He picked up another five-dollar bill and added it to the pot at the center of the table for the next game. “I don’t like this paper money,” he grumbled. “A man don’t hardly see gold or silver coins ever since the war.” “Banks got ’em,” Juan Hidalgo answered, a hinting smile added to the words. Kennedy stuck a new wad of tobacco into his mouth, saying nothing, but giving Juan a knowing look. After the bank robbery in St. Louis a few months back, money was running low again. Fancy guns, prime horses, women, and whiskey could cost a man a lot. Part of the money he played cards with now had come from a settler family in northern Kansas that he and his men had attacked and robbed a week ago. They all had had a good time with the struggling, begging wife of the farmer before Juan had silenced her with his knife. Juan dealt another round of cards, and Kennedy thought how the Mexican was damn near “artistic”
