“And number three, my dear man.” Houndstooth reached down and gripped the bridge of the marshjack’s nose between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. The marshjack’s eyes stayed on the knife, which was now twirling baton-like between the fingers of Houndstooth’s right hand. “I thought you’d want to know that they don’t let me on hopper ranches. Not anymore.” His voice dropped to an intimate murmur as the knife flashed in his hand. “But I’ll be happy to address your concerns myself.”

In one fluid motion, Houndstooth inserted the knife into the marshjack’s left nostril and slit it open. Before the marshjack could so much as choke on his own blood, his right nostril had been similarly vented.

Winslow Houndstooth straightened and wiped the blade of the knife clean on his handkerchief. He dropped the square of ruined silk onto the marshjack’s face just as the man raised his hands to clutch at his filleted nose.

“I’ll help you clean up the sawdust tonight, Nadine. Sorry about the mess.” Houndstooth stepped over the marshjack and shot his cuffs, raising his voice over the marshjack’s moans. “Oh, and I’ll be paying out my room this evening. I’ve got a business trip to go on and I think I’ll be a while.”

Nadine set two glasses on the bar and poured a measure of whiskey into each as the bar patrons slowly began to converse again.

“Where ya headed, Winslow?”

He took a photo out of his breast pocket. The hatchet-nosed man glared up from it, his wispy moustache abristle. “The Mississippi River, sweet Nadine.” He tossed the marshjack’s fine ivory-handled knife in the air; it flipped end-over-end five and a half times before dropping, point-down, through the hatchet-nosed man’s left eye. Houndstooth clinked his glass against Nadines. They each downed their whiskey, and Houndstooth gave Nadine a wink and a grin to go with the burn in both their throats. “And what a fine river it is.”

Chapter 2

NOBODY EVER SUSPECTS THE FAT LADY.

Regina Archambault walked through the market with her parasol over her shoulder, plucking ripe coin purses from pockets like fragrant plums from the orchard. Her hat was canted at a saucy angle over her crown of braids. Many of her marks recognized her, the visitor they’d sat next to at church or at a fete. They greeted her by name—and then their gazes slid off her like condensation down the side of a glass.

And she helped herself to whatever she deemed that they didn’t have a use for. Rings, watches, wallets, purses—the peacock feather from the back of a particularly lovely bonnet. They never seemed to suspect that a woman whose dresses were custom-made to fit over her broad body would have nimble fingers. That she would be able to slip past them without drawing attention.