“Fold,” he said. “Again.” He dropped the five useless pasteboards onto the table and leaned back.
“I really should feel guilty about this,” the man on his right said. “1 don’t, of course, but I ought to.” The fellow was the big winner of the moment, and except for that seemed pleasant enough. He was dressed too nicely to be an underground laborer. Longarm guessed him as a storekeeper or the like. He played his cards cautiously but very, very well, riding the percentages rather than hunches. For him it seemed to work. For Longarm tonight nothing was working, not even bluffs. Better to fold and wait for the next deal on a night like this one.
Longarm sipped at his rye and spent a few moments looking around the smoky room. There was a good crowd on hand, but they weren’t rowdy. In fact, they seemed almost subdued. The noise level in the saloon was low enough that conversations two tables away could be followed if anybody was interested enough to bother listening.
The next hand played out—the same fellow winning it—and the players declared a short break, most of them dispersing in the direction of the outhouse, the bar, wherever. The gentleman who was doing all the winning sat back in contentment.
“Is it always like this?” Longarm asked.
“If you mean am I always this lucky at cards, the answer is that I only wish it were so. If, on the other hand, you mean to ask if it is always this quiet, the answer is that I only wish it were so.”
Longarm raised an eyebrow.
The man smiled and explained. “With everyone so solemn lately there has been hardly any absenteeism problem in any of the mines. Few hangovers, you see. No broken bones in fistfights or ears ripped off in brawls. None of that lately. I must say that I like that part of it.”
“Any idea why it’s so quiet?” Longarm asked.
“Oh, no question about that. It’s because of the robbery.”
‘The train robbery?”
“But of course.” Like it was inconceivable that any other robbery could be discussed.
“Why in the world would that make a whole town so fretful?”