Gran Carter clapped Alberto on the back hard enough that he choked midsentence. “You’re alright by me, friend. I’m not here for you, and I’m not here for the casino, and I’m not here to stop Mr. Travers from throwing cheats into the river. Hell, I’m not even here to make Mr. Hotchkiss shave that embarrassment of a moustache.” He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket. All of the men around the table reacted instantly, drawing pistols and pointing them at the U.S. marshal in the broad black hat.

“Woah there,” he said, holding up his hands. In one of them, he held a photograph. The men around the table put their guns away—all except Cal, who merely lowered his to the table. He kept one hand on the gun. The other hand reached up unconsciously to stroke his patchy blond moustache. At that moment, Cordelia arrived with a tray and handed a glass of honey-brown liquor to Cal. She perched in his lap like a cat sitting on a fence post, her eyes fixed upon his unholstered revolver.

Carter set the photograph on the table and slid it toward the center of the felt. “That there’s Miss Adelia Reyes, gentlemen. I happen to know that she was on the Harriet eight or nine months ago, and I’m guessing she talked to some people here. She owes me a conversation. I’d be much obliged if y’all’d look over that photograph and tell me if you’ve seen her.”

None of the men took the photograph, but their eyes all locked onto it the same way they’d been watching their cards before the game had ended. The sepia photograph showed a woman with burnished bronze skin and the cool, steady gaze of a contract killer. She stared out of the photo with hawkish, predatory eyes; a tattoo of a thorny vine coiled its way up the side of her neck and into her hair.

“Well,” said Edvard. “I think I’d remember it if I ever saw a lady like that. What’d she do that a marshal’s looking for her?”

Alberto rubbed a thick rope of scar tissue on the back of his left arm. “I’d imagine she killed a man.”

Carter looked at Alberto with that unwavering smile. “You’d imagine right.”

Cordelia leaned over the table to look at the picture, then opened her mouth as if to speak. Cal Hotchkiss rested his hand on her hip, his grip tight. She closed her mouth without speaking.

“Well,” Carter said, pushing back from the table and standing without taking the photograph. “I’ll be around if you need me.”