Free Damnation Road by Max McCoy

tent on the line between the States and the territories? How long do you reckon it’s going to be before the authorities ride in and close me and everybody else in the Porch down? I’ll serve hard time when they catch me. But before that day happens, I’m out to make as much money as possible, and it seems that my clientele likes to witness intimate acts. And Penny Dreadful does things they don’t even have names for yet.”
    Gamble finished the rye, then held his hand over the glass when Buell tried to refill it.
    â€œDoes anything separate us from the beasts?” he asked. “Wait, I slander the beasts, because they cannot conceive of such depravity. Their cruelty is dictated by survival. Ours is for amusement.”
    â€œYou talk strange sometimes,” Buell said.
    â€œYou have me pegged,” Gamble said. “Look, I’ll be out of here and settled up by the time the show starts. I’m as curious as the next man, but knowing her story has tarnished the attraction.”
    â€œSuit yourself,” Buell said. “But you’ll miss an eyeful. You know, if Lester Burns would sell me that cute little Kiowa gal he has over there—now, wouldn’t that make a show.”
    The door screeched open and a man with graying hair and wire-rimmed glasses stepped inside, rubbing his hands to warm them.
    â€œYou fellows open?”
    â€œHell,” Buell said, rising and taking the shot glasses and the bottle of rye with him.
    â€œWhat’re you looking for?” Gamble asked.
    The man walked over to the table and removed his overcoat, revealing a Montgomery Ward suit. He eyed the deck of cards, pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, and gave Gamble a toothy smile.
    â€œPoker,” he said.

E IGHT
    Gamble left the tent shortly after ten o’clock with forty-eight dollars in paper and coin tucked into the pocket of his vest. He had won steadily, beginning with the clerk in the mail-order suit, and continuing with a pair of bachelor farmers, the city prosecutor from Caldwell, some hired hands on their way back to Kingfisher, and a widower who played and lost a couple of five-dollar hands while waiting for Penny Dreadful’s show to start.
    It was snowing again, but there was no wind, so the big flakes drifted down from the black sky as if somebody were sprinkling powdered sugar on a cake. It didn’t make the Porch look any prettier, he thought.
    If it hadn’t been the middle of the night in winter, he would have walked back to Caldwell, redeemed his fiddle from the pawnshop, even if he had to roust the owner from home. Then he would buy a ticket on the next southbound Santa Fe at the depot. But he was tired, the path to town was covered in a fresh blanket of snow, and his joints ached. He didn’t relish the thought of sleeping outside the depot, if it was locked. It was New Year’s Day, and Gamble was uncertain of what kind of schedule the station master in the sleepy cow town of Caldwell would keep on a holiday.
    He glanced over to the lodge that housed the opium den. It was glowing warmly.
    â€œDamn, I hate winter,” he muttered. “Almost as much as winter hates me.”
    He started trudging for the lodge. He would give Burns a dollar or two to sleep there again, have a bite or two of whatever Little Door Woman might be cooking, and set off early in the morning. The Porch gave him an uneasy feeling, and the sooner he left, the better.
    Gamble ducked into the lodge. Opium lanterns glowed in the dark corners.
    â€œHappy New Year,” Burns called from his chair near the fire. “It’s 1898. Seems a strange number, doesn’t it? You know, we might not have that many years left—some say that 1900 is going to be the end of the world.”
    â€œPredictions are risky. Ask the Millerites.”
    â€œCome, sit by the fire,” Burns said. “I understand you’ve been speculating on pasteboard at