The Farmer's Son

Chapter 53 Raising the Stakes

High stakes and tension drew a crowd to their table, and alternating cheers and groans went up as shots were missed or sunk. Soon, it was Alan's turn, and all he had left was the eight ball—which was frozen against the far edge of the table, with the white cue ball all the way on the other side. With five balls left for the bikers scattered in between, they snickered at the difficult shot. The money was as good as theirs.

"No pressure," Ray said, chalking the tip of Alan's stick. "But if you don't sink this, we'll have to run away from home."

With a breath that puffed out his cheeks, Alan nodded. The noise level dropped to a hush as he bent over the table.

"Nice and easy now," murmured a man in a large white cowboy hat to the side.

Alan stared down the length of his pool stick, across the felt to his target. He took a breath and let it out between his lips. Then he took another and held it. Like a striking viper, the stick struck out between his fingers. It hit the white cue on the side, sending it gliding across the table with a sidespin. Dozens of breaths were sucked in as it struck the edge of the table first, then tapped the black eight ball, sending it rolling along the cushion, slowly, slowly...

Right into the corner pocket.

A deafening cheer went up.

"Son of a bitch!" the little one swore, throwing his stick on the floor.

Ray and Alan clapped hands and Ray pulled him into a hug. "You're my lucky charm," Ray said in his ear.

A grin already on his face, Alan now had goosebumps down his neck as Ray released him to collect their winnings. But as he reached out to the pile of money at the edge of the table, a large hairy hand slapped over it. Blue looked up from under the rim of the felt hat into a very angry red face.

"You hustled us," Beard Face said through bared teeth.

"You were the one who raised the pot," Ray said, voice low and dangerous.

"And you cheated. What else could you expect from a goddamn cowboy!"

"You challenged that cowboy first," Ray said with equal hostility.

Beard Face advanced threateningly, and Ray moved to meet him, their chests bumping. Alan grabbed Ray by the arm, but it was the man in the white cowboy hat that stepped between Ray and the bikers.

"I think that's enough," the man said, with a distinct Texan accent. Looking to be in his fifties, even without his hat he was tall, his torso solid and sturdy, with a white beard and moustache, wearing a black bolo tie. "You tried to hustle, and you got hustled, now take your loss like a man and leave on your own. Or I'll even the odds and help these boys make you leave."

Beard Face's jaw worked beneath his beard, and for a moment he looked ready to take on those odds. But then the little one intervened, pushing him back and talking low, and after a few muttered curses and more spitting, the trio shoved through the crowd and banged out the door.

Ray let out a huff of breath, and with it all his hostility dissipated. Picking up the money from the table, he handed it to Alan as he turned to the man. "Thanks for the assist," he said with a smile.

"No thanks needed between kin," the man said, tipping his hat. "What's your name cowboy?"

"Ray Steele," he said, extending a hand. "This is Alan Walker."

"Buzz McMurry," the man said, shaking both their hands but returning a curious gaze to Ray. "Steele? The same Steele that took the youngest regional champ in steer roping few years back?"

"In the flesh," Ray said, tipping his hat.

"Well, I'll be!" Buzz said, slapping his thigh. "That was quite a show! I still remember it like it was yesterday. Hey, fellas," he said, turning and calling behind him. "You'll never guess who this is!"