For a moment, none of the men seemed to breathe. The only sound was the creaking of the giant wheel that propelled the riverboat slowly forward.

The moment passed.

“Never heard of her,” Alberto said. “Edvard, you heard of her?”

The fourth man at the table—a squat Swede in a bolo tie—shook his head. “If I had heard of her, I sure as shit wouldn’t want to hear of her again.”

Cal Hotchkiss didn’t say anything at all. He laid out his cards. The rest of the men at the table seemed to exhale as one as they each acknowledged defeat. Cal reached out one long arm and hooked it around the pile of chips in the center of the felt, reeling in his winnings. He lifted his bowler with one hand and ran his fingers through his damp, white-blond hair. The breeze coming in from the open window just behind his chair ruffled the fine wisps of his moustache. “Well, gentlemen. I win again.” He lifted his hat high in the air, and a dark, doe-eyed waitress wearing a breathtakingly low-cut corset slid over. She leaned close to him, her perfume wafting around the table.

“Yes, Mr. Hotchkiss?”

“I’d like a drink, Cordelia. And then I’d like for you to come and sit in my lap.”

“Right away, Mr. Hotchkiss.”

She walked out of the small room to fetch a drink from the main floor of the casino, and the other men at the table watched her go—all of them except for the man in the black hat.

“Going to take her to bed with you, Cal?”

“Nah.” Cal shrugged, slipping his winnings into the pockets of his jacket. He looked sharply at the man in the black hat. “Mr. Travers wouldn’t like it.”

The man in the black hat smiled. “Of course. It’s nice to meet you, Cal Hotchkiss. Name’s Gran Carter, U.S. marshal.” He flipped up his jacket to reveal the silver star that hung from his belt buckle.

“I know who you are.”

“Then maybe you know why I’m here.”

“Maybe I don’t give a shit.”

The pit boss walked past the doorway and the dealer made eye contact with him. A moment later, the dealer had melted away from the table, leaving the four men alone with the dregs of their drinks. Alberto turned to Gran Carter. He was more than a little drunk. “Look here, Mister Marshal, I ain’t done nothin’ wrong here no how, an’ I’ve got a badge too, see, I’m a ranger for the Bureau of Lan’ Management, an’ I fancy I’ve got even more pull here than the likes of—”