It is the night of April 5, 1882.

The wind is howling off the Sangre di Cristo Mountains, driving the dry, dusty scent of the New Mexico Chaparral right through the cracks of the heavy adobe walls.

Inside of the saloon of the St. James Hotel, the air is thick.

It's a choking soup of cheap cigar smoke, stale whiskey,

and the sharp metallic tang of sweat. A group of men are huddled around a circular wooden table,

their faces illuminated by the flickering yellow glow of a hanging oil lamp.

The silence in the room is heavy, so heavy that you can hear the faint rhythmic ticking of a pocket watch inside of a vest pocket.

At the center of this table sits a mountain of cash, land titles, and livestock deeds, and sitting opposite the hotel's owner is a wandering cowboy in minor named Thomas James Wright.

People called him T.J.

Now T.J. wasn't some transient drifter looking to spend his last nickel on a glass of rock

gut. He was a gambler. And tonight, he was having the run of his life.

Across from him sat Henry Lambert, the legendary proprietor of the St. James.

Henry was desperate. He had already bet his cash. He had bet his cattle. And finally, in a proof of

pure unadulterated desperation, Henry had thrown the ultimate stake onto the table. The deed to the

St. James Hotel itself.

T.J. Wright looked down at his hand.

He doesn't blink.

He doesn't twitch.

He slowly lays his cards face up on the green felt.

Henry's heart drops.

T.J. had won.

He had just won the keys to the kingdom. He was now the owner of the most famous,

...