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Melanie looked sheepishly at him. "Shane," she murmured. "It's a place that usually makes a man quite uncomfortable. It's a place where women go to choose a new hat. Do you think you would mind waiting outside for me while I go inside and choose one for myself? It wouldn't take long."
"Take your time," Shane said, stepping back from the crowd. He stood in the shadows of a saloon, and the sound of shuffling cards causing his heart to race. "I'll wait here for you." He cleared his throat nervously as he took a look over his shoulder at the men coming and going from the saloon. Then he smiled down at her. "You go and pick out a pretty hat. I'll be just fine."
Melanie looked from side to side, at the crowded walkway and street, knowing this would be the first time Shane would be alone in this environment. She blinked her eyes nervously as she looked up at him. "Are you sure?" she asked, placing her hand on his arm. "Really? Are you sure?"
Shane smiled reassuringly down at her. "Melanie, you forget that I'm a grown man," he chuckled. "I don't think someone is going to come along and abduct me, now do you?"
Melanie laughed awkwardly. She leaned up and kissed him quickly on the cheek. "I won't be long," she said. "The shop is just a few doors down."
His heart hammering against his chest, Shane
watched Melanie walk briskly away, then reached his hand inside his pocket to jingle the coins that he had left after his buying spree. Taking three wide steps, he went inside the saloon. He stood just inside the swinging doors, looking the place over slowly and calculatingly. It was smoke-filled. A bar, with many men standing against it, reached along one whole side wall; a picture of a sprawling naked lady hung above shelves lined with an assortment of alcoholic beverages. There were several tables in the room, around which more men sat, drinking and playing poker.
Shane ambled farther into the room and found a vacant chair at one of the tables. Without waiting to be invited, he sat down. Taking several coins from his pocket he placed them on the table before him. The man dealing the cards gave Shane a sidewise glance.
"You want to be a part of this game?" the man asked. A cigar hung limply from the corner of his mouth.
Shane felt all eyes turn his way. He tensed up, wondering if they realized that he was fresh out of the wilderness, more Indian at heart than white. But nobody seemed the wiser. With his new attire, he was even dressed better than most of the men at the table, who wore mainly faded shirts and coarse denim breeches. Some needed shaves. Most reeked of alcohol.
"Deal me in," Shane said, nodding. He slipped his cigar from his pocket and bit off the tip and spat it over his shoulder.
Placing the cigar between his teeth he leaned
into a match that was offered by the man who sat next to him. "Thanks," he said. He took several long drags until smoke spiraled from the end of the cigar.
"Whiskey?" the man on the other side of Shane asked, scooting a glass and whiskey bottle in front of him.
"Don't mind if I do," Shane said, pouring himself a glass. In his heart he was remembering with fondness those many times of sharing a smoke, whiskey and cards with the old chief. In his heart, the old chief was there, looking over his shoulder, sharing his enjoyment.
Tipping the glass to his lips and taking a quick drink of the whiskey, Shane looked across the table at the man who was shuffling the cards. He was not as friendly as the others at the table. He was puffing on a cigar and his dark eyes were squinted beneath the brim of a sweat-stained hat. His face was stubbly with whiskersexcept for a scar that slashed through the whiskers on his left cheek. Even from this distance Shane could smell the man. He probably hadn't had a bath in weeks.
"This time it'll be five card stud," the man said in a slow drawl, still staring at Shane. "Jacks or better to open. Place your coins on the table. An ante of one dollar."
Shane scooted his coins out in the middle of the table along with the rest. He began picking his cards up slowly as they were dealt to him until he was holding five in his hand. He studied the cards. He hadn't drawn openers.
"Check," he said, placing his cards on the table, face down.
"Check," the man next to him said, slapping his cards on the table also.
No one had drawn openers. They threw their cards in a pile in the middle of the table. The man with the scar shuffled the cards again while everyone placed more coins on the pile. Again the cards were dealt. Shane took his up from the table, one at a time. When all of his cards were in his hands, his pulse began to race. He was drawing into a straight flush! If he could only be dealt an eight of clubs!
"What's your bet?" the dealer asked, glaring at Shane after the bet had gone around the table to him.
"I'll call you," Shane said, smiling smugly at the dealer.
"How many cards?" the dealer asked, chewing on his cigar.
Shane placed his cards face down in front of him on the table after throwing in his one discard. "One card," he said, taking his cigar from his mouth and flicking ashes on the floor beside him.
The dealer slid the one card over to Shane. Shane tried to act nonchalant when he picked the card up and saw that it was just as good as the eight of clubs he had been hoping for. He had been dealt a three of clubs. He was still holding a straight flush.
"I'll raise you two dollars," Shane said, scooting more money out into the center of the table with the rest.
"Okay, I'll call you," the deal
er said, everyone else having already dropped out. The focus was on Shane and the man with the scar.
Shane placed the cards down on the table face up. He heard the man with the scar groan, then smack down his cards angrily.
