A Midnight Ace

A discarded playing card was wedged tight between two rough fir planks near the saloon railing. I braced my boots against the wood and gripped the bent corner, working the stiff paper free from the seam. It snapped clear with a dry flick: the Ace of Spades, stained with amber lantern oil and scarred along the edge. I leaned my shoulder against the timber post, holding the card steady in the low porch light to inspect the weathered ink. A good card dropped in a hurry tells its own quiet tale. I tucked it flat beneath the brass buckle in my coat pocket.