The laugh became too painful to suppress. Scott turned away from his little brother sitting in corral dirt and muffled the rising chortle with a backhanded swipe across the mouth.
Less subtle, Murdoch’s wheezing chuckle evolved into a blustering cough. Regaining measured breathing, a proclamation was voiced. “It appears Royal Brindle has earned the first tally mark in its joust with Sir John of Lancer.”
The patriarch’s ribbing humor spread to his youngest son still seated in a dusty kingdom. Johnny acknowledged the brindle with an exaggerated salute and then palmed the crown of his hat, plopping it low on the brow to cover his face.
“Your private Pony Express rode in earlier.” Murdoch’s tone suggested he’d saved some raillery for his oldest.
“Ah, Benjamin.” Scott had first employed the lad for timely mail delivery during the days of Fletcher Garrett’s will and lawyers. The luxury proved hard to give up and Ben, being quite the entrepreneur, gladly carried on with their agreement.
“The kid shook me down for a silver. I told him the price seemed a bit steep. He calmly replied that time is money.” Murdoch presented two letters and scrutinized the envelopes, wittingly pausing their delivery. “Hard to argue his point.”
“Indeed.” An eyebrow raised as Scott fished payment from a pocket. Now who’s shaking down whom?
“However.” With a sly grin, Murdoch plucked a coin from his son’s hand. “I’m only charging you a 50-cent-piece for the one postmarked Boston. The other’s from Sacramento.” The letters reached their destination. “That one’s on me.” With a wink, the ranch’s Postmaster General headed back to the hacienda.
Scott studied the two handwritings that were like chalk and cheese. Over the years, the first envelope’s precise scrivenery had gradually aged with familiarity. Hopefully, the future would serve the second’s free-flowing feminine penscript as well. Curiosity tickled the notion to immediately open the letters, but each deserved its own undivided attention. Refolded, the correspondences slipped into Scott’s pocket to await a quiet moment - a moment put on hold as the fallen knight approached.
Looping the jumbled training rope in his hands, Johnny leaned against the fence rail. “You got that look on your puss, brother.”
“And what look might that be?”
“Oh, when you got some fancy words from Back East Emerson rattlin’ around in your head that need to slide out on your silver tongue of wisdom.”
“There is a rattle. No denying.”
“Best let them out.”
“If you insist.” A dramatic pause was taken. “I believe Emerson once wrote - they have seen but half the universe who never have been shown the house of pain.” Scott readjusted his hat to allow a tease to gather. “No truer words spoken considering your backside just said howdy to the man in the moon.”
“Well, it is a fact.” A slow drawl ushered in additional enlightenment. “My ass and ego are equally bruised.” Johnny’s nod pointed out the brindle. “Although you gotta agree, it’s hard to find fault with a fella havin’ good taste when pickin’ out a partner.”
“Agreed.” Scott watched the stallion continue its circular path of growing trust with the young lady. Visually, they made a striking pair, but only time would tell if it was a good match.
And then.
Hard to find fault with a fella havin’ good taste when pickin’ out a partner.
His brother’s casual comment replayed with a different perspective in Scott’s head. Had Johnny been referring to the brindle… or himself?
Kinsey lobbed over her shoulder a light-hearted verbal spar of her own. “Are you returning to the arena, Sir John of Lancer?”
“Remind me to thank the old man for that handle.” The dismay in Johnny’s voice did little to mask his underlying delight of the recently bestowed title. The training rope’s final tangle surrendered to a soft loop. “Looks like Half-pint might want another go around. Let’s see what I can do to get dealt better cards this time.”
Observing the jouster amble back to the center of the corral, Scott’s silver tongue offered a bit more wisdom. “A stacked deck never gifts favorable odds.”
Johnny’s halted stance spoke of his unseen but still customary cock-eyed grin. “Back East Emerson?”
“Boston Big Brother.”
********
“Ho-HO! I believe you’ve been knighted Sir Argus-eyed Lancer by old Queen Vic. By God, man, the title suits you well.”
“It’s called being observant, McCallister.”
“It’s called reading too much into a friendly game of cards.”
Taking a sip of his recently poured beer, Scott studied the three Harvard lads sitting at the pub’s corner table. The word friendly certainly described the gentlemen, but perhaps not their cards. Despite the ribbing from his childhood friend, Scott felt there was good reason to cast some doubt.
Earlier in the week, he and George had patronized the establishment they currently stood in. Coming up short for a second pint, the boys had employed their skills of spoon-tossing. With a few unsuspecting spectators showing interest in catapulting a silver stirrer into a Toby mug, good-natured bets were placed and wagers traveling across a polished bar eventually quenched Scott’s dry throat.
There had always been an agreement between the two Beacon Hill mates: Never take advantage of a stacked deck. And when it came to spoon tossing, a fine art Scott and George had mastered by the age of twelve, the boys could easily stack the deck with their catapulting talent. So, in the pursuit of extra pub money, Scott only won enough for one more mug and a round for the losers. Keeping the bets small and wins versus losses fairly equal made for an amicable night.
However, on the particular evening in question, George’s avidness took hold. As pints poured, his good judgment suffered, but not his aim. Seeing the last of their coins slip away, the realization of being hustled arrived too late for the three challengers of McCallister’s spoon-tossing talent. But, unlike the uncivilized baboons attending Yale, the Harvard lads accepted defeat with stiff upper lips and cordial handshakes. Now those same three lads needed a fourth for a friendly game of cards.
“Let’s remember, George, you’re the gent who graciously relieved those fellas of the heavy, cumbersome coins in their pockets the other night. They may be looking to recoup losses. Maybe a bit more.”
“They don’t look like Mississippi gamblers to me.” McCallister winked, drained his mug and ambled toward the invitation of a friendly game of cards.
“Right. And you just stepped off a riverboat.”
********
The vision of George’s reaction to the warning, a hesitant stance which spoke of his unseen confident cock-eyed grin, had inspired Scott’s memory. It was a fact. The three gentlemen were not Mississippi gamblers. However, the one lad’s uncle had embraced the profession and he’d taught how to expertly stack a deck by the time his nephew had turned twelve.
Lacing his fingers, Scott resumed his posture of rested forearms on the fence’s upper rail and quietly watched the shared attributes gradually surfacing over the last days between the brindle’s wrangler and its owner.
You’re reading too much into this, Sir Argus-eyed.
It’s called being observant, George.
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