“Let it lie, friend,” he said quietly. “Doc won fair and square, and you don’t have a right to see what cards he was holding.”
The man dressed as a priest held out his hands in an attitude of prayer. “No need for violence, brothers,” he intoned piously. “It’s only a game, after all.”
“Fuck that!” Despite the threat of the 9 mm automatic between his eyes, the man’s hand was inching toward the holstered revolver at his hip.
“Another inch and your brains get to decorate the wall behind you,” Ryan warned. Though he wanted nothing less than to squeeze the trigger and blow the man away, trouble was always something to avoid when possible.
The red mist had come down, and the gambler was blind to any danger. His fingers brushed the walnut butt of his big, rebuilt Army Colt.
Ryan sighed and smashed his left fist into the center of the man’s face, crushing his nose, breaking the bone and spreading the septum into bloody pulp. Crimson streamed out over the mustache, down into the open mouth and onto the table.
Suddenly security was everywhere. A stocky pit boss carrying a snub-nosed .32 pistol jammed it into Ryan’s ribs from behind, his own face blanching in turn as he felt the muzzle of Jak’s big Colt Python Magnum grating against the center of his spine. And there, in the doorway of the gambling saloon, balancing awkwardly against the swaying of the boat, was J.B. with his Uzi at the ready.
“Everyone keep calm,” the Armorer said.
To the sec men he added, “Best tuck away the blasters, friends. That way nobody’s goin’ to get hurt.”
The gambler had slithered to the thick carpet, coughing blood, hands clasped to his face.
Captain Huston appeared from nowhere, hands folded behind his back, his good eye surveying the violent scene, the drawn blasters.
“Trouble, gentlemen?” he asked quietly. “Like to hear what went down here.”
It was the priest who answered, bowing toward the skipper of the stern-wheeler as though he were one of the disciples. “I saw it all, Captain.”
“So, tell me.”
“Old gentleman been winning and winning well. Feller on the floor got steamed up and tried to grab at his hand, see what he’d been holding. Guy here” he pointed to Ryan “with the one eye, stepped in. Warned about what he’d do. Drew his blaster. But the man with the mustache there ignored him. Started to draw. Gotten coldcocked. My view is that he had it coming, and he was lucky not to have his skull blown apart. God and his blessed angels smiled upon him.”
Huston nodded, swaying at a violent shift from his boat. “Getting skittish,” he muttered, looking around the saloon. “Seems that you acted for the best, Mr. Cawdor.”
He turned to his sec men. “Take this gentleman up and stop him ruining our fine carpet. Show him the brig for a few hours to gentle him down.” He clapped his hands. “And that’s it. Now, the weather’s getting restless, ladies and gentlemen. We’re going to have to clear public areas and close the decks. Real sorry. Need to find a quiet shelter and moor up, so if you could all return to your cabins. Only for a couple of hours. And there’ll be complimentary drinks this evening.”
The roulette wheels stopped spinning, and the cards vanished into the discard slots on the tables. Slowly and reluctantly the room cleared, leaving a faint haze of cigar smoke hanging around the crystal lamps.
Ryan holstered the SIG-Sauer as the semiconscious gambler was hauled from the bloodied floor and carried away, toes dragging across the carpet.
Captain Huston looked at him. “Seems you did the right thing, Mr. Cawdor. Glad to hear that. Wouldn’t have wanted to go against Well, upset anyone’s plans for the rest of the voyage.” He put his head on one side, listening to the wind rising as one of the shutters on the port side ripped loose with a deafening crash of torn timber. “Best get to the bridge. Worsening. Take care on your way to your cabins.”
He spun on his heel and stalked off. The boat’s movements were becoming increasingly violent, and Ryan reached out to steady himself on a fixed table. “Heard the man,” he said. “Let’s go, friends. Before we get blown away.”