Marcus could hear the dancing clown at his shoulder and the expectant buzz from the stands-he sensed the bull's-eye on his back, knew he had better choose his next move carefully, or it could be his last. Seeing Calvin's frozen grin, he thought, Boy looks like a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs. Maybe this would be a good time to bluff.

Righteous had just raised two dollars and the others had matched it, so Marcus said, "I'll see your two dollars and raise you five more." He threw his chips in.

The tension swelled like steam in a teakettle-oh, it was going to be close.

Little Rock and Calvin folded, shaking their heads. Righteous disgustedly tossed in the chips and said, "I call, you son of a bitch. Show your hand."

Marcus had no hand to show; it was pure trash. He felt naked in the crazed glare of the stadium lights. If nothing happened in the next instant to prevent it, he was going to have to show his cards, losing gambler cred as well as the nineteen dollars in the pot. Then the skin on his shaved scalp tingled-Oh damn-

Something happened.

The other three leaped backward in unison, and Voodooman barely had time to dodge as a ton of pissed-off Black Angus Hereford came barreling through the game like a horned locomotive, causing the cards, the chips, the table itself, as well as the players and their chairs, to explode in every direction.

The audience exploded, too, into gales of laughter-convict poker was the prison rodeo's most popular event. The last event of the evening, and in this instance, the last rodeo event of the year, for this was New Year's Ropin' Eve.

"Shit, man, that was close," said Righteous Weeks, helping Voodooman to his feet and handing him his hat. "You one crazy nigger. Motherfucker got eyes in the back of his head."

"Just remember it's my hand-last one seated. Cattle call."