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an exact copy of Watson’s, with a bar and a few tables and chairs. However, there was a card game in progress here, and Harding joined it.
    Cardplaying was another of the vices his mother had warned him against. But as beer drinking was proving to be a rather pleasant experience, Art decided he would investigate cardplaying as well. So, drinking yet another beer, he leaned against the wall and watched the card game.
    As he stood leaning against the wall, Art happened to see a “pick and switch” operation lift a man’s wallet. The victim was a middle-aged man who was standing at the bar, drinking his beer while carrying on a conversation with another man. A nimble-fingered pickpocket deftly slipped the victim’s billfold from his back pocket. At that moment, a big, black-bearded man came in through the door, and Art watched as the pickpocket passed the pilfered wallet off to the man who had just come in.
    The entire operation was so quick and smooth that the victim never felt a thing. No one else in the saloon saw it happen, and if Art had not been in the exact spot at the exact time he was there, he wouldn’t have seen it either. The accomplice walked directly to the table where Harding and three others were playing cards.
    â€œMay I join you, gentlemen?” Blackbeard asked.
    â€œSure, have a seat,” Harding offered congenially. “Your money is as good as anyone else’s. What do you say about that, Art? Isn’t his money as good as anyone else’s?” Harding asked, teasing his young partner.
    â€œIt would be, I suppose, if it really was his money. Trouble is, it isn’t,” Art said easily. “He stole it.”

3
    Art’s matter-of-fact comment brought to a halt all conversation in the saloon.
    â€œWhat did you just say, boy?” Blackbeard asked with an angry growl.
    â€œI said it isn’t your money.”
    â€œWhat the hell do you mean by that?” Blackbeard sputtered.
    â€œYes, Art, what do you mean?” Harding asked.
    Art looked over toward the bar. Nearly everyone in the place had heard his remark, and now all were looking toward him with intense interest.
    â€œThis man,” Art said, pointing to Blackbeard, “has this man’s poke.” He pointed to the middle-aged man who was standing at the bar. It wasn’t until that moment that the man standing at the bar checked his pocket.
    â€œWhat the hell? My poke is missing!” he said.
    â€œI don’t know what this boy is talking about!” Blackbeard said. “Hell, I just this minute come in here. I haven’t even been close to the bar.”
    â€œHe’s right,” another man said. “I seen him come in.”
    â€œIf somebody took that man’s money, it wasn’t me,” Blackbeard said.
    â€œOh, you didn’t take it,” Art said.
    â€œBoy, you ain’t makin’ a hell of a lot of sense,” Cooper said. Cooper was the man who owned the place. He was also working the bar. “First you accuse Riley there of takin’ McPherson’s poke; now you say he didn’t take it.”
    â€œI said he has the poke,” Art said. “I didn’t say he took it.” Art pointed to the original pickpocket, who was now at the far end of the bar, trying to stay out of sight. “That’s the man who took it. He picked the man’s pocket, then gave it to Mr. Riley when he came in.”
    â€œBy God! I don’t care if you are just a pup,” Riley said. “A fella doesn’t go around accusin’ another fella of somethin’ lessen he can prove it.”
    â€œI can describe my purse,” the man at the bar said. “It’s made of pigskin and it’s sewed together with red yarn. My wife made it for me.”
    â€œWell, this seems like a simple enough problem to solve,” Harding said. He looked at Riley. “Why don’t you just empty your pockets on the table? If you