Nobody wanted to face down fourteen hardened gunmen, especially ones with hands as swift and steady as the Ambrose boys. They had the sort of respect from the people of the county that comes from abject fear. They had money, power and the freedom to rape, rob and murder with impunity. Poppa Ambrose even seemed to have a high placement in the coming state government al sewn up with bribes put in al the right pockets. They had it al . The only mistake came when Danny and Whitney Ambrose and Oscar Jameson decided on a night of drinking, whoring and playing cards at the Royale. “Why the hell ain’t he playin’?” Danny asked. He sat at the poker table with his cousins, gun on his hip and a bottle in his hand. His erstwhile sidekick, Oscar, was upstairs with one whore or another. It was a busy enough night; most of the seats in the saloon were fil ed, but it just wasn’t the same without music. Across the saloon floor, Tom just sat at his piano staring at the keys. “Guess he ain’t in the mood,”
