant hissed.

Curry rolled his right shoulder, and his fingertips brushed the grip of his revolver. "I haven't forgotten."

He ambled over to the table and took up a position on the opposite side of the table from the man with the largest pile of chips in front of him. No one looked up. "Could I have a word with you gents?" he drawled.

His feet-spread, cold-eyed stance sent chairs scraping back and tension snapping around the room. Conversations died and men turned to watch the action unfolding.

"What can I do for you, friend?" the winning player asked politely. His calm air contrasted noticeably with the hostility of the other participants in the game.

Curry hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and glanced around the table. "I been watchin' the game, and I've come to the conclusion that one of you is usin' a different rulebook." At the words, several hands dropped to pistol grips and everyone was scowling.

The winner's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "I hope you plan to explain that."

"I sure do. See, this man right here—" he nodded at the man to the left of the winner "was markin' kings with his thumbnail."

The accused jumped to his feet, and dust puffed up from his brown leather vest. "You can't prove that!"

"I saw you do it." The Kid turned his attention to the next man around the table. "Then this fella over on this side, he's got an ace up his sleeve and another one in his hand that he put there on the last round."

The winning player clamped his hand over the other man's wrist before he could reach for his gun and slowly pulled up the cuff of his sleeve. The ace of clubs fluttered to the table.

Murmurs around the room swelled to a roar, but Curry wasn't finished yet. "And our dealer, well, it pains me to say it, but he's been dealin' from the bottom of the deck." He tsk'ed sadly at the man's dumbfounded expression. "Y'know, it's such a shame that your partner over here in the black hat wasn't a little more careful when he showed you the threes in his hand, or I might never have noticed what y'all were up to."

"What about me?" The winning player was smiling, his brown eyes bright with anticipation. "Got anything to say about me?"

The Kid nodded. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Bill Bryant rub his hands together gleefully. "Now I been watchin' you too, and I reckon you're the only one in this game playin' it straight. Like I said, you're usin' a different rulebook."

Bryant surged forward with a cry of protest. "You're supposed to get rid of him! I promised you a hundred dollars!"

Curry ignored him. "What's an honest man like you doin' playin' poker with a bunch of cheatin' no-goods?"

"Oh, just trying to keep out of trouble." Hannibal Heyes broke into a full-fledged grin and began to methodically pile up his winnings. "What's this hundred dollars he's talkin' about?"

"He hired me to run you out of town. Didn't like the way you played poker," the Kid explained, pulling an empty chair over to the table. The dishonest members of the game scooted away, leaving the two of them at the table and Bryant dancing with indignation in the background. "Did you talk to Major Wilkins?"

The grin disappeared. "No, he got shot down in Denver. Reckon that job he was gonna give us ain't available anymore."

"That's okay," Curry consoled. "We got a hundred dollars comin', providin' we leave town tonight. Ain't that right, Mr. Bryant?"

Bryant dithered for a moment, and the Kid turned in his seat to eye him squarely. "Ain't that right, you owe me a hundred dollars if he leaves town," he said without any hint of question in his voice.

"That's right," Bryant conceded grudgingly.

Heyes finished stacking his chips and scooped the neat piles into his hands. "In that case, I'll go cash in my winnings and head over to the livery so you can collect your money. Nice seein' you again, Mr. Bryant."

Fifteen minutes later the partners mounted their horses in the darkened street. "Got any ideas where we're headed?" the Kid asked. "I don't much fancy another night out in the open."

"I reckon we're spendin' the night right over in that hotel," Heyes replied smugly. "After we ride out of town for an hour or so, long enough for ol' Bryant to get settled into another crooked poker game. He never said we couldn't come back, did he?"

Curry grinned. "I reckon he didn't at that. Let's go."