Damnation Road by Max McCoy Page B

guard.”
    â€œAll right,” the clerk said, giving Gamble a tri-folded slip of paper with Dunbar, J. written in ink on it. “Take this inside, give it to the person inside wearing a uniform like mine, and wait for your name to be called.”
    Gamble took the slip of paper and walked up the steps to the hotel. He handed the paper to another young man, who showed him a seat on a long wooden bench next to a closed office door. He took a seat next to a man in city clothes who was at least twenty years younger and a head taller than Gamble. The man in the suit was nervous, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, glancing anxiously at the door. He rubbed his hand briskly together and looked at Gamble.
    â€œHow’re you this morning?”
    â€œI’m fair,” Gamble said, stretching his legs and crossing his ankles. “You?”
    The man in the suit nodded vigorously.
    â€œReady to fight.”
    â€œOh?” Gamble exclaimed. “How many fights have you been in?”
    â€œPlenty,” the first said. “There was this time at the Blue Duck Saloon back home when I took three men on at once. By the time I was done, my knuckles were—”
    â€œHold on,” Gamble said. “You mean, you’ve been in fistfights.”
    â€œWell, yeah.”
    â€œEver shoot anybody?”
    â€œNo, never had to.”
    â€œHad anybody shoot at you?”
    â€œNever.”
    â€œImagine those two things happening simultaneously.”
    The man in the suit nodded his head.
    â€œYou been shot at much?”
    â€œSome,” Gamble said.
    â€œWhat’s it like?”
    â€œIt’s not so bad. Mostly, you’re concentrating on staying alive and getting the other guy, or at least you should—if you don’t, you’re going to lose your nerve and end up dead right quick.”
    â€œI can see that.”
    â€œIt helps to breathe.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œJust what I say. You should remind yourself to keep breathing. Ever had buck fever? You held your breath, right? That’s the natural reaction. But you have to fight the urge, breathe, and think coldly. It works just the same as when you gamble. You have to develop an attitude that is, well, dispassionate. It gets easier with practice.”
    The pair of cowboys that were behind Gamble at the desk came in, handed their papers over, and sat down on the bench, their hats in their hands.
    The door to the office opened and a young man walked out, his shirt over his arm, his face clouded with disappointment.
    â€œNo luck, huh?” the anxious man asked.
    â€œNo luck at all,” the dejected man said. “The doc says I’m too fat to ride a horse in the volunteer cavalry.”
    â€œWhy, you don’t look fat at all.”
    â€œFive pounds over.”
    The physician came to the door and called for the next man.
    â€œHere I go,” the anxious man said. “Wish me luck.”
    â€œLuck,” Gamble said. Then, under his breath: “But probably not the kind of luck you want.”
    â€œHey, you look familiar,” the black cowboy said to Gamble. “Where’re you from?”
    â€œJust about everywhere,” Gamble said. “Missouri—originally. You?”
    â€œLived in the Cherokee Nation all my life,” the man said, extending his hand. “Name’s Zeke. My father was from Missouri—a runaway slave. He came here and fell in love with my mother, a Cherokee girl.”
    Gamble turned to study his face.
    â€œYour father wasn’t from northeastern Missouri, was he?”
    â€œShelby County.”
    â€œMet a runaway slave there, when I was a boy during the war,” Gamble said. “Seemed like a nice fellow. Had a fine voice. Hid him out in the loft of the barn and brought him some food, and he sang me some songs in return. Was determined to get west, which was odd—it made sense for runaways to go the