“… and I didn’t look back, not once.”

A week since Isaiah Bullock fled Square One and he had been making a meal of it. Now he thought himself a storyteller. Remember, this was still the same Bullock who thought BILE sounded pleasing.

The people around him didn’t mind. Well, almost everyone. They were enthralled. But when a man was up three-thousand dollars at the poker table, people tended to hang onto their every word.

Hang around, we only have to put up with this man for a little longer.

The blackjack table belonged to one Hiram Swain of Durango, Colorado. Durango––unlike Square One––was a city that existed due to the railroad. And with the railroad, came passengers and supplies. New money being driven in multiple times a day. The city was thriving. And with it came Swain’s casino and brothel, known as The Gilded Swan.

The building was two stories tall with a gaming room and bar that took up the bottom floor. There were games of poker, blackjack, and dice. While the second level was an interior balcony that looked down on the gaming floor. Swain liked to stay on the balcony––watching over his property––his armed security by his side. The interior balcony led to the bedrooms where men paid by the hour to spend time with Swain’s ladies. Dead center was Swain’s private room with its own balcony looking out onto the streets of Durango.

But more importantly, there was a safe containing that week’s profits.

On an average night, Swain raked in upwards of one-hundred thousand dollars. Now it just so happened to be Sunday night meaning his men were set to take that week’s earnings to the bank come Monday morning. So––with a little math––there should be upwards of seven-hundred thousand dollars. To be exact there was one-million one-hundred-thousand three-hundred and twenty-six dollars.

He was having a good week. Though, he would be having a better one if that asshole downstairs wasn’t up three-thousand dollars.

Bullock won another hand. Swain’s nails dug into the banister. Perhaps, it was the growing audience that was watching Bullock instead of wasting their money at the tables. Whatever it was, Swain’s left temple vein was threatening to burst.

“Yes, gentlemen,” Bullock said taking a sip of whiskey. “And lasses,” he added nearly losing what little had entered his mouth. “I’m one lucky sumvabitch, if you excuse my language. I’ve never been much of a poet as my ma use to say.”

He raised his glass to woman across the table. She wore a long, burgundy, and fringed jacket that failed hide her dust speckled jeans. Her big bushy hair was being contained by a wide brim hat. And the hint of freckles peaked out from her mud-caked face.

She downed a shot glass. “No need,” she said. She had heard him tell this story thrice already and if she had to hear it a fourth time, she was going to crack open his nose. She called for another drink. Something stronger this time.

“Let’s just get back to the card game,” she was having a bad week. Arguably, a bad lifetime. Especially, losing most of what she had to her name to this bastard. “We here to caterwaul or play cards? Some of us have jobs to get back to.”

She was lying. She hadn’t had a job in weeks. And worse off, she had spent what little money she had left at the bar. A fact her stomach was too eager to remind her.

Her luck was about to change and it all had to do with the man in the brown derby standing near the bar.

John lifted the derby to wipe the sweat from his bald head. Nervously, he made eye contact with a man dressed all in shades of green. Matthew was laying across a prostitute’s lap in the corner of the room. She poured the contents of a cheap brew down his gullet. He merely shook his head, trying to hide his piece under his coat. Gravity was doing him no favors.

Perhaps, Swain and his men would have noticed these all too important glances. They were trained to look out for cohorts signaling to each other. A sign something was about to go down. However, they kept their eyes exactly where they shouldn’t have been. That little shit cutting into their profits.

And that was fine by these two men.

“That’s some ghost story,” John said, placing with his chips at the table.

“Don’t talk,” the freckled woman said. “You are prettier that way.” She wanted them to get back to the game. She had a pair of aces. A chance of making some money back. Not enough to make up for the amount she had spent on drinks. But she wasn’t thinking that far ahead.

John was also getting impatient. He wasn’t used to being talk to in that manner. It threw him off.

“It ain’t a ghost story,” Bullock replied. “It really happened. The town of Square One is dead as the big bear of a woman who raised me. You don’t believe me; you can go right there and check. It’s only a day’s ride north.”

“I’m sure,” the woman tapped her fingers against the table. Her eyes hadn’t left the cards hoping someone was going to make a move. “Shut your mouths and get back to the game.” She was salivating at the thought of winning the pot.

John glanced back at Matthew who was still being pampered by the hooker. Grapes had gotten involved. His eyes met the John’s. It was time.

“I can’t take it anymore,” Matthew jumped up from the prostitute’s lap. Pulling her to her feet. “I need a poke.”

“Whatever you say,” the prostitute was nonchalant. “As long as you got the coin.”

“Oh, I got the coin.” Matthew took one last glance at the gaming floor. John nodded. They had to make a move before the guards started paying attention to everyone else.

Let’s pause this for a second.

Now the plan was simple. Matthew would take a voluptuous employee of one Mr. Swain’s feminine persuasion up to one of those many cupboard-sized rooms on the second floor. The closer to Swain’s personal room the better. Once inside, he would dispose of the lady. No, not that way. He was going to tie her up and gag her. Not great either but once again these guys weren’t fine upstanding citizens.

They were robbers.

How was Matthew going to get by the guards?

That was where his friend came in. John would go in big on his next hand. Real big. Life savings big. No worry, they were going to make that up and then some. The dealer had been paid off. It was a guarantee he would lose to any sucker at the table. Once John had lost, he would get angry, not that he ever needed help in acting that out. Some words would be thrown around. John would accuse the sucker of cheating. Some punches would be thrown and with a slight of hand, cards would fall out of the poor sucker’s pocket.

The card players wouldn’t be happy but more importantly, Swain wouldn’t be happy. There would be nothing to stop a fight at this junction. Other people at the poker table might get involved. A shootout might ensue. All of Swain’s armed men would join the fray. And Swain would be too busy watching over his investment than keeping his eyes on the millions in his safe. Giving Matthew his chance to enter Swain’s room and presumably ample time to crack the safe. The dealer had also given them details on the safe. Matthew had been practicing for weeks on the same-type. His record was four-minutes and thirty-two seconds.

When the safe was open, he would fill several bags––concealed under his bulky suit––and toss them out the window to John waiting next to a horse-drawn wagon in the back alley.

That was the plan. Unfortunately, they hadn’t counted on Lucy Wyler having a pair of aces.

Lucy’s mood was upbeat. She had a chance to make a lot of money.

But Bullock was undecided. He stared at his cards for more than twenty seconds, humming to himself. “I think I will…”

He lifted up a chip.

A drunk man from the bar came up to see what everyone was gathered about.

“Did I hear something about a ghost story?” he asked.

Bullock dropped the chip back into his large stack and turned to the drunk man. “I’m glad you asked. You see I had just made a harrowing escape from one of the most violent leper colonies I had ever seen when—”

“Shut up!” Lucy pounded her fist on the table. “No one gives a shit about some ghost town. Just play the damn game. I have a lot of money riding.”

“Fine,” Bullock pushed a large stack of chips into the pot.

She relaxed in the chair. Happy she didn’t have to hear that infernal story again.

“You don’t have to be such a bitch about it,” he said.

Uh-oh.

Bullock had hardly taken his eyes off his cards when a fist connected with his nose. Busting it open.

Lucy placed her hand into her gin glass, icing her knuckles. “We both know you had it coming.” Her tangle of curls breaking out from underneath her hat.

An irate Bullock took his hands from his bleeding nose and reached under the table. Lucy smacked him again.

“Don’t you dare,” she said. “It won’t end well.” She lifted her hand to hit him for a third time just in case he hadn’t learned his lesson.

John grabbed her arm. “Enough of that—”

She elbowed him in the face. A deck of cards fell from his sleeve.

“Hey,” she said. “Yer cheating! This prick is cheating!”

Matthew froze on the stairs.

She turned back to Bullock, “I bet you were in on it.”

Before Bullock could say “no,” she punched him so hard he tumbled backwards out of his chair and into a state of unconsciousness.

The crowd took a step back. Not dispersing yet but ready to run if guns went slinging.

 “Shouldn’t we do something?” a guard asked Swain.

Annoyed, Swain removed the cigar from his mouth. “I suppose. Make sure she doesn’t chase away any more customers.”

Half his guards pushed by Matthew and his girl on the stairs. Matthew glanced over at John. John only a shrug before collapsing his forehead into his hands.

“That’s better,” she said grasping as many chips from the pot as she could.

The lead guard was only three steps away from her. “Good evening,” she said to him holding a pile of chips. A few slipping from her grasp.

The guard lifted her up by the nape of her neck.

“What the fuck did I do?” she asked.

John made a step towards the door. One of the other guards blocked his path. “I think I get the idea.” He returned to his seat.

“Bring them,” Swain ordered from up high. “Don’t forget the one bleeding on my floor.”

The guards dragged them right by Matthew and the prostitute. Matthew had been overcome with fear and indecision. It was all going so wrong. What was he supposed to do?

“I didn’t do nothing!” was heard as the door to Swain’s room slammed shut.

The prostitute tapped Matthew’s shoulder. “Something wrong?”