CHAPTER TWELVE

Hans stayed in his room for the next couple of days to avoid his father seeing him. He shoved his chest in front of the door and responded to his father hammering on it by saying he was sick and thought he had eaten something bad. Jorgen suggested sending for the doctor, but Hans persuaded him that he wasn't sufficiently ill to waste the man's time and incur a bill. Meanwhile the housekeeper slipped food up to the room for him whenever Jorgen was out or too busy to notice. Two days later Jorgen took a trip to Chicago to visit Lars and Leif and to see a client there, leaving the housekeeper with instructions to call the doctor the next day if Hans was no better. Hans left his room at last and lounged about in the drawing room instead until he ceased to look as if he'd been run down by a wagon.

Hans went back to his poker games a few days later, but avoided the saloon for the next few weeks, somehow convinced that Billy would be in there lying in wait for him. Of course this wasn't the case and when he at last ventured back there, again on a Monday, Red actually seemed pleased to see him.

"Ain't seen ya in a while," he commented. "Thought Lillian must've put ya off for life. Almost considered firin' her."

"Don't do that!" exclaimed Hans anxiously.

Red laughed. "Don't be stupid, boy, think I'd fire my best whore? She ain't in tonight, if that's what yer after."

"Uh….no….I'll have a whiskey, please. I was wonderin' if Jenny's free."

"Jenny? Sure, she's in the back." Red poured a whiskey and pushed it across the bar to Hans. "That'll be five bucks altogether." He turned towards the door behind him. "Jen! Get out here, ya got a customer!"

Hans liked Jenny, but it didn't stop him paying for Cassie and Rebecca over the next few weeks too. He always went in on a Monday when it was doubtful Lillian would be working, much as he longed to see her. However, he also began joining in some of the poker games Red held in the saloon and subsequently found himself in there on Fridays and Saturdays when most games were held. Despite now playing against older more experienced players, he still won probably seventy-five per cent of the time and had decided that gambling was an ideal career for him. A few months later he was forced to rethink this decision.

It was a Saturday and Hans had been in the bar for most of the afternoon, drinking whiskey, smoking cigars which he had recently started doing, and playing poker. Red planned to hold a high stakes game starting at eight o'clock and Hans had been playing all afternoon to raise the entry stake, which was a hundred dollars.

Lillian, Cassie and Rebecca were working that night and wandered around the groups of men watching the game, chatting and flirting. Before the big game started, Lillian came over to speak to Hans.

"Hey," she said softly. "You ain't been 'round the house in a while. Ya gone shy on me?"

"'Course not," Hans said.

"So what's wrong?"

"Billy ain't said nothin'?"

"No. Ya had a fallin' out?"

"Somethin' like that." Hans was reluctant to add to this and was saved from having to elaborate by Red announcing the beginning of the game. Four other players put their hundred dollars into the pot and Hans went to the table and joined in. Lillian brought him another large measure of whiskey and then disappeared from view somewhere behind him.

The game began and Hans held his own, one of the other four men being the first to toss his losing cards on the table and leave the saloon. The game continued and another man left after two more hands. Cassie poured more drinks and Red called a fifteen minute break. Hans' remaining two opponents went to the outhouse and then spent a few minutes with Cassie and Rebecca, while Hans himself remained at the table, smoking another cigar and concentrating on sipping his drink more slowly. The last thing he wanted was to impair his senses at this crucial point.

Lillian sat down on the free chair beside him and he glanced around, noticing that Cassie and her big mouth was now leading one of the customers off to her room. He couldn't help himself and after another brief look around, he slid his arm around Lillian and stroked his fingers through her hair. She leaned closer to him and brushed her lips against his ear.

"Wanna play some more after the game?" she whispered.

Hans grinned. "Try stoppin' me."

"Put him down, Lillian, game's about to restart," Red interrupted with a chuckle.

Lillian kissed Hans on the cheek and got to her feet, going to stand behind him as the other two poker players took their seats again. The game resumed and Hans, a little distracted by the thought of Lillian entertaining him later, despite the risk of Billy finding out again, lost a hand. He cursed himself silently and forced himself to concentrate. No way was he going to lose to these two old fellas.

Fifteen minutes later and one of the men was out of the game. Hans' only remaining opponent was a business man in his forties, know only as Mr Stevens. He was cold and unreadable and despite his best efforts, Hans had been unable to find a single thing about him that gave away whether his cards were good or bad. He fought down his nerves determinedly, somehow retaining his usual relaxed expression although his heart was thumping and his mouth dry. If he won this, he'd have enough money to leave Denver, buy his own place, do whatever he wanted.

He lost the next hand. Damnit, he'd met his match finally. Mr Stevens was good and he didn't like the way things were going. There was a lot of money on the table and he'd lost the lot. He was down to about a hundred and fifty dollars and he knew the next hand was going to be the last. The cards were dealt and his opponent studied his carefully, then made his wager. Hans matched it and raised him. More money went into the pile and then Mr Stevens interrupted the game for a moment.

"Bring me another drink," he instructed, turning away from the table to look up at Rebecca who was behind him. Rebecca hurried to the bar and returned with a bottle. The attention of just about everyone else in the saloon was on this rich city guy and Hans took the opportunity to do the stupidest thing he'd ever done in his life. He slipped the two cards off the top of the pack he kept in his pocket and swapped them for two in his hand. No one saw him and his own pack was identical to Red's. He always kept his aces on the top of the pile and now he had three aces and two Queens in his hand. That would beat just about anything, unless by some poor stroke of luck the other man also had three aces. He figured it was worth the risk.

Mr Stevens laid his cards down on the table – three Kings and the other two Queens. Hans inwardly heaved a sigh of relief and put his cards down; the winning hand. It was all his. Suddenly there was an uproar and the next minute ticked by seemingly in slow motion.

"You cheated." Steely grey eyes met Hans' blue ones as he waited for a response.

"The hell I did!" Hans decided indignance was the best way to go.

"I saw you," the man said quietly. "You exchanged two cards in your hand for two in your pocket. I expect if you look through the remainder of the pack on the table you will find two identical cards to those in your hand."

Hans opened his mouth to continue protesting his innocence, but much to his shock, found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. Ironically he noticed it was gleaming black and obviously either new or extremely well cared for.

"Damn fool kid," Red muttered from a few feet away.

"I ain't a fool." Hans shoved his chair back a few inches.

"Stay where you are!" His opponent pulled back the hammer. "You're going to admit to these fine people here that you're a cheat and effectively a thief."

"Go to hell," Hans growled bravely, his pride refusing to allow him to back down.

"I fear you may beat me to it."

"Put the gun away, fella," Red interjected suddenly.

"Be quiet." Mr Stevens swung his hand a fraction to the left, briefly aiming at Red before he returned to Hans. "I'm still waiting for your apology," he said.

"Ya'll have a long wait," Hans said, realising he was digging a deeper hole for himself, but still refusing to give in. He only wished he had his own gun so he wouldn't have to rely solely on bravado.

Mr Stevens pulled the trigger. The gun was perhaps three feet from Hans, but by some incredible stroke of luck, the boy threw himself off his chair a split second before the bullet exploded out of the barrel. Hans found himself on his knees, half under the table, huddling tighter into a ball as a second shot was fired, much louder than the first. Peering upwards, he saw Red holding a smoking shotgun and realised he must have shot Mr Stevens. The girls were screaming and a number of the bar's customers began stampeding for the door while the rest remained, uttering shocked exclamations.

Hans turned his head the other way and found himself staring straight into Lillian's face. She was lying on the floor beside him, her eyes wide and gazing unblinkingly into his while blood gushed from a wound right between her breasts. She had taken the bullet meant for him.

"Lillian? Oh, God," he gasped. "What've I done?" He reached out to touch her impossibly white face, but his wrist was suddenly grabbed in a large fist and he was hauled out from beneath the table and onto his feet. He looked back into Red's furious face.

"Get outta here," the barkeep snarled. "Ya set foot in here again, I'll take a gun to ya myself."

Hans looked around him, seeing the horrified faces of the remaining customers, Cassie and Rebecca clinging to each other and weeping, Mr Stevens' body slumped back in his chair, the front of his smart suit more red than grey, the pile of money on the table still untouched. He left it there and stumbled across the room, grabbing a bottle of whiskey from the end of the bar just before he shoved through the swing doors and out into the street.

He was shaking all over and felt sick to his stomach as he wandered aimlessly away from the town. He found himself on the path leading towards the Hawkins farm, or the Carlisle farm as it was now and he walked on slowly, stopping somewhere approximately a mile from town in the black shade offered by a small wooded area. He sank to the ground beneath a huge oak and took a long drink from the bottle, gasping as the whiskey hit his churning stomach. He should have stayed in the chair. It was all he could think of. Lillian was dead and it was his fault. Beautiful Lillian who had been so much to him over the years; mother, sister, friend, teacher, lover. Killed because of a stupid seventeen-year-old boy cheating at cards.

Hans leaned back against the tree trunk, his eyes squeezed shut as he gradually worked his way through the rest of the bottle of whiskey, desperate to blot out the anguish he felt. He eventually slid into unconsciousness, but his brief reprieve was interrupted just a few short hours later when he was disturbed by a horse and rider galloping along the path nearby.

He opened his eyes slowly, his head pounding from the hangover and for a short moment wondered what on earth he was doing sleeping in the woods. Then it all came flooding back and he shuddered and pulled himself to his feet, not even bothering to brush away the tears that sprang into his eyes as he began to make his way back towards town. He still felt sick from the horror of what had happened in the saloon, but also from dread as he headed for the Jenkins house. He had to tell Billy.

It was barely seven o'clock when Hans knocked on the door. He waited for more than a minute, shivering miserably and hoping that Billy would carry out his threat to kill him, thus putting an end to his torture. Just as he was about to knock again, the door swung open.

Billy's face was white, his eyes red and he just stared at Hans without saying a word. He already knew and Hans racked his brains for something to say.

"Tryin' to think of an excuse?" Billy said hoarsely.

"There's no excuse," said Hans, avoiding Billy's eyes. "It's my fault. I don't know what to say."

"Ain't no point sayin' nothin'," Billy said. "Ya can't take it back, can ya?" He sighed heavily. "Why'd ya even bother comin' here?"

"I…I dunno. To explain."

"Explain? Ya cheated at poker and threw yerself on the floor like a coward while my ma took the bullet. How ya gonna explain that, Hans?" Billy said bitterly. "What is it with ya? Causin' yer own ma's death not enough for ya; ya gotta kill mine an' all?"

Hans felt as if all the breath had been sucked out of him and he found himself unable to speak.

"What's wrong now?" sneered Billy. "Ain't ya never wondered why yer pa don't give a damn about ya?"

"Ya don't know nothin' about it," Hans muttered.

"I know plenty; ya spent enough time whinin' about it. Let me give ya some advice, Hans. Get the hell outta this town and don't ever come back. No one wants ya here – not even yer own family."

"I'm sorry," Hans whispered.

"Yeah, until the next time."

Billy closed the door in his face and it was a long moment before he turned away and walked slowly towards home. Billy's words echoed around his thumping head over and over; 'causin' yer own ma's death'; 'yer pa don't give a damn about ya'; 'no one wants ya here'.