Tricks of the Trade by Sharon Frame Gay

The moon's only a sliver tonight, slicin’ through the sky. Stars poke through wispy clouds, riding a light wind. The desolate valley is painted in deep shadows.

The silence surprised me as I nudged my horse, Buck, through the brush. You’d think the whole desert would be singin’ out now that the sun was down and took its heat with it. Even under the cloak of a dim night, New Mexico was tired and yearned to sleep it off, like some old drunk back at The Velvet Slipper.

It gives me the shivers to think about what happened there tonight. Why, that saloon wasn’t fit for prairie dogs, much less to cater to people. It was bad enough the women, although loose as a lope, were ugly, but the drinks were so watered down I could read through the glass they served it in. On top of that, some card sharp in the corner was doing his best to fleece every cowboy who walked in, including me.

I admit, I took to the shakedown easily enough. A brash blonde with amber eyes sidled up in a cloud of perfume and smiled. To say she was homely would be a kindness, but I’d just spent three weeks on the trail. So, I figured a drink or two might make her pretty.

The fact that she kept pouring my favorite whiskey for free should have been my first clue somethin’ was wrong. But I lapped it up like Buck does when he meets up with a cool stream on an August day.

I didn’t realize rooms could spin and informed the entire saloon about my revelation. To stop the swirlin’, I let the blonde sit me down at the table with the card swindler. Even though my eyes were dancing in my head, I couldn’t help but notice his oily smile was jagged-toothed and eager, like a wolf stalking a lamb.

When he dealt the cards, I held ’em in one hand and sipped another drink with the other. Before you know it, I was squeezing some coins out of my pocket and tossing ’em on the table like a seasoned gambler, confident in my inebriation and arrogant enough to believe in myself.

Then things got serious. It wasn’t long before every single cent I possessed had found its way into the dealer’s pocket, and all that was left were the stains on the table from my sweating glass and a handful of marked cards splayed out like a fan.

That’s when it appeared I’d been taken. By the card sharp. By the woman. And by my lack of common sense, it seemed. I looked around the saloon and tried to get up but tumbled across the table. It crashed to the floor, taking everything with it, including me.

I lurched to my feet, then reeled around the chairs, knocking into them and hollerin’ that they needed to be hobbled to keep ’em from moving around so much. But that wasn’t enough, I suppose. My body decided now was as good a time as any to just lie down altogether, right there in the middle of The Velvet Slipper.

I heard somebody mumbling and realized it was me. Peering up, I saw the glare of disgust on the swindler’s face as he angled himself away from the broken table and clutched at the blonde. I dragged myself over and held on to his legs for dear life.

“Help!” was all I could muster in a pitiful voice.

Sneering, he tried to shake me off, but I held on until he clocked me on the chin with his fist.

“Don’t bring any more of these fools in here tonight, Lorna,” he snarled and spat on the floor. “It’s too easy. I swear there’s no challenge lately. I’m done!”

The scoundrel left in such a huff, he forgot his fallen bowler hat and silk handkerchief. He didn’t even stoop to pick them up off the floor where I was now residing.

The rest of the folks in the saloon must have decided I didn’t look half bad as a new rug because they let me linger where I fell.

The swinging doors looked far away, like when you peer through the wrong end of a bottle. Squinting, I decided to wander over there without botherin’ to stand until the bottom of the door smacked me on the forehead.

Somehow, I spilled out of the saloon and found Buck waiting patiently at his post. After a few good tries, I got my foot in the stirrup and hauled myself up. Buck groaned under my weight and tossed his head in complaint.

I slumped forward over his neck, nudged him with my heels, and we picked our ragged way down the street. Then I straightened and gave him his lead. He broke into a slow jog.

When we reached the edge of town, I tapped him with my spurs. Buck launched into a gallop. I rode for what seemed like hours until I stopped behind a boulder and peered around. The desert was as empty as a nun’s bed.

I got off, stretched, then took a big swig of water from the canteen. It slid down the throat cool and easy, just like the water I kept dribbling into my glass of whiskey when the blonde wasn’t lookin’.

I reached into my saddlebag, bringing out all the money the card swindler made tonight off the cowboys, before stuffing it into his pants pocket.

The same pocket I picked when I grabbed his legs and pretended I was drunk.

I took another slug of water and smiled.

Sometimes the lamb fleeces the wolf.

After climbing back on Buck, I jammed the bowler hat on my head and turned toward another goodbye town, the sliver moon pointing the way.

—SHARON FRAME GAY lives in Washington State with her little dog, Henry Goodheart. Although she is a multi-genre author, she has a special fondness for writing Westerns. She is also published in many anthologies and literary magazines, including Chicken Soup For The Soul, Saddlebag Dispatches, Crannog Magazine, Lowestoft Chronicle, Thrice Fiction, Literally Stories, Literary Orphans, Adelaide, Scarlet Leaf Review, Indiana Voice Journal, and others. She has won a Will Rogers Medallion for one of her Western short stories and been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize.