Scaled Alliance

Jostice nodded, pulling out a cigarette from his coat pocket, hoping he could smoke out the pain. He pulled one from his pack and lit, "I can't let y'all go in there … besides, we don't have enough tickets—"

"I've already got our names on the list," Leslie said, "one of my former deputies, Palmer, is to thank for that."

Jostice raised an eyebrow, "well, I'll be damned."

Boone looked around, smiling. "And who's the seventh?"

Suddenly all eyes were drawn on the former Sheriff. She tugged on the bandana around her neck, sweaty from the afternoon's heat. She hesitated then spoke cautiously. 

"He can be trusted …" She down the stairway, waving a hand. A moment later a young man with long braided hair and eyes dark as mud stood watching over them. The red war paint that masked his face faded. "This is E'krek."

Boone drew his revolver, "this bastard is the one who shot Rynan!" E'krek glared at the boy and he cocked the hammer.

Jostice raised a hand, "don't get too hasty, boy—"

"Quiet!" Boone said through his teeth, hand trembling. Anger cycling through his veins. "I will never forget the face of the one who shot Rynan … it's burned into my head … and he was him."

"Boone, listen to me." Leslie stepped in front of the barrel, raising a palm. "There were many Yurk's who attacked the train … I didn't trust him at first neither, but he's here to help. Please … lower your weapon."

"He'll betray us the moment he gets the chance." His barrel swayed, and eyes grew black. "We've got to put him down before he has the chance … to do what he did to Rynan … and what he did Grandpappy."

Please, Boone…" Warm fingers touched the cold steel, and in a gentle tug, Leslie owned the gun. She held it for a moment while the boy caught his breath then handed it back. "Holster your weapon."

Boone frowned, nodded, and the barrel slipped between leather. "I'm sorry …" He said with little conviction. "I don't know what came over me."

Jostice took a slow drag, watching the boy control his fear and anger. A control he never had. He cleared his lungs of smoke. "I don't trust him neither … but then again, we've all got reason not to be trusted. With seven guns we may just be able to pull this off. How many of us survive is another question." Jostice rubbed his chin. "I might know how to wrangle up a few extra guns … y'all get some sleep, the tournament starts tomorrow."

Jostice found himself outside the last place he wanted to be, the serpents den. A place where many had come in with heavy pockets, only to leave as empty, as the beggars on the streets of Sundown. Many of the beggars former buy-ins of the den. 

He walked in, passing through a cloud of slithering smoke that watched the door. Produced by a large man with a snake-eye ring, and a hat made of gator skin. 

"Who be you?" The man prodded a thick finger in his chest.

Jostice looked down, and with a quick flick of his wrist, twisted the digit until it popped. The man groaned. Jostice drove a boot in his knee and he collapsed, screaming. With his one good hand, he drew his revolver. The barrel aimed at the three men by the bar; a quick turn of his gun to find the bartender reaching for his shotgun. 

"I'd think before grabbing, or I'll drop you where you stand." The man froze. 

"Is he bluffing?" Said a sharp voice near the back. 

A second voice answered,  "No …" 

Jostice searched the den. A few lamps gave it life,  Illuminating tables where the slum sat, holding cards and looming over stacks of chips of different sizes. Most with a cigarette between their lips. And those who didn't had a drink in their hand. Their eyes twisted and dark. Nobody liked their games stopped.

"Why have you come to my establishment, Ace—"

"Your help," Jostice said, walking towards the man with his barrel now drawn to him.

Black scales flickered around the man's eye and cheek. "It is not wise to draw a gun on the one who owns the establishment …"

Jostice laughed, "I'm shaking."

"He's bluffing …" Zachriah said. He was dressed in a matching white suit and white brimmed hat. A glossy white that matched the color of his one bad eye. 

Scaleface nodded and smirked. Once Jostice stopped a few feet from the table he made his demand. "I know you have some of your men competing in the tournament tomorrow. If you align with us, and you allow us the win, I'll let you keep the winnings."

Scaleface laughed, "now what's the fun in that? I'm a betting man, not a church goer asking for charity …"

"Then bet on me." Jostice said. "Help us and bet on me … all of you will be far richer than you've ever imagined."

"You have many enemies, there Ace." Scaleface chuckled. "All that winning is going to make your targets my targets."

"And you'll have plenty of money to pay them off and hire extra gun to take care of the problem …" Jostice cocked the hammer. "Now, I'm not asking you, I'm telling you, you won't win a penny otherwise. And that means none of you."

Jostice saw a few barrels draw into the light, hammers cocking.  There was only two ways out of this mess, walking to the streets or walking to the prairie. 

"Your enemies are my enemies. Don't think I don't know about the many bounty hunters you lost, Rodge." Jostice words hit their mark. "You want to run this city, you'll have regain your numbers, or somebody will take you for a bluff mans hand."

Suddenly Scaleface rose his hand, lowering it until the guns no longer made Ace the target. He glared at Jostice, "I had seven men entering that tournament … I now have three. How many do you bring?"

'Seven of my own. That makes us ten strong." Jostice looked around the room. "I'm not asking you to walk with us, just stay out of our way, and take out any you see as a threat. Is that understood?"

"Sounds like a plan …" Slyface hissed.

Jostice turned to the young boy. "Is he telling the truth?" The boy slowly nodded. "Good enough for me." He released the hammer, slowly back peddled to the door, then left knowing they may just have a chance.