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“So I followed the noise down to the gambler’s deck, where Doc was holding off three other card players and cussing up a storm about them accusing him of cheating.” Sheriff Lock drew at his long wooden pipe.
“I don’t cheat.” Doc bared his teeth around his cigar. “Wasn’t my fault those sons a bitches couldn’t play Old Maid with that damn deck. Had to blame me instead of their own rotten playing.”
“I’m surprised they were still alive when Lock got there,” said I.
Doc grinned like a coyote with hydrophobia. “He had me tamed by then.”
“I was looking for a man with forged documents on that riverboat. I told Doc he could keep himself entertained while I was busy.” Lock stretched. “I may have miscalculated.”
Doc exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Lock does one of his looks at ‘em all, calls out exactly what kind of sharping they’d been doing, pointing out creases here and scratches there for code.”
“Mr. Greenwood’s right thumb alone shouted ‘guilty’.” Lock grinned, about as scary as Doc’s. “By the time I was halfway through their history, the rest of the room had turned against them and Doc was no longer the focus of their attention.”
“Lock had the documents.” Doc made swimming motions. “We left that boat.”
“Right before Friesland’s boiler blew.”