Disclaimer: Neither 'Alias Smith and Jones' nor 'Magnificent Seven' belongs to me. This is fan fiction, not for profit.

Any references to people, places, businesses, etc. are entirely fictitious.

A/N – story presumes the details on the wanted posters are not entirely accurate. Story exists in the same No Amnesty - Smith and Jones story verse as previous stories.

Chapter 2 – Another Place, Another Poker Game

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"Phht!"

Hannibal Heyes' wiry body shook at the unexpected bump. Whiskey spewed from the slender man's lips. Droplets glistened on the rough-hewn pine bar for a moment before the barkeep swiped a cloth over the counter. The automatic motion told of long practice. The bartender's weary eyes met Heyes' dark brown eyes. The young outlaw recognized the man's mute plea for peace. Heyes gritted his teeth, forcing a tight smile upon his face. A wanted man travelling by himself didn't need a barroom brawl any more than the bartender.

"Stew was good."

The Kansan's mild tone masked his irritation. Heyes pushed his nearly empty bowl towards the bartender and set his empty glass down beside the dish. Behind him, the heavyset drunk nudged closer to the oak counter. Another clumsy misstep jostled the dark-haired man again. Heyes turned to glare at the inebriated lout.

"Watch where you're going," Heyes warned his oblivious assailant.

"Burt, gimme a whiskey," demanded the annoying man in a petulant tone.

The balding man wiped his hands on the front of his once white apron and reached for the bottle. Heyes followed the man's eyes as the bartender glanced across the room. Burt hadn't been watching the poker game. A smirk dimpled Heyes face as the barkeep realized what Heyes already knew. The staggering man had left the poker table due to his losses. The hardworking man thumped the bottle on the counter in front of his pushy customer, but he made no move to pour the liquor.

"Two bits first Orville," reminded the bartender. "Mr. Randall's rules."

"I didn't lose everything to that gambler," objected an affronted voice.

"Still, Mr. Randall has rules."

Orville frowned, but his beady eyes focused on the whiskey bottle in the bartender's hands. A meaty paw reached into his pocket for the necessary coins. The drunkard jostled Heyes for a third time. For the first time, Orville noticed Heyes.

"Watch it young fella," snapped the rude man.

"Oh, I've been watching it."

"What?" Orville took his eyes off the bottle and glared at Heyes in confusion. "Whatcha talkin' about?"

"The game."

Heyes waved his hand in a graceful gesture to indicate the poker table. Meanwhile, the bartender scooped up Orville's money. Burt thumped a shot glass on the counter and filled it quickly. Orville clutched the rotgut and turned away from the bar. Facing the poker game he had so recently abandoned, his florid face crinkled in a frown.

"Ain't fair," grumbled the sore loser. "Ain't sure how he done it, but that fella in the fancy duds has gotta be cheatin'."

Across the room, the soft-spoken winner of the last hand said something that Heyes couldn't hear. The cowpoke seated beside the man nodded. The rail thin man seated between the ranch hand and Orville's vacant seat looked a little glum, but he too nodded. The bespectacled man seated on the other side of the empty chair also murmured something, nodded as if in agreement, and gestured towards the center of the table. A glint of gold flashed from the winner's smile. With a gracious nod, the chestnut-haired man reached across the green felt, raking money and cards towards himself.

"He's not cheating," assured Heyes with a tone of admiration. "He's a professional."

"Well then you go play him!" challenged Orville.

Heyes didn't hesitate even though he'd only stopped in this tiny Colorado town for a meal. The calculating man knew he was a good poker player compared to the men he usually played against. Only Big Jim provided any competition when Heyes played against the men in the Devil's Hole Gang. Playing against a professional was something else. Heyes wanted a chance to test his skills against the man in the red coat.

"Don't mind if I do!"

Heyes dropped the appropriate amount of coins beside his bowl and turned away.

"You ain't gonna do no better," Orville raised his voice in challenge. "You're jus' gonna lose all your money like the rest of us!"

At the sound of Orville's catcall, the alert gambler turned his head slightly in the direction of the sore loser's voice. The gambler's quick hands stilled for a moment as he regarded Orville. Dismissing the grumbling man as a threat, he turned back to his task of sorting silver and gold coins and paper bills into stacks.

"Mmmph!" sounded from the grumpy man behind Heyes. The shuffling sound of unsteady footsteps told Heyes the man turned back to the bar before he heard Orville's next drunken demand. "Burt, gimme another."

Dodging men, women, tables and chairs as he crossed the crowded saloon, Heyes moved towards his goal without another word to the drunk. The sound of Burt and Orville's words faded as Heyes moved closer to the game. The young outlaw kept his eyes on the gambler. The professional man's gaze was now assessing his competitors. Heyes wondered at the wary gambler's thoughts as he reached Orville's empty seat.

"Would you have room for one more?" Heyes asked in a friendly tone.

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The professional gambler leaned back casually, as if disinterested. His head rested on the wall behind him, bright green eyes regarded Heyes. The nimble-fingered man shuffled cards one-handed. The money, now sorted into three separate piles of silver coins, another shorter pile of gold coins, and a tidy stack of paper bills lay on the table before him.

"We just agreed to raise the ante to a dollar," informed the man seated closest to the vacant chair. He never looked at Heyes. The man nudged his glasses up further on his nose, not taking his eyes off his own small pile of money in front of him. "You still interested?"

Hannibal Heyes arched an eyebrow up. Most games he'd played started with a twenty-five-cent ante. The Devil's Hole gang considered wagering two-bits, the price of a decent meal in Wildwood, to be enough of a risk when they were flush. Holed up during the winter, they gambled for matchsticks.

"A little steep," admitted Heyes.

The wily outlaw flashed a self-assured grin. His hand patted the pocket of his dark coat. A few coins and empty bullet casings rattled suggestively. No one needed to know where he kept the bulk of his folding money. Heyes reached in and retrieved a silver dollar. A flick of his thumb and the coin tumbled through the air to land in the center of the green felt table.

"Just got paid though, so I think I'm good for a hand or two."

The gambler straightened in his chair. The cards stopped their rapid movement as he laid the deck face down on the round table. Attentive, alert, on guard, realized Heyes. Similarly, the thin man had narrowed his eyes, now gazing with interest at Heyes. What had caught the men's attention? Producing the required ante, and indicating there was more to come, should have soothed the players concerns.

"And who would we be playing with?" drawled the gambler. A southerner realized Heyes from the man's accent. "You're not from around here."

The thin man, a banker guessed Heyes due to the man's fine black suit, gave a small harrumph of suspicion and continued to frown up at him.

"Harrow," continued the gambler's honeyed voice with a nod at the thin man, "and Sullivan," with a nod at the man wearing glasses seated to the right of Heyes, "are both residents of this fair town."

Continuing with a nod first in the direction of the bar then to the wrangler, the southerner added, "As was our departed companion, while Palmer is part of the Lazy J ranch just outside of town."

"There are other travelers in the saloon," stated Heyes with a glance around. Did he really have to explain his presence here? "There's a stage runs through Weaverton and I know my horse wasn't the only new one at the livery."

The gambler extended his right hand towards the card deck, almost as if to pick it up, but his hand merely hovered beside the deck, unnaturally straight, fingers still.

"Who are you?" demanded the gambler. "And why are you wearing a gun tied down at your hip?"

Oh. The gun. Folks from back East sometimes seemed to be leery about weapons, but wearing a gun was almost as natural as breathing in the wild West. And sometimes seemed just as necessary.

"The gun is for protection... against snakes… cougars… outlaws…," Heyes answered. He attempted to lighten the mood with a joke. "Or dangerous gamblers."

"Really..."

The gambler didn't seem to be amused. The southerner's fine boned hand still lingered near the card deck. Heyes felt the tension at the table. Orville might not have been the only sore loser at the table. The quick-thinking man continued stretching the truth.

"I'm just passing through, sold some stock to a fella in Montana. On my way home now. Name is Arthur Jones. Artie to my friends…"

Heyes voice slowed. He realized something was off. The gambler had tensed slightly at the name Jones. No one else might have noticed, but Harrow and Sullivan were more obvious. The two exchanged glances with each other before turning their suddenly suspicious gaze not towards Heyes, but to the gambler.

"Artie Jones," finished Heyes.

The ranch hand burst out laughing. The noise was a harsh, unfriendly sound.

"Well now ain't that funny," Palmer said in a way that didn't sound as if he found the name amusing at all. "Smith and Jones!"

Harrow's narrow lips tightened into a frown. Sullivan leaned across the table speaking to the banker.

"I've heard of professional gambler's, conmen really, that pretend to lose all their money to someone at the table… when they are really working with the other fella…" hissed Sullivan. "Mr. Smith... if that's really his name..."

"So no one suspects the gambler," interrupted Harrow.

"I assure you I have never seen this man Jones before in my life," protested the southerner.

Heyes dark brown eyes met the gambler's green ones. Was his last name really Smith wondered Heyes? Or was that an alias just like his own self-stated Jones? The gambler and Heyes both spoke at once.

"There are lots of Smiths…"

"There are lots of Jones…"

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