Suddenly, a whale-sized bully with anchor tattoos appeared to block Cass's educational view.
"What the hell is that?" the bouncer growled, fixing his good eyeball—the one without the patch—on the whiskered tub of lard at Collie's feet.
The boy bristled. He'd never been fond of authority. "Did ya go blind in both eyes? That's a coon, Blackbeard."
Cass coughed into his fist, mostly to hide his amusement. "Howdy, pard," he greeted the pirate. "Don't mind Coon Collie, here. Kentucky dumbass asylums don't get much sun. Our Texas drought must've fried his brain."
Blackbeard sneered at this assessment. He had only half his teeth, and most of them were chipped. "Coons ain't allowed. No dumbasses, neither."
"So who let you in?"
Blackbeard purpled at Collie's taunt. Cass had a vision of crunching bones and gushing blood—mostly Blackbeard's, if the bouncer dared to lay a hand on the raccoon's precious boy.
Fortunately for Blackbeard, a blonde in a flurry of gauzy turquoise strolled into the fray. With her coral circlet and gilded trident, the bawd bore more than a passing resemblance to the nymphs on the stage's curtain.
"Welcome to the Satin Siren," she greeted, her silvery voice reminiscent of chimes. "I'm Randie."
Cass winked. "I'll bet you are."
Collie rolled his eyes.
"And who have we here?" Randie gushed, bending at the waist to let the coon sniff her manicured hand. The pose let Cass see clear to her navel.
"Why, that there's Vanderbilt," Cass drawled. "Vandy Vanderbilt Varmint. At least, that's how he's known on all the kitchen Wanted Posters. Vandy never met a sweetmeat he didn't like."
"Is that a fact?" Randie's rose-petal lips fairly dripped nectar. "Then we'll have to find your coon something yummy, won't we?"
"And my name's Collie," the boy interceded acidly. "Collier McAffee. Just in case you get around to wondering."
Randie's cool green eyes swept over the boy's buckskin shirt, which hid a deceptively lean, muscle-packed torso. Next, her eyes dropped to his package—or more likely, to the Levi pockets flanking his plain brass buckle and sturdy thighs. Spying no indication of wealth, the bawd dismissed Collie and lavished her honeyed smile on Cass.
"Baron's expecting you. In the private poker room. Tito, darling," she cooed to the bouncer, "let the nice raccoon pass."
Grudgingly, Tito stepped aside, and Vandy scurried past his boots. But even Randie's influence couldn't keep the bouncer from confiscating gun belts. Cass kept his peace, because like any self-respecting outlaw, he'd concealed all manner of weapons beneath his duster. Collie didn't fuss, because he only needed to bellow a two-syllable command to turn Vandy into a holy, freaking terror.
Thus, the male threesome trotted like lemmings after Randie's sweetly swaying hips. She led them to a side room, dominated by a mahogany poker table with five empty chairs and a well-stocked bar. Chewing the fat with the drink wrangler was a middle-aged man with a big-boned frame, much like a grizzly bear's. Despite the top hat that capped the gent's salt-and-pepper hair, and the elegantly waxed mustachios that hid the scar from an old sucker punch, Cass had no trouble recognizing the Burnett County ranch boss, who'd given him his first shot at earning an honest wage.
"Well, I'll be damned!" Baron boomed the moment Cass stepped across the threshold. "It's the Rebel Rutter! What's the matter, Cass? Run out of brothels in Dodge?"
"Aw, shucks. You'd think I was a voter, the way you sweet-talk me." Cass shook the old skirt-chaser's hand. "How ya doin,' Baron?"
"Still prodding, boy! That's what counts. You wearing a Ranger badge yet?"
"Not yet."
"Damned fools in Austin."
Puffing his stogie like a fiend, Baron squinted next at Collie and his ring-tailed charmer. "Looks like someone snookered his way out of becoming a hat," the senator observed drolly.
While Cass made the introductions, he couldn't help but notice that age, or maybe illness, had shaved at least twenty pounds off Baron's frame. His fancy swallowtails hung loosely around his middle section, and the whites of his coffee-colored eyes were faintly yellow.
But whatever was ailing the old bull hadn't dampened his libido. He patted Randie's shapely rump. "Give the boys what they want, Sweet Cakes. Put it on my tab."
Collie roused himself from his scowl. "You got Kentucky bourbon in this dive?"
"Collie's not used to Texas-friendly," Cass confided.
Baron chuckled. "The boy needs a teat, that's all. Randie, find Collie a heifer who knows how to treat a bull."
"Sure thing, Baron. You like blondes, don't you, Collie?"
"Now she notices me."
"Not her, kid." Baron's eyes danced. "A woman like Randie is champagne. After a steady diet of sarsaparilla, her kind of fizz is an acquired taste."
Randie lavished her nectar-dripping smile on Baron. He raised her knuckles to his lips.
Collie went back to scowling.
After the bawd made her graceful exit, Cass turned his attention to Baron. "So where's this high-stakes poker game you promised us?"
"Hell if I know. Me and the wife were attending a birthday social this afternoon, when my secretary brought me word that the poker game got cancelled. But the barkeep says the opening ante got moved to half-past-eight."
"So we're early?"
"Looks that way. Things used to run a whole lot smoother around here, before that Yankee cockroach won the joint last week. Aces high. Probably cheated." Baron tossed back a whiskey shot. "Damned Republican," he grumbled.
Cass ducked his head to hide his smirk.
"Anyhow, this Dietrich fella started making lots of changes. Busted Randie back to chorus. She's been headlining here nigh on eight years. Seems like a mean, low-down stunt to pull on a lady—even if that sweet little angelfish is getting long in the tooth."
The barkeep coughed into his fist. The mirth in his eyes betrayed his stoic demeanor. "Mr. Dietrich hired a new headliner, senator. A Miss Cassandra McGuire. She's a torch singer from San Francisco. And a natural born redhead—so I hear."
Baron's eyes warmed with interest. "Natural born, eh? Well, the Yankee's got taste in women, you gotta give him that. When does this new filly trot out on stage?"
"Eight o'clock, sir. Mr. Dietrich changed the program last-minute to feature Miss McGuire."
Baron harrumphed, checking his pocket watch. "Well, I reckon we got nothing better to do until the poker game starts. C'mon, boys. Let's find ourselves a stage-side table so we can take a look at the new gal's gams."
But an alarm went off in Cass's head as he surveyed Baron's destination. "Wait." He caught the senator's arm. "Those footlights will make us sitting ducks."
"You expecting trouble?"
"Maybe. I'm thinking all the schedule changes might not be a coincidence. You're an influential man in the legislature. Someone might not want you around."
The senator hiked a bushy eyebrow. "My arrival did cause a flurry in the dove cote. But I just figured the bawds were drawing lots to see who'd get first crack at my purse."
"Could be." Cass wasn't convinced. "To be safe, why don't you and Collie get acquainted, while I scout the premises."
Baron grunted. "You armed?"
"'Course."
The senator winked. Patting his own hidden shoulder holster, he waved Cass on his way.
Compared with the poker room, the gaming hall was a mob scene. Cass stepped into the guttural din of male voices, wheezing trombones, and raucous laughter, punctuated by occasional bellows of, "Snake eyes!"