Sympathy for the Devil - By Tim Pratt Page 0,62

the room. A couple of boys shared red-eye and cigarettes in one corner. A three-handed poker game played itself out in another. Along the far wall, Dennis DeArmant, the skinny owner of the place, dealt a faro game across a rickety table.

Bill’s hands twitched. If poker was Ned’s game, faro was his. He felt in his pocket for a couple of five dollar pieces. Might as well teach these suckers how a man played it. It’d help take his mind off those Cheyenne anyway.

“Mr. McGregor?” said a cultured voice behind him.

Bill turned, taking his hand out of his pocket, in case he needed it for something else. The owner of the voice was a narrow man in a dark suit that had been cut to fit. His waistcoat was as silky and brightly patterned as Bill’s own, and a gold toothpick dangled from the watch chain. What struck Bill, though, were his eyes. They were black, solid black.

Recognizing a gentleman when he saw one, Bill quick pulled together his professional manners. “May I ask who you are, Sir?”

The stranger gave a short chuckle. “Just an associate, Mr. McGregor. We’ve played cards together a few times.” Bill racked his brains trying to recall where he could’ve seen those eyes before and came up with nothing. “May I buy you a drink?” asked the stranger.

McGregor glanced at the faro game and then at the stranger. He shrugged. “All right.”

The stranger collected a bottle and two glasses from the barkeep, gesturing with them towards one of the back tables.

“Still don’t know who I am, do you Bill?” He said as he poured.

“No, Sir, that I don’t.” Bill raised his glass.

The stranger smiled over the rim of his glass. It was a thin smile, like the curve in a butcher’s knife. “Round here folks mostly call me Nick Scratch.”

Bill set his own drink back on the table and got to his feet. “I don’t care for your jokes, Sir,” he announced. Across the room, heads turned and chatter dropped away. Boots and chairs scraped across the floorboards.

“Sit down, McGregor,” said the stranger.

Bill sat.

“Drink your drink.”

Bill lifted the glass and knocked back the whiskey. The other customers’ attention went back to their own business. Bill set the glass on the table top. He drew his hand away and watched it shaking. He felt nothing, nothing at all.

“Are you ready to listen to me, Bill?” said the Devil.

“Have I got a choice?” McGregor couldn’t get his gaze to leave the table top.

“Course you do. But your life’ll be easier if you sit there calmly and let me finish. I’ve no wish to see you come to harm, Bill.” McGregor heard the Devil pour himself another shot. “You’re one of my best men.”

That got McGregor’s chin to jerk itself up.

“Oh, yes, you work for me, Bill.” A red light sparkled deep down in the Devil’s black eyes. “And I got a nice spot in Hell saved for your soul. Right next to the stove, so you won’t take a chill.

“See, wherever you go, the good church-going folk denounce you, using my name. But the young folks see you thriving by it and they line up for a chance to follow your way of life. Some of them do as fine a job for me as you do. Some do much better.

“How many times has somebody said you’ve got the devil’s own luck, Bill? It happens to be true. I’ve seen to it that you prosper and I’ll see that you continue to do so, just so long as you stay away from those Cheyenne. I’ve a bargain to keep with them and I’m a man of my word.” The light in the Devil’s eyes snapped. “I’ve got to go, Bill, but I’ll leave you with this, just in case you’re inclined to believe I crawled out of that whiskey bottle. A riot’s going to start tonight in the Royale House. Before sun-up, three-quarters of the town’ll be burnt down and Ned Carter will be dead behind the Summner House hotel. Shot in the back.”

The Devil walked out of the saloon. McGregor, with his hands still trembling, poured another whiskey but all he did was look at it. Minutes ticked themselves away to the click of coins on the faro table.

Bill didn’t believe in haunts, nor spiritualism. He tried hard not to believe what his father had preached in the Boston parish he’d ruled with such an iron fist. But he believed his eyes and his head. He’d