Edvard and Alberto stood together and walked over to the bar, shooting glances at Carter as he sauntered toward the exit. Cal watched him walk away, then stood. Cordelia toppled from his lap. He grabbed a wad of cash from the center of the table and thrust it at her. “For the drink. And the company. Go on and tell ’em downstairs that I’ll be along shortly to pick up my Betsy.”

“No need,” a cheerful voice rang out from just behind them. “I’ve already moved her into a paddock for some quality time with my Ruby.”

Cal whipped around so quickly his hat fell off, leaving Cordelia to gather the bills he’d dropped. In the instant it had taken him to turn, he’d grabbed his revolver off the table and unholstered a second, smaller gun from his belt. He had both pointed at Winslow Houndstooth with the hammers cocked back by the time his hat hit the ground.

“Now, Calhoun, that’s no way to greet an old partner.” Houndstooth strode toward Cal, plucking his bourbon from the table and sampling the bouquet deeply before taking a long, slow sip. Behind him, Cordelia slipped out of the room. “Oh. That’s very fine, indeed. You still have excellent taste.”

“You here for me, Houndstooth?” Cal growled. “If you think I’ll go quiet, think again.” He shifted his toothpick back and forth in his mouth.

Houndstooth laughed. “Nothing like that, Cal, my old friend! I’m here to work with you again. Partners. Just like old times. Just like back on the ranch.” Houndstooth flicked open a long, thin stiletto blade and twirled it between his fingers like a baton. “You remember the ranch, don’t you, Cal? The one you worked on, right up until it burned to the ground on the same night you ran off to work on the Harriet? A fine coincidence, that.”

Cal started to edge toward the door. Houndstooth stepped swiftly between him and the exit. “Love the—is it a moustache you’re working on? We really must catch up, Calhoun, old chap. I’ve been wanting to have a chat with you for some time now.”

A cough sounded from the door. They both turned, and the air in the room went cold. Hovering in the doorway was a sleek little stoat of a man, his pencil moustache slicked across the top of his lip like a drunk draped across a chaise longue. His seersucker suit was fitted to him so impeccably that Houndstooth’s breath caught for a moment in his throat.

“Gentlemen. I trust you’re both familiar with the rules of my casinos.” The man’s voice was smoother than the bourbon his bartender poured for high rollers.

“Mr. Travers,” Houndstooth said. “I wasn’t going to hurt my old friend Cal, here. Just showing him my new knife.”