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  “He is playing in a high-stakes poker game tonight at a roadhouse in the hills. Perhaps if you ask him, he will tell you where he got the false bills.”

  John Henry took the gun from his waistband, slid it back into the holster, and started buttoning his shirt. He had been tired, wanting only to clean up a little and get some sleep, but that weariness had vanished when his manhunter’s instincts were aroused.

  “I hope you can tell me where to find this roadhouse,” he said.

  “I can do better than that. I can show you.” Wing Sun reached into the bag she carried and brought out a small stack of bills tied together with string. “And I can give you the money you need to buy into the game with Ross, courtesy of Wing Ko . . . and the Black Lotus.”

  * * *

  No amount of argument could persuade Wing Sun it wasn’t a good idea for her to come with him, or for Wing Ko to finance his entry into the game. Wing Ko could easily afford it, she insisted. She knew where the roadhouse was, and it was the sort of place where he was more likely to be accepted as a high-rolling gambler if he had a beautiful woman on his arm.

  “I have never been bothered with a sense of false modesty,” she told him. “I know I’m beautiful.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me about that,” John Henry muttered. He had finished getting dressed again. “All right, let’s go.”

  A carriage hitched to a pair of fine black horses was waiting outside the hotel. Two of Wing Ko’s men were on the high seat, one handling the reins, the other holding a shotgun. Both men wore brocaded jackets and round black caps.

  “When I told my father I wished to come and help you with your mission, he would not allow it unless I brought two of his men to protect me,” Wing Sun explained. “With a war with Ling Yuan looming, he did not want to risk my safety. I insisted that we owe you a debt, however, and that I should help pay it in any way that I can.”

  “And you didn’t want to pass up a chance for a little adventure at the same time,” John Henry guessed.

  Wing Sun smiled as she held out her hand so he could help her into the carriage.

  “I am but a submissive Chinese girl,” she murmured.

  John Henry thought about the way she had pulled that gun from a holster hidden under her dress, probably strapped to her thigh, and blazed away at Ling Yuan’s men. Submissive wasn’t exactly the word he would use to describe her.

  He didn’t see any point in mentioning that, however, so he handed her up into the carriage and then followed her in. The driver got the team moving.

  He must have known already where he was going, because Wing Sun didn’t give him any instructions. The carriage rolled through the streets of Los Angeles and then started up into the hills overlooking the city on a broad, well-packed trail. At times the route was pretty steep, but the driver guided the horses with an expert hand.

  John Henry was sitting on the front seat, facing backward. The carriage had lamps burning at the corners of its roof, but they didn’t cast much light inside, so he couldn’t see Wing Sun very well. He said, “What do you know about this man Ross?”

  “Not a great deal,” she replied. “His family owns a ranch and is respected, but he is regarded as a wastrel. A black sheep, I believe you Americans call it. He is fond of liquor, gambling, young girls. Too fond of those things. But he has plenty of money, so he has always been able to skirt around trouble that might otherwise have claimed him.”

  “Your father found out all this in a matter of an hour or so?”

  Wing Sun laughed and said, “My father has tentacles like the octopus. They spread everywhere. They give him his power . . . and that power is what men such as Ling Yuan seek to wrest from him by any means necessary.”

  “I wish him luck,” John Henry said sincerely, although a part of him knew that he shouldn’t be sympathizing with a crime lord. Wing Ko had all but admitted that he was responsible for the opium that was brought in from China up and down the coast.

  But as Captain Sawyer had said, sometimes a lawman had to work with what was available to him. Tonight, the best way John Henry could proceed with the job that had brought him here was to accept help from a criminal . . . and that criminal’s beautiful daughter.

  The carriage turned off the trail and followed a path that wound through some trees. It emerged onto a shoulder of ground that jutted out from a hillside. Dotted across the valley below were the lights of Los Angeles, scattered at this time of night since most people had already turned in.

  The large house built in Spanish style that sat on the promontory, though, was lit up brightly. Carriages, buggies, and buckboards were parked at the end of a flagstone path leading to the house. A number of saddle horses were tied to several hitching posts.

  “When you called it a roadhouse, this isn’t exactly what I figured you meant,” John Henry said to Wing Sun. “Back where I come from, most roadhouses are just run-down taverns.”

  “This is the old Campos estate,” Wing Sun said. “A proud old Californio family fallen on hard times, according to my father. Once they owned much of these hills and a large portion of the valley as a land grant from the King of Spain. But everything is gone now except the old villa. Matteo Campos provides games of chance, food and drink, and women for those who seek a discreet venue for their vices.”

  “Men like Quentin Ross.”

  “Especially men like Quentin Ross.”

  John Henry opened the door and stepped out. As he turned to take Wing Sun’s hand and help her to the ground, he said, “We’ll have to be careful in there.”

  “One must always be careful. Danger lurks in unexpected places.”

  “Chinese wisdom?”

  “Common sense.” Wing Sun linked her arm with his. “Come on. Let’s find the man passing those counterfeit bills.”

  As they started up the flagstone path toward the house, John Henry was struck by the thought that so far, this night sure wasn’t turning out the way he had expected it to. He had found himself in the middle of a fight between Chinese hatchet men, nearly been mowed down by a Gatling gun, and now he was waltzing into a gambling den run by a dissolute Californio with the beautiful, dangerous daughter of a Chinese crime lord on his arm.

  Yeah, he mused, this was a pretty far cry from Indian Territory.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A swarthy man in tight trousers, a short charro jacket, and white shirt met them at the double doors of the entrance. He had thick, graying dark hair and a drooping mustache, and he wore a long-barreled Remington revolver holstered on his hip. He rested a hand on the gun’s walnut grips as he confronted John Henry and Wing Sun.

  “You and the señorita have not been here before, señor,” the man said. “I have an excellent memory for faces.”

  “Then you probably recognize the faces on these,” John Henry said as he opened his coat enough for the man to see the sheaf of bills stuck in his shirt pocket.

  “Of course, my old amigos,” the man said without a trace of humor on his solemn, flinty face. “Come in, por favor. If I may ask . . . how did you become aware of our establishment?”

  Wing Sun said, “Captain Phillip Armistead told us about it.”

  “Ah, el capitán Armistead. Very well.” The door guardian waved them into a tiled foyer. “Enjoy your evening.”

  As they walked along a short hallway, following the sounds of laughter, talking, and the rapid clicking of a roulette wheel, John Henry asked quietly, “Who’s Armistead?”

  “A former military man who patronizes one of my father’s establishments. He’s some sort of politician now, I believe. He was eager to assist us in our quest for information.”

  Which probably meant that Wing Ko had blackmailed him into helping, John Henry mused. He wondered if Armistead was addicted to opium.

  This job was leading him down murkier and murkier pathways, John Henry thought, and it made him uneasy. He had always been a pretty straightforward hombre, wise enough to be aware that not everything in the worl
d was always black-and-white but knowing as well that it didn’t pay to stray too far into the gray area between right and wrong.

  They emerged into a large central courtyard open to the stars overhead. It was surrounded by a second-floor balcony bordered with wrought iron railings. Flowering vines grew on those railings. The water in a constantly running fountain in the center of the courtyard tinkled merrily.

  It was an unusual location for a gambling setup, but that’s what John Henry saw before him. Tables for poker and blackjack, faro layouts, the roulette wheel he had heard on their way in . . . along with a bar on each side of the courtyard and a number of tables where men and women sat drinking.

  A man in a considerably fancier version of the outfit worn by the doorman came toward John Henry and Wing Sun. He was young, probably in his midtwenties, with a handsome, olive-skinned face and a stiff brush of dark hair. He smiled as he stopped in front of them and said, “I know you, señorita, or I should say that I know who you are, since we’ve not had the pleasure of meeting before now. You are the honorable Wing Ko’s daughter.”

  “And you are Matteo Campos,” Wing Sun said.

  Campos inclined his head in acknowledgment of her statement.

  “It is an honor to have you visit my humble home,” he said. “If anyone had asked me, I would have said it was unlikely that you would grace us with your presence, considering the number of establishments belonging to your father where similar entertainment can be sought.”

  “Exactly,” Wing Sun said. “Those places belong to my father. I seek something . . . different.”

  Campos’s smile widened. He said, “Ah. I understand. In that case, allow me to welcome you and your friend . . . ?”

  “Señor Sixkiller,” Wing Sun said.

  “John Henry Sixkiller,” John Henry supplied. He extended a hand to Campos. Very few people in southern California knew that he was a deputy U.S. marshal, so he didn’t see how it would do any harm to use his real name. Anyway, Wing Sun had rendered that question moot by introducing him to Campos.

  “The pleasure is mine,” Campos said as he shook hands. “What can we interest you in this evening? Blackjack, roulette . . . ?”

  “Actually, I was thinking more of poker,” John Henry said. “The higher the stakes, the better.”

  “Ah. You prefer a game of skill, rather than chance.”

  John Henry nodded and said, “That’s what I had in mind. It’s got to have enough riding on it to make it truly interesting, though.”

  “Of course. Some of my customers see things the same way you do. If you and the señorita would like to come with me . . .”

  He swept an elegantly manicured hand toward a broad staircase that led up to the balcony. They climbed the stairs and Campos led them along the balcony to an arched doorway where another armed guard stood. The man moved aside to let them into the room.

  The chamber was luxuriously appointed with heavy sofas and chairs, thick rugs on the hardwood floor, a large fireplace on one side of the room. A crystal chandelier hung from an exposed ceiling beam above the baize-covered poker table in the center of the room.

  Six men sat at the table, concentrating on the cards in their hands. Three women, all young and beautiful, lounged in armchairs arranged to the side, near the fireplace, and sipped from the drinks they held.

  Wing Sun was lovelier than any of the three women, John Henry thought.

  One of the men at the table had the look of a professional gambler. John Henry suspected that he worked for Campos. Three of the others appeared to be local businessmen out for some excitement. The fifth man looked like a Spanish grandee with his elegant suit and pointed goatee, and the sixth . . .

  The sixth had to be Quentin Ross, John Henry thought. Young, handsome in a dissolute, going-to-seed manner, with tightly curled fair hair and a seemingly permanent arrogant sneer. As John Henry, Wing Sun, and Campos approached the table, the man John Henry had pegged as Ross folded, throwing in his cards with a curse.

  “Your luck is bound to change, Mr. Ross,” the professional gambler said, confirming John Henry’s hunch.

  “Yeah,” one of the businessmen agreed with a grin. “It can’t stay that bad all night . . . or can it?”

  “Just finish the damn hand,” Ross snapped, “so I can have another chance to get even with you pikers.”

  Since he was out of the game for the moment, Ross turned his attention elsewhere. John Henry saw the young man’s eyes swing toward Wing Sun and light up with curiosity. More than curiosity . . .

  Lust burned in those eyes, too.

  Unaccountably, that made John Henry angry even though he knew there was nothing between him and Wing Sun other than mutual respect. He didn’t like the way Ross was looking at her. Judging by the way she stiffened as she stood arm in arm with him, neither did she.

  Ross scraped his chair back and stood up.

  “Leaving the game?” the grandee asked him.

  “Not hardly,” Ross said. “I just want to make the acquaintance of this lovely lady. Introduce us, Matteo.”

  Campos said, “Allow me to present Señorita Wing Sun and Señor Sixkiller.”

  “Wing Sun,” Ross repeated, ignoring John Henry. “Wait a minute, I know who you are. I’ve heard rumors about old Wing Ko having a daughter.”

  “That venerable one is my father,” Wing Sun admitted.

  “I never figured the old boy would have a gal who’s so pretty. You must have gotten your looks from your mama. What are you doing outside of Chinatown?”

  “She’s with me,” John Henry said, leaning forward slightly and speaking sharply enough that Ross had to acknowledge him.

  “Well, then, you’re a lucky son of a gun, aren’t you?” Ross said with a sneer that made John Henry want to punch him in the face.

  “That’s what I’m here to find out. I’m here to play cards.”

  To emphasize his point, John Henry drew the stack of bills from his pocket.

  At that point, the hand going on at the table ended, with the grandee taking the pot. Quentin Ross glanced back and forth, obviously torn between paying attention to Wing Sun and wanting to get back into the game.

  John Henry wanted to get into the game himself, and one of the businessmen made that possible by heaving a sigh and saying, “That’s enough for me, I’m afraid.” He put his hands on the edge of the table and pushed himself to his feet. “I think I’d better go home while I still have a home to go to.”

  One of the other men at the table laughed. He was big, well dressed, with a rough-hewn face and a shock of dark hair. At first glance John Henry had taken him for a businessman, but on second look he wasn’t so sure. The man’s features had a certain cruel, piratical cast to them.

  “That’s what happens when you go swimming with sharks,” he commented. “Why don’t you join us, Mr. . . . Sixkiller, was it?”

  “That’s right.” John Henry leaned over the table to shake hands with the man. “John Henry Sixkiller.”

  “Nick Prentice,” the man introduced himself. He nodded toward the chair the businessman had just vacated.

  John Henry looked around the table at the other men and said, “With your permission . . . ?”

  The house gambler waved him into the empty chair, and the others nodded.

  John Henry turned to Wing Sun and said, “Why don’t you get yourself something to drink, honey, and bring me a drink, too?”

  She smiled, but her eyes glittered and he could tell she was annoyed by the dismissive tone he had taken. It was all part of the act, though, and he figured she understood that.

  “Of course, darling,” she murmured.

  John Henry sat down. These men didn’t bother with chips. They just piled money in the center of the table. He threw in his own ante, and the grandee, who had won the previous hand, began to deal.

  Wing Sun came back to the table a couple of minutes later as the men were studying the hands they’d been dealt. She placed a glass of champagne next to the stac
k of bills in front of John Henry and leaned over to nuzzle her lips against his ear.

  “Good luck, darling,” she said so the others could hear her, then breathed, “I’ll get even with you for the way you spoke to me just now.”

  John Henry just smiled.

  Somehow, he was looking forward to Wing Sun making good on that “threat.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The game was high stakes right from the start. John Henry knew he wasn’t playing with his own money, but he resisted plunging too much anyway. As a result, he stayed mostly even for the first hour as he gauged the skills of the other players.

  The house gambler, as house gamblers tend to be, was steady and unspectacular, winning more than he lost but seldom taking a big pot. The grandee was a little more daring, losing more hands but staying slightly ahead overall. A man who introduced himself as Harvey Court explained to John Henry that he owned a hardware store; he was cautious but not very good at the game, so he lost money, but slowly.

  Nick Prentice was more daring than the grandee and lost considerably more than he won, but when he won it tended to be a big pot, so he was ahead of the game, too.

  All that meant most of the losses had to come from one place, and so they did: Quentin Ross. He bet wildly, recklessly, cackling with glee when luck favored him and he won, more often cursing bitterly when his bluffs failed or when he reached to fill a hand and missed out on the cards he needed. The pile of money in front of him dwindled steadily, and the smaller it got, the angrier Ross became.

  After one particularly stinging loss in a hand that Prentice won, Ross blustered, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that somebody was—”

  Prentice cut in, his voice icy as he told Ross, “You don’t want to finish that sentence, my friend.”

  John Henry knew that Ross had been about to accuse Prentice of cheating. That likely would have been a mistake. Ross was fairly big and looked like he could handle himself in a fight, but John Henry figured Prentice could probably break the young wastrel in half.

  That wouldn’t do. John Henry needed information from Ross. He said, “Why don’t we take a break, maybe step out on the balcony and smoke a cigar? What do you say, Ross?”