by“Somethin’ in the air tonight,” Reb Stevens said as he came into Frenchy’s tent for the usual after-supper poker game. “Somethin’ makes a man wish he had more’n canvas walls around him. Ol’ Dutch Groggins says he feels it hard enough t’ make his pipe smoke go yellah.”
“Yes,” Frenchy agreed. “It is very heavy.”
My name is Bart Maverel, from a line that brought a family curse along with it from the old country. Though that curse—that everything a Maverel turns his hand to goes wrong—was laid on us centuries back, and it seems to be wearing thin, generation by generation. Thin enough that going partners with Frenchy in her eating establishment seemed more or less safe enough as a cover for one of the few occupations that we Maverels have a decent shot at: gambling.
Lady Luck doesn’t seem
